J.A. Konrath / Jack Kilborn Trilogy - Three Scary Thriller Novels (Origin, The List, Haunted House) (59 page)

His vision became fuzzy again. He took another hit off the donut.

Four. Five. At six, the suitcase knocked the window out of its setting. Roy let go of the handle, watching it disappear through the new opening. He followed it out, straining and kicking, his wet clothes and shoes holding him back. No good. It was like trying to swim while tied up.

Don’t blow it this close to the finish line, Roy.

He brought the donut to his face for the last time, lightheaded from all the carbon dioxide. He sucked out the remainder of the air and then struggled with his jacket, managing to free himself. Then he pulled off his shoes and kicked for what he hoped was the surface.

His mind began to drift, almost as if he were on the edge of sleep. His lungs were two burning paper bags. Roy’s thrashing became gentler, feeble.

Almost… almost…

He broke the surface, and that first breath of fresh air was like being born again.

Roy flopped onto his back, trying to float, greedily filling his lungs. Something nudged him in the head. A suitcase. He clung to it, dizzy, shaking, happy as hell to be alive.

“Roy!”

He looked to his right, along the river bank. It was Abe, waving at him. The tall man took off his shoes and his shirt. Then he waded into the water and swam up to Roy with even, powerful strokes. The two of them managed to beach the suitcase. Abe helped pull Roy onto the shore.

“I was just driving up when I saw that guy drop your car over the bridge.”

“Was Bert with him?”

“I think so. He put someone in his truck.”

“Which way did they go?”

“West. Into town.”

Roy tried to stand up. His legs wouldn’t support him. “We have to go after him.”

“Shouldn’t we call the police?”

“They won’t help.”

“You should probably see a doctor. You’re bleeding.”

Abe pointed to his head. Roy touched his hand to a sore spot, saw the blood glisten in the moonlight.

“Help me with this suitcase.” Roy hefted it over to Abe. Twenty yards downstream, Bert’s other indestructible piece of luggage was snagged on some sticks along the shoreline. “We have to get that one too.”

“What’s in them that’s so important?”

“Half a million dollars.”

“I’ll get it.”

Abe jumped into the river with more enthusiasm than he had when going after Roy.

The cop sat down on the riverbank and tried to gauge the extent of his injuries. His head was starting to pound, and his neck hurt like crazy. He felt his ass and wondered if he’d ripped the stitches. Roy coughed, and then spat. He was cold. He was in pain. But most of all, he was angry.

The bad guys had left him for dead. Big mistake. He was going to make sure they found out just how big.

“Got it!” Abe held the suitcase over his head like it was the Stanley Cup.

Roy began to shiver. He took off his shirt and wrung it out, but it was still too cold to put back on.

“We’ll go back to my place.” Abe heaved the suitcase next to its matching partner. “I have some clothes that will fit you.”

“Do you have a cell phone?”

“I’ve got one in the car. How are we supposed to find Bert?”

“He’s got a transmitter on him. If I can get in touch with Tom, I can track him.”

Abe bent over and began to put on his shoes. “And what do we do when we find him?”

“Do you have a gun?”

“No.”

“We’ll figure something out. Let’s get to that phone. Where’s your car?”

Abe grabbed both pieces of luggage and made his way up the sloping bank. It wasn’t steep, but in his wet socks Roy kept slipping. When he finally made it to street level he had half a dozen more cuts and bruises.

Abe’s Lincoln was still running. Roy got in and turned up the heat. The cell phone was in the glove compartment. He dialed Tom’s number. It rang and rang. Had they gotten to him too?

Roy hit the disconnect and dialed the number again, on the off chance he’d pressed a wrong digit.

No answer.

Roy punched the dashboard. “Dammit, Tommy! Where the hell are you?”

“T
hat was a complete waste of time.”

Tom and Joan had managed to tear down most of the wine racks. Their efforts didn’t yield any usable weapons, or anything else that would get them out of the cellar.

“Not a complete waste,” Tom disagreed. “At least we messed up his wine cellar.”

“Good point. We sure showed him.”

Tom sat down again, racking his brain for an answer. How many ways were there to open a door? Breaking it down was futile. The door and the jamb were solid oak, and the lock was heavy. They couldn’t take off the hinges, because the hinges were on the other side. Picking the lock was out—even if they had a wire or a pin, Tom didn’t have the slightest idea how to do that.

The final way, the one Tom saw a lot in his career as a cop, was called
loiding
. That meant sticking a thin piece of celluloid; a shim or a credit card, in between the door and the bolt, then easing it back. Unfortunately, Tom’s wallet had been taken with the rest of his things.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a credit card on you by chance?”

“Why? You want to go shopping?”

“I wanted to try to loid the door lock.”

“Sorry. Left my purse at Marty’s.”

“Any jewelry? Rings, necklace, bracelet, watch?”

“No. Don’t you have a watch?”

Tom did. But it was a leather band, useless. He needed something long and stiff. Maybe one of the pieces of wood they broke off, or…

“The nails in the boards. See if you can find any.”

Tom searched along the floor, finding a corner section. He worked the pieces apart until he exposed a nail. It was thin, bent, about two inches long. Tom pounded it and the board against the concrete floor until it came out the other end.

He found his way up the staircase and examined the doorknob with his fingers. There was a metal plate along the jamb, which the bolt rested in. Tom stuck the nail in between them and tried to wiggle it back and forth. They were too close together, and the nail was too thick.

