Authors: J.A. Konrath,Jack Kilborn
Tags: #General Fiction
When Dr. Forenzi finally entered the room, Tom was grateful for something else to focus on.
“Where’s Roy Lewis?”
Forenzi clucked his tongue. “Out of all the things you can ask me, that’s your first question? Where your partner is? He gave all he had to give. Like you soon will. How did you figure it out?”
Tom stretched on his tip toes to take some weight off his cramped arms. “Let me down and I’ll tell you.”
“I can assure you, Detective, you’ll tell me anyway.”
Forenzi went to the corner of the room and took a black covering off of a piece of medical equipment. It looked like a dialysis machine.
“It was Torble,” Tom said, glancing at Sturgis Butler. “He said
I see your fear
. He said that same thing earlier today, at the prison.”
Forenzi made a face and wagged a finger at Sturgis, née convicted serial killer Augustus Torble. “I didn’t go through all the trouble of bringing you here to screw things up like that.”
“And I don’t get my kicks dressing up in a goddamn Halloween costume, spraying myself with liquid smoke to smell like a barbecue. Plus these goddamn contacts are killing me.”
To drive home the point, Torble stuck his finger in his eye and pinched out the black lens.
“So everything was fake?” Tom asked. His curiosity was real, but he was more interested in keeping the doctor talking, hoping for a situation to save himself.
Forenzi nodded. The machine he’d uncovered was on a cart, and he was pushing it over to Tom. “Of course. The house is fully rigged. Trapped doors so people appear and disappear. Electromagnets to make chairs move or pictures fall.” He reached for Torble’s neck and tore off a flap of latex make-up, holding it to his own throat.
“Voice… synthesizer. Hear… how… scary… I… sound…”
“How about the painting of the house with all of our pictures on it?”
“Just painted yesterday. One of my men has some artistic talent. I doubt it has even dried yet.”
“And the guns?” Tom asked. “Bullet proof vests?”
Forenzi took Tom’s Sig from his holster and aimed at his chest. Just as Tom tried to twist away and began to yell, Forenzi fired twice.
It stung a bit, but Tom remained free of holes.
Forenzi tucked Tom’s gun into his waistband. “When your luggage was brought in, your ammo was replaced. Soft wax bullets. There’s an indistinguishable recoil, but they disintegrate before hitting the target.”
Shit. Why hadn’t Tom thought to check his ammo?
“What if I had the gun on me?” he asked. “How would you have switched?”
“The front doors to Butler House have an X-ray machine in them. You were scanned for weapons when you entered. If you were carrying a gun, you would have been the first one targeted, and your gun taken. My men are very good at what they do.”
Forenzi had damn near thought of everything. A perfect ruse that fooled everyone, Tom included. “And Aabir?”
“One of us. Like Pang. They’ve played those parts before. Unlike the live roaches put into your mouth, theirs were rubber.
“What about Deb? In the exam room?”
“Franklin is real. I was able to secure his release from prison, as I did with our friend Torble here. In Deb’s and Mal’s case, we thought that touch of authenticity would help raise their metusamine levels. Franklin sprayed a chemical in Deb’s throat—I call it traumesterone. It inflames the vocal chords so a person can’t speak. Or scream for help, as the case may be.”
It all made sense to Tom, except for the most important part.
“Why?” he asked.
Dr. Forenzi sucked in a breath, then let out a big, dramatic sigh. “I explained this at dinner. I need to frighten you to harvest the metusamine in your blood. The more you’re frightened, the more you produce. And because you and the others have experienced high levels of fear in the past, it has altered your brain chemistry so your blood contains higher levels of metusamine than the general population. Much higher, in fact. And I require that neurotransmitter. In order to make anti-venom, you need real venom. The same applies to Serum 3, my anti-fear drug.”
“So why kill Wellington? Or was that fake, too?”
“That was… unfortunate. I would have preferred terrifying him, then milking him for metusamine like you and the others. But that’s the other half of the experiment. You’re obviously aware of who is funding this research.”
Tom thought back to the Butler House website, and who owned the property now. Unified Systems Association.
U.S.A.
“The government,” Tom said. “The feds?”
