Don't Read After Dark: Keep the lights on while reading these! (A McCray Horror Collection) (21 page)

Now look at him. Derek’s biggest priority was making it home for Letterman.

What in the hell happened to him in D.C.? Derek had been the golden-haired child. He had the kind of career that Fred dreamed of. He had gotten the juiciest assignments and had even received a commendation from Bush. Guess that was a rare mistake on George W’s part. Coming out of the academy, Fred thought he’d hit the partner jackpot when he was assigned to Derek. Now, he realized that he’d won the booby prize.

Well, if Derek’s star was on the wane, Fred’s was waxing, fast.

Fred closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. This could be the one. The case that would get him away from check fraud and identity theft. If he had to enter a rat-infested crack den with a burnt-out, has-been agent, so be it.

Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, Fred looked toward the building. A gangly man with a comb-over awkwardly carried a large gym bag. Yeah. Like that guy went to the gym. The man paused at the corner of the building, peering into the dark alley before it swallowed him up.

“Our guy?” Fred asked.

“Nah. He looks like he has legitimate business down here ...” Derek replied, shaking his head as they exited the car.

Fred swept his gaze up and down the deserted street as they crossed. Apprehension, or the brat juice, twisted his gut. A building like this? Lots of easy hiding places for someone to pop off a shot. Hopefully, this was just a bunch of geeky movie fanatics like the guy carrying the bag. That this would be a clean bust. One big break. That’s all he needed.

Well, that—and a partner who actually gave a crap.

* * *

Derek resisted putting his hand on his holster. Was it the dim, splotchy light, or the odor of stale urine, that had his teeth on edge? From the cracked façade to the littered hallways, this building felt way too much like the one in D.C. He swore he would never set foot in another cockroach motel again. But, here he stood at the door of yet another derelict building.

With Fred on his six, a bit closer than Derek would have liked, he put his hand on the doorknob. It opened easily. Which did not make his apprehension any less intense. They stepped into the entryway and were greeted by a six-foot-four bouncer. His steroid-induced arms were as thick as telephone poles.

Derek flashed his badge. “FBI,” he said.

The Neanderthal’s eyebrows knitted together. It seemed that this new information was taking a few minutes to cross the synapses of his addled brain.

“I am sure you are a law-abiding citizen,” Derek stated, “and don’t want the kind of trouble an FBI investigation would bring into your life.”

It seemed to finally dawn on the guy that they were law enforcement.

The bouncer opened his mouth, ready to shout a warning, but Derek lifted a finger and wagged it from side to side, then put it up against his lips. Okay, the pantomime this guy got. Derek then moved his hand, shooing him away. With a dissatisfied grunt, the bouncer walked past them out the door.

Good security was so hard to find when you were a video pirate.

Cautiously, Derek led Fred down the corridor. They followed the sound of the click from the projector and tense music. Clearly, a film was playing deeper within the building. Their intel seemed to be correct. Something wasn’t right about this bust, though.

First off, if these pirates really did want to have a screening, why hold it here? Why not cross into Tijuana, where a couple of Jacksons could have bought them all the privacy they wanted? And what serious criminal organization of any caliber hired a meathead like Steroid Boy to handle their protection? The guy had turned tail and run faster than some third graders he knew.

“Gross!” Fred hissed as he tried to scrape a used condom off the bottom of his shoe.

“Shh!” Derek warned. The hairs on the back of his neck stiffened.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

“Unsnap your holster,” Derek whispered to Fred as he took his own advice.

“But regulations state that we should keep them—”

A bloodcurdling scream shattered the night.

Derek’s gun was out in one swift movement as Fred fumbled with his snap. Trotting ahead, Derek couldn’t wait, as another scream punctuated the first. He made his way to a room at the end of the corridor. Light filtered into the hallway, flashing and swirling on the walls.

Fred finally caught up as Derek plastered himself against the doorjamb. As Fred took up position on the other side, Derek worried. Was Fred up for this?