“Did it work?”

“No. Nail’s too wide.” Tom rubbed his eyes.

“I found a smaller one. Try this.”

Joan climbed the stairs and handed Tom another nail. It was shorter, thinner. He wedged it in between the door and the jamb. With the tip, he could feel the bolt. But the nail was too short, and he didn’t have any leverage to try to push the bolt back.

“It’s not long enough.”

“Do all the girls tell you that?”

Tom laughed despite himself. “You’re not helping the situation. Try to stay focused.”

“We could try kicking it again.”

“It’s a heavy door, with a heavy lock.”

“Why don’t you try kicking the other side, by the hinges?”

Why not? Couldn’t hurt. Tom aimed at the bottom of the door. He kicked, hard.

Again. And again.

“I think it gave a little.”

Two more kicks, and Tom was positive the door was moving.

“Let me try.”

Tom let Joan have a go at it. After she put in six strong ones, Tom checked the integrity of the door. The lower portion was loose. He could push it forward almost an inch. Three more kicks and there was a small clinking sound. Screws falling out, hitting tile.

“Halfway there.”

Tom couldn’t kick as high as the top hinge, but now he could use the whole door for leverage. He rammed it with his shoulder and pushed hard.

“Lean on it.”

Joan added her weight, both of them straining and groaning. Then, suddenly, the door was falling over and they tumbled out into the kitchen.

The lights were off, and the room was dark. There was a noise, a TV or a radio, blaring from another room. Tom crawled over to the counter, where his gun was setting. He grabbed it and held his breath, listening for movement in the house.

“Maybe he’s gone.” Joan was crouching down next to him.

“Could be asleep.”

“Let’s not hang around to find out.”

Tom nodded in agreement. He reached for his wallet, keys, and phone. His phone was vibrating. Tom pressed the talk button and held it to his ear, silent.

“Tom? Jesus, where were you?”

Roy. Tom kept his voice low. “We have a little situation here.”

“They’ve got Bert. But he’s got the tracer. I need you to find him, now.”

“Shit.” The laptop was back at the hotel. “That may take some time.”

“He doesn’t have time!”

“Call you right back.” He disconnected and turned to Joan. “We have to get on the Internet.”

“Can it wait?”

“No.” Tom held out his keys. “Take the car. Get out of here.”

“You want to use Shakespeare’s computer?”

“I don’t have a choice. Go back to your place. You’ve got the gun in the car. I’ll be by later.”

“They could show up here any minute. Bill might even be in the house right now.”

“Gotta risk it.”

“You men and your macho bullshit.” Joan grabbed the keys and hurried out of the kitchen. Tom felt a quick stab of sadness at seeing her go, then concentrated on what he needed to do.

“Okay, computer, where might you be?”

Tom didn’t remember seeing it in the living room, and it wasn’t in the kitchen. But Bill was a writer, which meant he had to have a computer somewhere. Tom walked into the hallway. The TV sound got louder. He moved slowly past a closed door, probably the bedroom. That’s where the noise was coming from, the volume cranked up high enough for Tom to hear every line of dialog.

He paused by the door, considering his options. He needed to interrogate Bill, but he didn’t know if he was still armed. A shoot-out would be bad. Even if Tom did manage to capture him, how was he supposed to hold him while also messing around on the internet? And what if Attila and Vlad showed up all of a sudden?

Bill could wait for two seconds. Tom made Bert the first priority.

There were more rooms down the hall. The first was a bathroom. The second was a home office. And on a desk was an IBM, complete with modem. Tom entered the dark room and switched the computer on. After it booted up, he adjusted the contrast so the screen was dim. The keyboard had one-touch Internet access, and it only took a minute before he was at the
Surveillance Technologies website
. Tom fished the BigTrack serial number out of his wallet.

His phone buzzed.

“Dammit, Tommy. Hurry up.”

“Just a sec.” Tom punched in the user name and password, and a few keystrokes later he was looking at a map of Lincoln, Nebraska. “It looks like he’s on Talon Street. It’s off of North Park Road, near the airport.”

“Exact address?”

Tom squinted at the screen. “Doesn’t say. But he’s on the northwest corner of the intersection. Roy, be careful with Abe. Shakespeare was a real bad egg.”

“Put down the weapon and hang up the phone.”

Speak of the devil. Something pressed into the back of Tom’s head. He didn’t have to see it to know what it was.

“The phone and the gun, now.”

Tom ended the call and placed the revolver on the desk top.

“Where’s the girl?”

“She left to get the police. They’ll be here any minute.”

Bill gave him a hard tap on the head with the butt of the gun.

“Where is she?”

“She left.”

“Where did she go?”

“I don’t know.”

The blow brought the stars out. Tom toppled off the chair and fell to his hands and knees.

“Let’s get something straight, Jefferson. I’m the one with the gun. I ask the questions, you answer them.”

He kicked Tom in the ribs. Tom groaned, a spike of agony running laps through his nervous system.

“What’s the matter? Tender spot?”

Another kick, just as hard. Tom squinted up at him through the pain. There was something round and pink stuck to Bill’s forehead.

“Do you have a roller in your hair plugs?”

Bill reflexively touched his head, then gave Tom the mother of all kicks.

“How does it feel, to get your ass kicked by William Shakespeare?”

Tom groaned. “It’s better than reading your plays.”

Bill reared back for another kick, but something to his left caught his attention and he stopped.

“Drop the gun.”