J.A. Konrath / Jack Kilborn Trilogy - Three Scary Thriller Novels (Origin, The List, Haunted House) (10 page)

When the connection was made, Race clicked on the microphone to speak. His typing skills were considerably lacking.

“Mr. President, this is Race. Our subject is currently able to communicate. I’m going to begin the interrogation. I’ll keep you updated, and remember what was promised to me.”

Race hit the Send icon. The spoken word message would be translated into text, encrypted, and sent to the President’s
CONTACT
unit within seconds. Even though the encryption code was the most complicated in the world and deemed unbreakable, Race still was leery of codes and always kept his messages somewhat vague. The Germans never thought ENIGMA would be cracked either.

The Roosevelt Book, as Race’s predecessor called it, was in the table drawer next to the main terminal. It was one of Race’s responsibilities at Samhain to maintain and update the information it held. Since Theodore Roosevelt began the Project in 1906, a list of questions had been compiled to ask Bub should he ever awake and be judged sentient. There were many, some scientific, some historic, some theological.

Each successive President added his own questions to the book, and questions were dropped when they became outdated—for example, they no longer needed to ask Bub the 1918 question “Is it possible to split the atom?”

The book still had its original leather binding, though it had faded and cracked over the years. The first several dozen questions were typeset, but Roosevelt was wise enough to know that more questions would come up, so bound after the printed pages were two hundred blank ones.

Race had read through the book many times, and had even added several questions of his own. Now, after a century of sowing, it was time to reap.

With the book tucked firmly in his armpit, Race picked up the phone and hit the intercom line.

“Attention, this is Race. Our permanent guest is now talking, so it’s show time in Red 14. Will everyone please meet me there.”

He hung up and took a micro cassette recorder from a cabinet. Race checked the batteries, and unwrapped a new tape and inserted it into the machine. Then he got up and headed down the Red Arm. His mind was a rubber ball bouncing around inside his skull. It was a familiar feeling; the long stretches of boredom, the careful preparation, and then
BOOM!
—everything happening at once.

Just like combat,
Race thought.

He missed that so badly. Just like he missed everything about the Army.

It was his family.

Race was born to command. First in his class at West Point, back in ‘50. He entered Korea in ‘51 as a
Butter Bar
—second lieutenant— and rose to the rank of Captain in four years, most of his ascension due to battlefield victories. Korea was where he came to be known as Race, as in
Race to the rescue
.

When the war ended, Race was a man to watch. He was stationed at Ft. Sam Houston in 1959, headquarters for the Fifth U.S. Army. He paid his dues, did a tour in Vietnam, and generally worked his ass off, and on December 29, 1966, he had made Brigadier General.

Then came the fall.

There was a 2nd Lieutenant under Race’s command named Harold Bright. They’d graduated together, gone to Korea together, and were the best of friends. Harold was Race’s best man when he married Helen. He was as close as a brother.

Which made the confession even worse.

On a drunken March night, two years after Race’s promotion to One Star General, Harold disclosed the affair he’d had with Race’s wife.

Race was slack-jawed at the betrayal. Harold went into detail about how lonely Helen was, how Race was never around, how it only happened a few times but now it was over.

The alcohol added to the rage. Race hit him. Harold defended himself. Race broke a bar stool over his best friend’s head.

Harold suffered a concussion from the assault, and later died from his injuries.

Helen blamed herself. She begged forgiveness. He forgave, and asked for hers in return. She was strong enough to stand by him during his trial, his discharge from his beloved Army, and his inevitable imprisonment. Race offered no defense for his actions to save her from the scandal.

But somehow President Johnson found out the truth.

He admired Race’s stoicism and manliness—LBJ’s exact words. He didn’t want to see Race go to jail, or get booted from the Army. Not only had Race proven himself an excellent soldier, he’d also proven himself a man who had forsaken his own good to keep a secret. That, Johnson had said, was what patriotism was all about. So he gave Race an opportunity to redeem himself.

Samhain.

Race agreed, and quickly disappeared, along with all charges against him. Johnson also buried the civil case with Harold’s family by giving them a modest cash settlement. All Race had to do, to keep up his end of the deal, was run the Samhain project until the time Bub awoke and the questions in the Roosevelt Book were answered. LBJ had given Race the impression that it would happen any day.

And now here it was, forty years later.

Race could have quit at any time. Many times he almost did, twice even going as far as telling the incumbent President he wanted out. But each time he was convinced to stay. Not through any slick blackmailing technique, or bland patriotic speeches about God and country. The carrot on the stick had always been his beloved Army, and the opportunity to some day command again.

So Race stuck it out, through years of boredom, through Helen’s illness, through eleven different Presidents. The current Commander-in-Chief even told Race that he had a space waiting for him on the Joint Chiefs of Staff when this was finally over.

It was all only a few hundred questions away.

Race arrived in Red 14 to find Andy sitting in a chair next to the Plexiglas. Bub squatted on his haunches, his head at Andy’s level. The image that came to Race’s mind was two old women, sharing gossip.

“What have we learned so far?” he asked Andy, slapping a paternal hand on his shoulder.

“Well, not a lot. Bub apparently doesn’t remember much about what happened to him before his coma. He doesn’t even know how he came to be buried in Panama in the first place.”

Race’s eyes narrowed. This wouldn’t do. Not at all. There were provisions for the possibility that Bub would be uncooperative. The main one involved a very large cattle prod.

But that was to be a last resort.

“Well, let’s see what he does know then, shall we?”

Race took a chair from the computer work station and set it next to Andy, taking a seat. Bub glanced at Race and stretched out his mouth. He appeared to be attempting a smile, but Race found himself repulsed. It took him a moment to regain composure.