Hell, was
he
up for this? Could he really point his gun and shoot? That was a question neither he nor the Bureau psychiatrist could answer.

Derek had to shove aside a thousand vivid memories of blood splattered against a little girl’s pink top as he tried to remain focused.

There was only one way to find out if either of them were up for this. And that was to take action. Derek poked his head around the corner to survey the room. A quick count added up to around two dozen people seated on the cement floor, apparently entranced by what was transpiring on the screen—if you could call it a screen. A dirty sheet hung from the ceiling, while a black and white film played against the backdrop. Not exactly a high-class bidding environment for the hottest film of the year.

Another scream rent the air as a battered and bleeding woman ran across the screen. Derek felt nauseated as the film bounced and shimmied. But at least the screams were emanating from the film, and not a real-life massacre.

Score one for the night.

However, just because they had breezed in this far did not mean that there weren’t a half a dozen AK-47s in there—with perps ready to use them.

He raised an eyebrow at Fred, the question clear.
Are you ready?
Fred gulped twice, and then nodded back. He guessed that was going to have to do. Derek mouthed, one ... two ... on three.

They burst into the room. Derek swung his gun toward the wide-eyed projectionist.

“FBI! Stop the film, and back away from the projector!”

The projectionist, a kid really, not more than twenty, held his hands up in surrender. He shook the whole time as his eyes darted to the audience, who acted as if two FBI agents hadn’t just burst into the room. A sheen of sweat broke out on the kid’s lip.

That was the look of someone ready to do something really stupid. The kid grabbed the projector and shoved it toward them.

As the projector grazed his hip, Derek swore under his breath. Like he said—stupid. Fred dodged the projector as the image on-screen lurched and fell away from the grimy screen. Derek lunged for the projectionist as pandemonium erupted. Snapped out of their trance, men and women began to scatter like roaches when the lights were turned on, creating the perfect cover for the projectionist to grab his bag of film reels and bolt. Derek threaded his way through the crowd, never taking his eyes off the kid.

Fred, on the other hand, was like a billy goat, jumping over boxes and sprinting toward the projectionist. Seems like his partner might have been a hurdler in another life. Derek, on the other hand, had a sharp pain on his left side—a gentle reminder that maybe he shouldn’t have eaten two brats just before a perp rabbited on them.

“Stop!” Fred yelled—with more baritone than Derek had heard before.

Of course, the kid didn’t obey him, but that was beside the point.

Fred actually had some game. Would the surprises never end?

* * *

Fred ran full tilt, being sure to breathe through his nose and out through his mouth. For such a skinny little jerk, the guy was fast. Guess adrenaline helped even the scrawny. Only the faint glow of the moon lit the way ahead. The air was stale in his lungs. Glass crunched underfoot.

Fred followed the projectionist up a rickety staircase that had seen better days. He had to dodge a few holes in the steps. When he looked up, the kid was gone.

Suddenly, the projectionist jumped out of the shadows, slamming the bag filled with metal reels into Fred’s face. Thrown off-balance, Fred careened over the railing. His hands snatched at the wood, but came up with only empty air. He tried to turn his body so that his shoulder took the hit, but he just didn’t have the time. Slamming into the floor, Fred felt his ankle buckle under him just before a loud
snap.

Holy mother of …

Fred bit his lip, not wanting Mr. Uber-Agent to see him cry.

Derek aborted the pursuit and charged back down the steps. “You okay?”

Fuck, no!
was the answer Fred wanted to give, but he held it together. “Yeah, just my ankle.”

They both looked down at the unnatural angle of his foot.

“It’s broken.” Derek stated the obvious.

“Go,” Fred encouraged. “Get the SOB.”

While Fred did want the projectionist to pay for his crimes, he also really wanted Derek to get going so that he could nurse his ankle in peace. But clearly, the senior agent was loath to leave a man down.