Forenzi shook his head. “No. My men impersonated the FBI when they approach you and the others. This is a military operation. There have been two previous attempts to create the perfect soldier. I’ve studied the research of my contemporaries, Dr. Stubin in Wisconsin and Dr. Plincer in Michigan, and I’ve learned from their errors. Serum 3, my metusamine blocker, when given to soldiers, renders them fearless. It also has an unusual side-effect that the army has a keen interest in.”
“It makes them homicidal,” Tom guessed.
“How is it said in software parlance?
It isn’t a glitch. It’s a feature.
Besides making killing easier, it also gives them a much higher tolerance for pain, sharper instincts, and even boosts their stamina and strength, as Mr. Torble demonstrated for you in the prison visitation room. Wellington was an example of my drug working a bit too well, I’m afraid. But it is good practice for the soldiers. Many of them have adjusted quite well to the program. I daresay they’ve begun to enjoy it. Hunting humans in an old, dark house is good real-world practice.”
Tom had previously dealt with megalomaniacs using science for evil, and Forenzi fit the bill. It never ended well.
“So why don’t you just scare people, get what you need from their blood, and let them go?”
Another sigh. “We tried. That area of Butler House where you were caught, with the fake body bags and rubber props, it was set up to frighten people without harming them. But that didn’t produce the levels of metusamine needed for my experiments. To get the higher concentrations, I had to induce
real
terror in my subjects. And after much trial and error, the type of fear that produced the best results was fear of the unknown. The stuff of childhood nightmares. Ghosts and demons and things that go bump in the night.”
“But now I know this house isn’t really haunted,” Tom said. “So you can let me go.”
Forenzi shook his head. “I still need to milk you. And I’ve discovered another way to induce fear. Sadly, it isn’t as effective as ghosts, but it is more sustainable over a long period of time. The fear of pain. I’ll be able to extract quite a bit of metusamine from you as Mr. Torble tortures you to death.”
Torble was at the wood burning stove again, checking how the branding iron was heating up. And, as Forenzi predicted, Tom experienced a spike of pure, adrenaline-fueled fear.
“People know I’m here,” Tom said.
“No, they don’t. We’ve done this many times, Detective. My men are very good at tidying up loose ends. You were a loose end, searching for your missing partner. It is doubtful anyone will come looking for you with the same fervor. But if they do—your old boss Lieutenant Daniels, perhaps, or your girlfriend, Joan DeVilliers, in Hollywood—they’ll be handled in the same way you’ve been.”
“You do know you’re insane, right?”
Forenzi laughed. “My dear Detective, I’m going to cure humanity of fear. Making any omelet requires breaking a few eggs. Take some comfort in the fact that your suffering will one day benefit all of mankind. But don’t take too much comfort in it. I need you to be good and terrified for the little time you have left.”
Forenzi pulled a length of tubing out of the machine, exposing the IV needle on the end.
“This machine is going to extract the metusamine from your blood, and then return it to you. I need to put these into your veins. If you fight me, I’m going to ask Mr. Torble to break both of your kneecaps.”
“Isn’t he going to do that anyway?”
“He might. But would you prefer that to happen immediately, or sometime later on?”
Tom could probably lash out and kick Forenzi, but that wouldn’t help the situation. And if he were going to try that trick, it would be with Torble when the psycho came at him with the branding iron. So Tom nodded, letting Forenzi insert needles into each of his triceps. The machine clicked on with a mechanical whir, and Tom watched his blood travel out of his left arm, through the tube, through the metusamine extractor, and back into his right arm.
Forenzi regarded him. “I must say, Detective, I expected a bit more out of you. Your partner, Roy, fought with all he had. You seem to have given up rather quickly.”
Tom stared the man down. “The price of freedom is eternal vigilance.”
The doctor’s brow wrinkled. “Who said that?”
“I did.” Tom’s lips twisted into a grin. “And I’ll be coming for you, Forenzi.”
“And my little dog, Toto, too?”
“No,” Tom said. “Just you.”
“Save your strength for Mr. Torble, Detective. He’s been in prison for a long time, and has a lot of bottled up aggression he needs to let out.”
“Lots of aggression,” Torble said, smiling. He took the branding iron out of the fire, its end glowing orange, and Tom’s metusamine production kicked into overdrive.
