Authors: J A Konrath,Blake Crouch,Jack Kilborn,F. Paul Wilson,Jeff Strand

Tags: #Horror, #Fiction

Draculas (49 page)

BOOK: Draculas

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"Actually, I'll pay you fifty dollars if you just hold me for ten minutes."

I blinked. "Hold you?"

He nodded, his face puppy dog sad.

"We can't arrest him for that,"
Harry said.
"Ask him if he wants to suck your toes."

I ignored Harry, which wasn't the easiest thing to do. Especially with him in my ear. "That's all?" I asked Bald Guy. "Just hold you?"

"That's all." His shoulders slumped. I felt kind of sorry for him.

"Tell him you've been on your feet all day,"
Harry said,
"and your toes are really sweaty and stinky."

I wished I could turn the earpiece off.

"That's kind of weird," I told the guy. "Don't you have a mother or an aunt or someone else who can give you a hug?"

"No one. I just got divorced, and I'm all alone."

"How about friends? Neighbors? A church group?"

Bald Guy shook his head.

Harry said,
"Try taking off your shoe and sticking your foot under his nose."

"I just need a little tenderness," Bald Guy said. "Will you do it?"

He looked so devastated, so desperate. Plus his vehicle was air-conditioned and smelled nice. What more prompting did I need? I walked around the front of his car/truck and climbed into the passenger seat.

"Dammit, Jackie! Find another john!"
Harry, screaming in my ear.
"There aren't any laws against cuddling! Don't waste our time!"

The earpiece really needed an off switch. In fact, so did Harry. The sad thing was, Harry wasn't as bad as some of the other jerks I had to work with. What did a female cop have to do to earn the respect of her peers in this city?

I guessed it wasn't dressing up as a hooker, hawking BJs.

"Okay," I said. "One quick hug. On the house."

I opened up my arms, ready to embrace this poor clod, and he handed me a latex glove. I backed off a notch.

"Are you sick?" I asked. "Contagious?"

"No, no, nothing like that. While you're hugging me, I'd like you to stick your fingers up my bottom."

No wonder he was divorced.

"And wiggle them," he added.

"Mirandize that pervert,"
McGlade said.
"I'll call the wagon and be right there."

I opened my silver-sequined purse, reaching for my badge and handcuffs.

"I'm a police officer," I said, making my voice hard, "and you're under arrest for soliciting a sexual act. Put your hands on the steering wheel."

Bald Guy turned bright red, then burst into tears. "I only wanted a little tenderness!"

"Place your hands on the steering wheel, sir. And for future reference, fingers up the wazoo really don't qualify as tenderness."

"I'm so lonely!" he sobbed.

"Buy a dog." An unwelcome image popped into my head, of this pervert with some poor Schnauzer. "On second thought, that's a bad idea."

Bald Guy moaned, wiped his nose with his wrist, and then flung open his door and ran like hell. Which didn't make much sense, considering that in jail he could probably find someone to fulfill his request for free.

"He bolted!" I yelled to Harry. "Coming your way!"

I pushed open my door and scrambled after him. Three steps into my pursuit I broke a heel and almost fell onto my face. I recovered in time, but my speed was drastically reduced. A penguin on stilts would have been faster and looked less clumsy. I wasn't about to kick my broken pump off--this wasn't the nicest part of town, and I didn't want to step on a dirty needle.

"He ducked down the alley, Jackie!"
Harry said.
"It lets out on Halsted. Run around and block his exit!"

Easy for him to say. He was wearing gym shoes.

I rounded the corner, hobbling as fast as I could, my spandex skirt riding up and encircling my waist like a neon pink belt. My purse orbited my neck on its spaghetti strap, and each time it passed in front of my face I reached for it and missed. Inside was my Beretta 86, and I didn't want to be charging into any alleys without it firmly in hand.

Honking, from the street. I wondered if it was the squadrol--a police wagon that picked up and booked the suspects we caught on this sting. No such luck. It was a carload of cute preppy guys. They hooted at me, pumping their fists in the air.

"What's that sound?"
Harry said.
"You watching Arsenio?"

I skidded to a halt at the mouth of the alley, tugged down my skirt, and pulled out my Beretta.

The hooting stopped. I heard one of the preppies yell, "The whore is packing heat!" and their tires squealed, their car rocketing away.

"Where is he?" I said into the mic.

"If he didn't come out on your side, he's hiding in the alley somewhere."

"I'll meet you in the middle."

"It's dark. Don't shoot me by mistake."

Harry didn't mean it to be condescending, but he wouldn't have said it if I were a man. I set my jaw, gripped my weapon in both hands with my elbows bent and the barrel pointing skyward, and crept into the alley.

The decaying garbage odor got worse with every step, so bad I could taste it in the back of my throat. I moved slowly, letting my eyes sweep left and right, looking for any place Bald Guy could hide. I came up to a parked car, checked under it, behind it.

"Jesus, the stink is making my eyes water."
Harry said.
"It smells like some fat guys with BO ate bad cheese and took a group shit on a rotting corpse."

Harry wore so much Brut aftershave I was surprised he could smell anything.

"You're a poet, McGlade."

"Why? Did I rhyme something?"

I stuck my head into a shadowy doorway, didn't find Bald Guy, and went deeper into the alley.