“I’ll call for backup. Now go!”

* * *

That wasn’t just a break. It was a compound fracture. What could Derek do but coo to Fred? No, it was time to catch the idiot who had done this.

“Be right back,” Derek said as he turned on his heel and took the stairs two at a time. It was just a damn movie, not the Hope Diamond. Was it really worth assaulting a government agent over? An annoying agent, mind you, but a special agent, nonetheless.

Derek paused at a doorway one floor up. He gave his eyes a minute to adjust before he entered the darkened interior. Cautiously, he took one step, and then another. The projectionist tried the same maneuver—only Derek caught the bag mid-swing. That crap may have worked once, but twice? Not on Derek’s watch. He dragged the kid toward him until their noses were touching. Derek could smell the fear seeping out of the kid’s pores.

“Are we having fun yet?” Derek asked.

The kid cocked his arm back. Before Derek could untangle his hand from the gym bag, the projectionist punched Derek in the nose. Derek stumbled back a step, surprised to be caught off guard. That’s what six months away from D.C. got you. He swiped the back of his hand under his nose and got a smear of blood for his effort.

“That’s it!” Derek ground his teeth. “No more Mr. Nice Guy!”

The projectionist must have believed him, because he tried to rabbit again. Before he could get a head of steam, Derek lunged and tackled him at the base of the stairs. The floor groaned under the unwelcome weight. A
crack
announced the first floorboard breaking. A
pop
announced the second and the third. Then the floor dropped out, and they plummeted to the ground floor.

Luckily they were horizontal during their plunge, and Derek’s shoulder took the brunt of the impact. Still. Damn.

A cloud of dust and dirt hung in the air. The look on Fred’s face when they landed not more than a foot away from him was nearly comical. Derek would have laughed if every inch of his body weren’t shrieking its displeasure.

Fanning the dust out of his face, Fred said, “Nice job.”

Derek sat up, straddling the kid, his knee jammed into his back while he yanked the projectionist’s arms, causing him to grunt. A little payback for trashing two agents.

Hearing the satisfying
click
of the cuffs, Derek read him his rights. “Moron, you are under arrest for the theft and intent to sell for profit ...”

The projectionist sobbed. “I wasn’t going to sell it,” he said. His snot and tears left streaks of dirt on his face.

“I was only gonna show it and return it!”

“Sure, and I’ve got some dry land in the Everglades,” Derek grumbled as he pulled the projectionist to his feet. “You’ve got the right—”

“No. I’m serious,” the kid interrupted, choking on a hiccup. “Ask anyone invited!”

Derek spun the projectionist around to face him.

“Why would you risk hard time to watch a stupid movie?” Derek asked. Not that he really cared, but he had to ask. None of this made any sense. At least, not enough for him to miss the Chargers game.

“No, you don’t understand. This is
Terror in the Trees
!” he exclaimed, as if that explained it all.

Derek glanced at Fred to see if he had the slightest clue as to what this kid was talking about. Judging by the frown, Fred had no idea either.

The projectionist tried to explain, his eyes ricocheting between Derek and Fred. “They pulled the film off the festival circuit, and it won’t be seen again until it goes into wide release.”

Still confused, Derek asked, “Why not just wait, and pay your fifteen bucks?”

Like every other law-abiding citizen.

“They’re gonna cut seven whole minutes out! The best parts! This was the only way to see the whole thing—the directors’ true vision!” Excitement shone in the kid’s eyes as he continued without taking a breath. “The Baxter brothers have opened a new world of terror!”

“Watch out,” Fred said, smirking. “I think he’s going religious on you.”

Derek shook his head. He didn’t give a damn if it was the freakin’ reincarnated Marx brothers. Derek had seen too many scenes go down so much worse than tonight. Chasing this punk around the crumbling dump of a building could have killed them all. And for what? A stupid movie called
Birds in the Trees
, or whatever the hell it was.