J.A. Konrath / Jack Kilborn Trilogy - Three Scary Thriller Novels (Origin, The List, Haunted House) (63 page)

“S
till no word from Jack?”

Phil Jr. took another sip of scotch. The tension was getting to him. He shouldn’t have been drinking—not only because he needed a clear head, but because alcohol had a lot of calories. One more thing to worry about.

“No, Dad. He didn’t check in when he was supposed to.”

“Then why the hell don’t you call him?”

Phil wanted to smash the speaker phone with his fist. The old man would never allow himself to be talked to like this, so why should he? They were cut from the same cloth. He bit his tongue and went over to the treadmill, putting his single malt in the beverage holder. Phil set the machine for a medium pace and began walking.

“We never call them outside of scheduled times, Dad. This is your rule, remember? So there’s no connections.”

“Use your brain, Junior. If Jack isn’t in the game anymore, one of the others has to replace him. It’s a long flight from LA to DC. What’s that noise?”

“I’m on the treadmill. You told me to lose some weight.”

“Call Jack.”

“Fine.” Phil drained his glass and switched the treadmill off. He walked back to his desk and picked up his second line. As he punched in Jack’s number, he held up a chrome letter opener and looked at a reflection of his chin. That wasn’t fat. It was bad genetics.

“Yeah?”

Whoever answered didn’t have Jack’s voice. Dread crawled up Phil’s back.

“Who is this?”

“Detective Roy Lewis, Chicago Police Department. Who is this?”

Phil covered the mouthpiece. “It’s that cop, Tom’s partner.”

“God damn it!” Phil could picture his father’s face turning red, that one squiggly vein in his head bulging out.

“What should I tell him?”

“Just hang up!”

Phil put the receiver on the hook and relaxed a tad. It amused him to hear his father frazzled. He poured himself another two fingers and turned the treadmill back on.

“Dad, you need to calm down.”

“Call the others. Have Attila go to Washington. There’s make-up in the kit, he’ll have to cover up his tattoos. He trained on the equipment?”

“They all did. Have you seen it? Pretty cool set up. Those darts are wicked.”

“They’re called flechettes.”

“Yeah, the flechettes. They don’t even make a sound when they’re fired.”

“They use compressed air, a CO
₂
cartridge. That’s why I chose them. Silent, accurate, deadly. The perfect weapon of assassination.”

The Secret Service wouldn’t even know where the shot came from. The weapons were housed in fully functional digital cameras. Even if they were opened up, they looked perfectly normal. The flechettes were amazingly accurate, within a two inch radius from a hundred yards. Of course, they’d be fired at a much closer range. And even if the first shot missed for some reason, they each could fire four without reloading.

“They can actually take pictures, Dad. How would you like a snapshot of the President right when he gets a poison dart in the neck?”

Phil brought his hands up to his face, imagining he had the camera that killed the world’s most powerful man
. Snap, you’re dead
.

“Stay focused, Junior. Attila will need a press pass. You’ll have to get a picture of him.”

“Got one.”

“Without the tattoos.”

“The computer can take them off. Don’t worry, Dad. It’s under control. His press pass will be waiting for him at the hotel. He’ll be right up front, have a nice, clear shot.”

“And make sure their watches are synchronized to the second. Once one of them goes down, the Secret Service will rush to protect the other one. They have to die at the same time, or we won’t get them both.”

Like a broken record, his father.

“I’ll make sure, Dad. Anything else?”

“Call me when they’re in position.”

His father hung up. Phil turned the speed up all the way and ran for a few minutes. When he lost his wind he hopped off and finished his scotch. After his breath returned, he called Vlad.

“This isn’t one of the scheduled times.”

Another Type A. Phil decided to surround himself with
yes
men when he took office.

“I’m aware of that, Vlad. Jack is out of commission. Arthur will have to go to Washington. I want you guys to leave, pronto.”

“We’re on our way to Bill’s to take care of Tom and Joan.”

“They can wait.”

“Bill’s line has been busy for a while. We should check.”

“You should clean out your ears. I said they can wait. My father has a wild hair, and wants it done now. Besides, Bill always takes the phone off the hook when he’s writing. Doesn’t want to disturb the muse, or some such crap. Tell Arthur his ticket will be waiting for him at LAX. He’ll be flying American Airlines. I want you both to call when you arrive.”

“What happened to Jack?”

“No idea. I called him, that black cop answered. Could be in jail, dead, or on his way to DC himself. But we’re not taking chances. Does Arthur know where to go when he gets in?”

“Yes.” There was a wet sigh. “I’m really itching to get my hands on Joan.”

“She’ll be waiting for you when you get back. You can have all the time you want with her, do whatever sick shit comes in your head. But right now, keep your eyes on the prize.”

Phil hit the disconnect button, then dialed Bill’s place. Busy. Odd that he’d take the phone off the hook when there was so much going on, but writers were a strange breed.

With Tom and Joan safely locked away in Bill’s cellar, the only thing left to worry about was that black cop and the clones of Lincoln and Einstein. Phil mulled it over, but couldn’t see how they could possibly be a threat. Even if they knew everything, there was no way they could stop it. Still, it was always smart to hedge your bets.

Phil flipped through his Rolodex and found Jerry’s home number.

“Hello?” He sounded as if he’d been asleep.

“Jerry? Phil Stang. Look, I hate to bother you at this hour, but this is kind of an emergency.”

“The Bureau is at your service, Mr. Speaker.”

