J.A. Konrath / Jack Kilborn Trilogy - Three Scary Thriller Novels (Origin, The List, Haunted House) (86 page)

“You can cure fear?” he said.

“I’m very close, Mr. Deiter. Fear begins in the amygdala, which is located in the medial temporal lobes of the brain. When you are frightened, it releases hormones and neurotransmitters that stimulate the fear response. You are aware of the symptoms. Paranoia. Increased heartbeat. Dry mouth. Sweating. Shortness of breath. Lightheadedness. The feeling of hopelessness. Because many of you survived some horrific events, your brain chemistry has physically become altered. Which is why you continue to be afraid all of the time. Your mind still believes it is in danger, and it keeps pumping chemicals into your body. “

“So you’re going to test our blood for these these these chemicals,” Dr. Belgium said, “then scare us, and test our blood again. And then am I to assume you’ll then try to block the fear somehow?”

“All in good time, Doctor. All in good time.”

“So why are Mr. Wellington and I here?” Pang asked.

“Every good experiment needs controls,” Forenzi said. “Your skepticism will provide a baseline metusamine level.”

“Metusamine?” Belgium said. “
Metus
is latin for
fear
. So metusamine—”

“Metusamine is the neurotransmitter I isolated that is responsible for the fear response. Correct, Dr. Belgium. And I’m synthesizing the transporter protein—”

“Which will terminate effects of of of metusamine!” Belgium yelled, obviously excited. “How close are you to synthesis?”

“I’ve been able to induce fearlessness in a primate, a Panamanian night monkey.”

“I’d be honored and excited to go over your data.”

“In time, Doctor.”

“And will we be able to try this for ourselves?” Mal asked. A fear-free life was a gift almost too valuable to fathom. To be able to sleep well again, to live without the constant paranoia. A drug like that would be a miracle.

“Very soon. And your presence here, Mr. Dieter, will help speed the process.”

Deb reached over, touched Mal on the arm. He looked at his wife and saw she was teary eyed. He realized he was as well.

“So let us finish our meals,” Dr. Forenzi said, raising his wine glass, “and then begin the process of scaring the hell out of you fine people.”

Everyone toasted. Everyone seemed excited, except for the cop, whose face remained neutral. Mal said to his wife, “Maybe you were right, honey. Maybe this trip was the answer to our prayers.”

“I love you, Mal.”

“I love you, too.”

They shared a quick kiss, and Mal went back to his steak. The cop, Tom, looked over at him, and his calm expression was replaced by something else.

Concern.

Did Tom know something the rest of them didn’t?

Mal’s relief evaporated, and the uneasiness returned.

After dinner, he’d confront the Detective, pick his brain.

Maybe this really was as it seemed, a million bucks and a cure.

But maybe, just maybe, Forenzi was playing them all.

Like fattening up the turkeys before Thanksgiving dinner.

Dr. Frank Belgium walked up to the second floor with Sara and marveled at the curve balls life threw.

A few days ago he’d been hating his job, and his life. He’d been lonely, depressed, and living in constant fear.

Now he was next to a wonderful woman and actually daring to think about the future for the first time.

Belgium wasn’t prone to daydreaming. Others would consider him a fatalist, but to Belgium that meant
a realist who truly knew how bad things were
. But there, in Butler House, Belgium indulged in a mini-fantasy where he and Sara and Jack had a house somewhere. They were playing a game of Monopoly, which he used to love as a kid. He saw himself land on Boardwalk with a hotel and start laughing, and his new family laughed along with him, and there was the scent of baked apples coming from the pie cooling on the windowsill. He and Sara took Forenzi’s metusamine pills, and neither were afraid anymore. Life wasn’t something you endured. It was something you appreciated.

A ridiculous notion, of course. But the idea of it pleased him, and he clutched it to his being like a life line.

“Here’s your room.”

Belgium snapped out of his reverie and saw one of the men in suits had opened a door for him.

“You’re the next door over,” the man told Sara. She smiled shyly at Frank, and followed him a few meters down the hall.

“See you in a bit, Frank,” Sara said.

Frank nodded, and watched her disappear through the door. Frank went inside his, closed the door behind him, and took a look around.

A bed, some old furniture, and some drapes replete with cobwebs, none of which would have been out of place in Dracula’s castle. No bathroom.

Belgium found his suitcase next to the dresser. He considered changing into a fresh shirt, but figured it would be wrinkled, and he hadn’t packed a travel iron.

Maybe he could ask Sara if she had one. Maybe that would be a good excuse to go to her room, because even though they’d only been apart for less than a minute, he missed her already.

Frank went back to the door and opened it—

—Sara was already standing there.

“I wanted to do this in case we don’t have a chance later,” she said.

And then Sara’s arms were around Frank’s neck and her lips were against his.

Belgium was so surprised he couldn’t move. He just stood there, not knowing where to put his hands, or how to move his mouth. He hadn’t kissed a woman in so long he’d forgotten how.