“This is called the Roosevelt Book; it’s a list of questions to ask Bub going back to his discovery. I’ll read the question, you interpret it and give me the answer.”

Race took the cassette recorder from his pocket and hit the record button. He rested it on his knee.

“What is your name?” Race asked the beast.

“Buuuuuub…”
the demon answered, staring into Race’s eyes before Andy had a chance to translate. He raised a claw and a talon snaked out, pointing at the General’s chest.

“Raaaaace.”

Race shivered. Had it gotten colder in the room? Must be the central air unit, blowing down at them overhead. He folded his arms.

“Ask him for his previous name, before we started calling him that.”

Andy complied, and Bub whispered a reply.

“He says he’s had many names.”

“My God in heaven,” Father Thrist exclaimed. He’d just entered the room, the thick Rabbi Shotzen in tow. “It speaks.”

“Faaaaather,”
Bub said, his voice a cross between a whisper and a hiss.
“Raaaaaabbi.”

“Oh my…” Rabbi Shotzen gasped.

“What has he said so far?” Father Thrist demanded. “Anything about God? Anything about Heaven?”

“Heavaaaaaan,”
Bub said, raising a claw over his head and extending a finger upward. The way he said the word made it sound somehow unclean.

“What do you know about heaven?” Thrist approached the Plexiglas, his nose inches from Bub’s. “Are you a fallen angel?”

Bub’s mouth stretched open and he belched, a sound like a motorcycle starting. His breath fogged up the glass, and Race caught the stench of blood and wool.

“Father,” Race stepped in, holding the aging priest by the shoulders. “All of those questions and more will be answered. They’re all in my book. Let’s all just sit down, relax, we’re gonna be here for a while.”

The holies went off in search of chairs, and Rabbi Shotzen dragged over an extra one for Dr. Belgium, who had just arrived.

“Can he talk?” Belgium asked.

“Heeeeee… taaaaaalks…”
Bub answered.

Belgium made a sound like a hiccup, and Race watched him turn right around and leave the room.

“He’s a quick study,” Sun said. “He’s already putting together nouns and verbs. I bet he could learn English quickly.”

Race furrowed his brow. It would be much easier to interrogate Bub if he knew how to speak American. Save a helluva lot of time.

The disadvantage would be that Bub would understand everything they said, but indications showed that he was understanding a lot already. Besides, better to know what your enemy knows than to not know if he knows anything or not.

“Andy, you’ve taught several languages. Have you ever taught English?”

“To people.”

“Can you do it?”

“I don’t think… I mean… he’s a…”

“Yes or no, Mr. Dennison?”

“I don’t know. I’d need materials.”

“Like what?”

“Well, some language programs. A chalk board. Children’s books.”

“How about one of those phonics programs for kids?” Sun suggested. “We could wheel in a big screen TV and a DVD.”

“That might work,” Andy nodded.

“So when do you think he could know enough to answer questions in English?” Race asked.

“Well, I couldn’t possibly predict when… I mean, there’s no precedent for this.”

“How long did it take you to learn Japanese?”

“I got a good grasp of the language in about a week, but it took a while before I was fluent.”

“You have until tomorrow. Write down all of the supplies you’ll need, I’ll have them air dropped here within the hour.”

“Tomorrow? That’s ridiculous. I wouldn’t even know how to begin.”

“With the ABCs,” Race said, heading for the door. “I’ll be in the Octopus. Let me know what you need.”

This was an interesting turn of events,
Race thought. Interesting indeed.

W
hy was she tied to this bed? Where was her husband? She called to him.

“Regis! Regis, help me!”

Then her legs began to tremble violently. She tried but couldn’t control the shaking, which became more and more spastic. Her arms followed suit, flapping up and down on the short tethers as if she were being electrocuted.

Without the tethers she might have whacked herself in the face. Perhaps that’s what they were for.

The tremors subsided, and a memory flickered in her mind, so quickly that it might have been simply a fleeting thought and not a memory at all. A memory of her mother, tethered to a bed like she was, cursing uncontrollably.

“Mother was sick,” she said aloud, alone in her hospital bed.

This was a hospital, wasn’t it? The walls were white. The bed had rails. There was medical equipment on a cart next to her. But when she listened, there were no other noises. Weren’t hospitals noisy places, full of comings and goings and doctors and nurses and intercoms? If this wasn’t a hospital, where was she?

“Regis!” she called out. “Regis, where am I! Help me, Regis!”

The door opened, and an old man walked in. He looked so familiar, but she couldn’t place him. He was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. Not a doctor. A visitor?

“I’m here, Helen. It’s me.”

“Do I know you?”

“It’s Regis, Helen. Your husband.”

“Bullshit,” she spat. “My husband is a young man. You’re an old fart!”

Rather than seem shocked, or even bothered by her outburst, the man simply picked up a hand mirror from one of the medical carts. He held it in front of her.

My God! She was old! How did she get so old?

“We’re both old, Helen. You don’t remember because you have Huntington’s Disease. You’ve had it for many years now.”

“Oh my Lord.”

The spike of realization pierced her heart. She remembered now—this awful disease that she inherited from her mother. It debilitated the nervous system, causing memory and motor function loss. The tethers were there to hold her arms down when the chorea hit—frenzied palsies that she couldn’t control.

“Oh I remember, Regis, oh dear Lord I remember.”

He held her close, running his hands over the back of her head.

“It will be okay soon, Helen. I promise. Things are happening. We’ll leave here soon, get you better medical treatment. There’s hope. They’re making new advancements in gene therapy every day.”

His words didn’t cheer her. While they were admittedly hopeful, her husband’s delivery was wrong. He was saying it like it was something he’d memorized and repeated a hundred times before.