“I just had a phone call, two cops from Chicago. I think they’re connected to the mob somehow. They wanted me to do something for them, I refused, so they threatened me.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. But you can imagine. Calling my home number, saying they’d kill me. I’ve got my Secret Service guys on it, but I’d like it if you folks threw in as well.”

“We’ll make it a top priority. Do you know who they were?”

“Their names are Tom Mankowski and Roy Lewis. Go all out on this.”

“When I’m done, even the Sheriff in Wasilla, Alaska will know their names. You mentioned organized crime. Do you know which family they’re connected to?”

“No idea. But I’m sure you can find out. That’s why you’re Director of the FBI. They may have some accomplices as well. Let me give you some names. Albert Blumberg, Abraham Wilkens, and Joan DeVilliers.”

“We’ll take care of this for you, Mr. Speaker.”

“Thanks, Jerry. I knew I could count on you.”

Phil hung up. He would make more calls, to Justin at the Secret Service and Horace at the NSA. Then he had to get a ticket for Arthur and set up the press pass. But first; jogging or scotch?

He chose the scotch. During his last check-up, the doctor had cautioned him that he was in the early stages of cirrhosis. That didn’t bother Phil in the least. Donor organs were easy to come by. He poured himself another drink and looked around his den. Even though the condo was among the best in DC, he wouldn’t miss it at all.

His new accommodations were infinitely preferable.

W
hen they finally settled in at the hotel, Bert had time to sort through his lures. He and Abe had gathered as many as they could, abandoning those stuck in Jack. The numbers were grim.

“What’s the verdict?”

Bert shifted on his inflatable donut and made a face. “I’m out about two hundred grand.”

Abe frowned. “You should have let me try to get the rest of them. We still can. The body probably won’t be discovered for days. In fact, they’ll be easier to remove when he’s all bloaty and rotten.”

Bert didn’t care to dwell on that image. “In all honesty, I really don’t care right now. The first time I lost my fortune, I was suicidal. Now, I just feel melancholy.”

Abe sat on Bert’s bed and began flipping through the cable guide.

“Near death experience. It’ll do that to you. Your partner has been acting pretty laid back himself. He was stuck underwater for about five minutes. I thought he was dead for sure.”

“Have you ever almost died?”

“Once, in high school. Some guys bet me that I couldn’t stick my whole fist in my mouth. I did it, but couldn’t get it out. Cut off my air. Some jock on the football team saved me. He had to step on my forehead and yank my arm.”

“Did it change the way you looked at life?”

“Hell yeah. I haven’t gone to a football game since. I still have the cleat scars.”

“I meant in a more meaningful way.”

Abe looked up from the magazine. “Like, did I analyze my life and decide to concentrate on things that were important like family and friends and stop wasting all my time sitting at home watching TV?”

“Did you?”

“For about a week. Now I think I watch even more TV than before. In fact, why am I here talking to you when I’ve got that big TV in my room?”

Roy came in through the side door. The three suites they’d rented were adjoining.

“The first four star hotel I ever stay in, and it’s the Watergate. Remind me how I got talked into this.”

Abe got up and clapped Roy on the shoulder. “We don’t have time to play around. A hotel like this, everything is done for you. I need my suit cleaned, my hat blocked, the flyer copied, and a haircut. Plus, it’s three in the morning, and they have 24 hour room service.”

“These rooms cost more than our airfare. And we paid for yours.”

“All in the name of patriotism. I’m ordering some prime rib. Anyone else want one?”

There were no takers. Abe nodded a goodbye and went back to his room, via Roy’s.

Roy watched him leave. “That guy is a piece of work. You think he’ll be able to pull it off tomorrow?”

“He doesn’t have a choice. How about you?”

“We got the easy part. How’s your ass?”

“The bleeding finally stopped. I could use another Vicodin.”

“Way ahead of you.” Roy handed him a pill bottle and turned to leave. Bert didn’t want him to go just yet. He was overcome by a feeling that nothing should be left unsaid.

“Roy… Tom told me, the other day, about you losing your brothers.”

Roy stopped and waited, silent.

“I had a brother too, died when I was a kid. I know what it feels like.”

“You’re getting weird on me.”

“I’m not getting weird. Well, maybe I am. What I want to say, is, when I was hanging from that rope, you were there for me. Kind of like a big brother. I wanted to say thanks.”

Roy pointed at him. “I will not hug you. Understand?”

“How about helping with this bandage?”

“Not even if you had gold bars coming out your ass. Now get some sleep. We can do this bonding shit over some beers, after we save the world. Night, Bert.”

“Night, Roy.”

Bert took two pills, then changed the dressing on his wound, being liberal with the topical antibiotic. It was deep and ugly, and probably could use a few stitches, but that would have to wait.

He killed the lights, brushed his teeth, and then crawled into bed. The Vicodin kicked in, and he slept without dreams.

“Wake up. Time to save the world.”

Bert opened an eye and focused on Abraham Lincoln. Abe looked like he’d climbed out of a history book. His unruly hair had been professionally clipped, his beard was neatly trimmed, and he wore an antique black suit with creases in all the right places.

“How do I look?”

“Say something presidential.”

Abe cleared his throat and put his hands on his lapels. “Four years ago, I scored seven times.”

“I hope you have better material than that.”

“Actually, I’m going to recite the Gettysburg Address. I memorized it back in school, for an assignment.”

“Tell me you got an A.”

“I got a D+. A few of the words slipped my mind. But I think I’ve got it down pat now. Why did Lincoln have four fathers?”