He’d managed to outrun Blackjack Reedy, but then Mal got lost in the labyrinth. One tunnel looked like the next, and Mal couldn’t tell if he’d been going in circles, or was kilometers away from where he began.
Mal stopped jogging, sweaty, aching, terrified for his wife, and then he heard a sharp
crack
that he thought was Blackjack’s whip. But it was quieter, and different somehow. Instead of running from it, he tried to follow the sound. Maybe it would lead him in some direction other than—
He turned the corner and froze, unable to comprehend what he was seeing.
It was Franklin. Just as Deb had insisted. Older, thinner, but undeniably the man who’d caused them both so much pain.
He was poking a long stick at someone Mal couldn’t see, cackling as he did so, the stick making bright sparks to coincide with the cracking sound.
And then Mal heard a yelp. Soft. Hoarse.
But recognizable.
Deb.
He rounded the corner, and realized that Franklin was poking his wife with some sort of electric prod. Deb was crying, hysterical, feebly trying to slap the prod away with her back against the tunnel wall.
Mal froze.
It all came back to him. The helplessness. The fear. The feeling that all hope was gone, and there was nothing he could do to regain it.
That was the Rushmore Inn’s legacy. It had rendered Mal useless. Forever weak. Forever afraid.
What a pale shadow of his former self he had become.
“Hey! Asshole!”
Mal wasn’t sure who had spoken. He was about to turn around and look when a startling realization seized him.
That was me. I said that.
Franklin stopped tormenting Deb long enough to leer at Mal. “Well, lookee who came by. It’s the coward who—”
Mal was on him in three steps, hitting him in the jaw so hard that Franklin spun around, the cattle prod flying. Then he had his fingers wrapped in the man’s hair and Mal introduced the bastard to his knee, Franklin’s nose exploding with all the juice of a squashed tomato.
Franklin howled, and Mal got behind him, still holding his hair, and bent his head back to expose his neck.
“Deb! Now!”
His wife didn’t hesitate. Like a deadly ballet, she pivoted her hips, swinging her right prosthesis around in a reverse hook kick, connecting solidly with Franklin’s adam’s apple.
Mal released him and he slumped to his knees. He was no longer a threat. They’d all heard the man’s windpipe crack.
Then Deb was in his arms, pressing her lips to his, her tear-soaked cheeks rubbing against his face.
“Don’t you ever leave me again,” she said.
“I won’t.”
“We’re a team.”
“The best team ever.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“We’re going to get out of this, Mal.”
“Goddamn right we are.”
Another kiss, and then Deb squatted down and picked up the prod.
Franklin was turning an unnatural shade of blue, clawing at his neck in a futile effort to suck in air.
“You’re suffocating,” Deb told the dying man. “Point us to the exit, and I’ll help you.”
Mal was impressed by his wife’s compassion. Apparently, so was Franklin, because he quickly pointed down the tunnel.
“Thanks,” Deb said. Then she took off in that direction at a quick jog.
Mal ran after her. “What about helping him?”
“I did,” Deb said between breaths. “I helped him get to hell faster. Besides, do you want him and six of his brothers to show up at our doorstep a year from now?”
She had a point.
Incredibly, after following the tunnel a hundred meters, they were back to the concrete stairs. Mal had taken so many twists and turns down there that it hadn’t occurred to him to try a straight course.
Deb stormed the stairs like a champ, and then they were jogging down the hall and heading for the front door.
“Keep your eyes straight ahead,” Mal warned her, wary of Wellington’s headless corpse/cattail vase. “Focus on the door.”
Mal positioned himself between Deb and the circle of chairs, and when they reached the front doors he paused. The last time he opened them, Mal had run into that giggling freak in the gas mask.
“Floor is slippery with blood,” Deb said, placing a hand on Mal’s shoulder.
“I’m opening the door. Get ready to run. Either outside, or back into the house if something bad is out there.”
“Got it. What about the others?”
“Once we find the car, we’ll drive until we get a cell phone signal, then call the police. We’ll make them send the entire National Guard.”
“Mal?”
Mal had his hand on the door knob, but he paused. “Yeah, babe?”
“Coming here… you were right. This wasn’t my best idea.”
He smiled. “Are you serious? I’m thinking we do this every weekend. We rent a car, you send some psycho to hell… it sure beats the hell out of therapy.”