Then I heard the scream.

It came from ahead of me. A man's voice, with a hollow quality to it.

Something horrible was happening to Bald Guy.

My whole body became gooseflesh. I just joined Vice two weeks ago. Even though I was still a patrol officer, and made the same pay, I jumped at the chance to wear plainclothes and ditch the standard uniform. But plainclothes turned out to be hooker-wear, and I felt especially vulnerable without my dress blues on. It wasn't easy being tough when you were wearing a micro-mini.

Another scream ripped through the alley. The little girl in me, the one who still woke up scared during thunderstorms, wanted to turn around and run.

But if I gave in to my fear, Harry would mention it in the arrest report. Then it would be back to riding patrol and answering radio calls, where I got even less respect.

I forced myself to move forward. Now my gun was pointing in front of me, toward the direction of the sound. The Beretta was double action and protocol dictated it stayed uncocked. The harder pull meant fewer accidental shootings. Theoretically, at least. My finger was so tight on the trigger that a strong breeze would have caused me to fire.

"You see him?"
Harry asked. I heard him in my earpiece, but I also heard him in the alley, somewhere ahead.

"Not yet."

"Maybe he's screaming because he can't stand the smell."

I didn't think that was the case. I'd heard my share of screams on the Job. Screams of joy. Screams of sorrow. Screams of pain.

This was a scream of terror.

A clanging sound, only a few yards away from me. A Dumpster. I held my breath, heard whimpering coming from inside.

"He's in a Dumptser," I told Harry.

"Probably sitting in a big pile of rats."

I approached quickly. It was dark, but I could see the Dumpster lid was open.

"This is the police!" I shouted, hoping my voice didn't quaver. "Raise your hands up where I can see them!"

Bald Guy complied. But there was something wrong. Rather than two hands, I counted three.

I moved closer, and realized the third hand wasn't his. It belonged to a woman.

And it wasn't attached to the rest of her. Bald Guy was holding it, the look on his face pure horror.

I felt someone touch my shoulder and jumped back. It was Harry.

"Looks like he got you a birthday present, Jackie. Quite a handy guy."

My stomach seized up, then I bent over and vomited, soaking my broken shoes and getting it caught in the fake curls hanging in front of my face. When I heaved for the final time, the transmitter popped free of my bustier and plonked into the puddle of puke.

"Happy twenty-ninth," Harry said.

BIOGRAPHIES

BLAKE CROUCH
is the author of DESERT PLACES, LOCKED DOORS, and ABANDON, which was an IndieBound Notable Selection last summer, all published by St. Martin's Press. His newest thriller, SNOWBOUND, also from St. Martin's, was released in June 2010. His short fiction has appeared in
Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine
,
Thriller 2
, and other anthologies, and is forthcoming in the new Shivers anthology and Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine. Last year, he co-wrote "Serial" with J.A. Konrath, which has been downloaded over 250,000 times and topped the Kindle bestseller list for 4 weeks. That story and DESERT PLACES have also been optioned for film. Blake lives in Durango, Colorado. His website is
www.blakecrouch.com
.

JACK KILBORN
is the pen name for J.A. Konrath, author of seven books in the Lt. Jack Daniels thriller series, the latest of which is SHAKEN. Under the Kilborn moniker, he wrote ENDURANCE, TRAPPED, and AFRAID, all structured in the same way as DRACULAS, but decidedly darker. Konrath currently has twenty-seven ebooks available on Kindle, most of them inexpensively priced. In 2011, Ace Books is releasing TIMECASTER and TIMECASTER SUPERSYMMETRY, two sci-fi ecopunk novels written under the nom de plume Joe Kimball. You can visit all of his personalities at
www.jakonrath.com
.

JEFF STRAND
used to be best known as the creator of Andrew Mayhem, whose insane adventures appear in such horror/comedy novels as GRAVEROBBERS WANTED (NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY), SINGLE WHITE PSYCHOPATH SEEKS SAME, and CASKET FOR SALE (ONLY USED ONCE). But now he's probably best known for his first "serious" book, PRESSURE, which was a Bram Stoker Award finalist for Best Novel. He's written other comedic books (BENJAMIN'S PARASITE, THE SINISTER MR. CORPSE) and other serious books (DWELLER), and a couple that kinda blur the lines (WOLF HUNT, KUTTER). You can visit his Gleefully Macabre website at
www.jeffstrand.com
.

F. PAUL WILSON
is a
NY Times
bestselling author of forty-plus novels who has won the Stoker, Inkpot, Porgie, and Prometheus Awards. His work spans science fiction, horror, adventure, medical thrillers, and virtually everything between. He has written for the stage, screen, and interactive media as well, and has been translated into 24 languages. His most famous novel, THE KEEP was adapted into a perfectly awful film by Michael Mann. His latest thrillers, GROUND ZERO and FATAL ERROR, star his urban mercenary, Repairman Jack. JACK: SECRET CIRCLES is the latest in a young-adult series starring a fourteen-year-old Jack. Paul resides at the Jersey Shore and can be found on the Web at
www.repairmanjack.com
.

BIBLIOGRAPHIES

F. Paul Wilson's Works Available on Kindle

Repairman Jack novels

The Last Rakosh
(free)