Would she figure out how bad he was at this?

Did his breath stink?

What if he used too much saliva? Or if they bumped their teeth together?

What was he supposed to say when the kiss ended?

But Frank’s doubts quickly began to vanish as he lost himself in the sensation. Sara was tender, persistent, and she pressed her body closer to his, and when he touched her waist she sighed, and when his tongue touched hers it felt like an electric shock, making Frank moan in his throat.

She finally broke the kiss and looked at him, her pupils so big, a slight blush in her cheeks, and Belgium had to reach out and run a finger along her neck, just to prove she was real.

“I like you, Frank.”

“I like you, too.”

She gave him another kiss—just a peck on the cheek—and walked off, back to her room, leaving Frank to wonder that maybe his ridiculous little daydream wasn’t that ridiculous after all.

Sara chewed her lower lip as she pulled a sweater on over her head.

She could still taste Frank.

In the past, Sara never would have been so brazen. Kissing was an intimate act, and all she had been intimate with lately was a bottle of booze. But she’d never felt such an immediate chemistry before. Part of it was the obvious fact that he was such a nice guy. But it went deeper. Something about being with Frank gave her hope.

And she needed some hope in her life.

Living without Jack was a constant reminder what a failure she was. As a mother. As a human being. The alcohol amplified this feeling, but without the liquor the horrors of Rock Island kept haunting her.

While it would be amazing to take a pill and not have nightmares, or panic attacks, Sara was a lot more skeptical about it than the others seemed to be. She didn’t like Dr. Forenzi. His constant mentions of babies and children seemed less like reassurances, and more like attacks. Sara didn’t like this house, either. Even though the location was vastly different, it gave off the same vibe as Rock Island. There was something bad happening here, and she couldn’t wait to leave.

That was another reason she went to Frank’s room. Yes, she found him attractive, and yes, he gave her hope. But the most important thing of all was how she felt when she was with him. When Sara was around Frank, she no longer felt afraid.

So she threw herself at him, the desire for him to kiss her back stronger than her fear of rejection.

And he had kissed her back.

And he was pretty good at it.

She shivered, thinking about his hands on the small of her back, and then turned to the dresser mirror to fuss with her hair again.

That’s when she noticed something in the mirror. Something behind her.

The rocking chair in the corner of the room.

A brittle-looking thing, made of old wood, so dark it was almost black.

Had it just moved?

Sara stared at its reflection.

The chair remained still.

I’m seeing things.

Sara went back to finger-combing her bangs, wishing she’d packed some gel. Hindsight being 20/20, she should have also packed some make-up. A little lip gloss, and a little eyeliner would—

The rocking chair moved.

Sara watched, her breath caught in her throat, as it rocked all the way forward, held it there for a moment, and then rocked back.

Just as if someone was sitting in it.

Sara knew she needed to turn around, to look directly at it. But every muscle in her body had locked.

What was the monster that didn’t cast a reflection? A vampire? Were there others that didn’t show up in mirrors?

If I turn around and check, will I see some hideous creature in the chair, grinning at me?

A ghost?

A poltergeist?

A demon?

The chair rocked again, creaking as it did.

Turn around and look.

Just do it.

Sara closed her eyes, and through brute force of will turned on her heels to face the chair.

Now open your eyes.

But she was too afraid.

Do it!

Open your eyes!

Sara peeked.

The chair was empty.

One of the suited guards showed Tom to his room after dinner, and it was both as opulent and as creepy as Tom expected.

The bed was a large four-poster, with a crushed velvet bedcover. The dresser was heavy, Renaissance Revival, with a matching bureau. There was an iron, woodburning stove, an Oriental carpet on the wood floors, a rolltop desk, and portraits on the walls Tom recognized as Colton and Jebediah Butler. The light was dim, due to an antique lamp with a low wattage bulb and a very large tasseled shade. There were candles throughout the room, all unlit.

The room’s sole window faced west, and Tom looked out into the waving fields of cattails. The sky had gotten darker, and had taken on a reddish tinge. He checked the window clasp, but it, like the sash, had been thickly painted over.

Tom put his suitcase onto the bed and opened it up. First he checked his gun, a Sig Saur 9mm, and put in a fresh magazine. He holstered it, put on his holster, and then checked his fanny pack. Inside were three more mags, fifteen rounds each, twenty glow sticks, a tactical flashlight, a Zippo lighter, a Swiss Army Champion Plus knife, some handcuffs, and a Benchmade Mangus butterfly knife with sheath.

He strapped the Mangus sheath to his ankle, and was inventorying the first aid kit he’d packed when someone knocked at the door.

“Come in,” Tom said, facing the doorway.

It was Moni Draper. “Got a minute?”

“Sure.”

She strutted in, and Tom admired her moxie. Especially after what she’d gone through. Tom knew Moni from her association with a serial killer named Luther Kite. He’d tied her up and tortured her using an antique medical device called an artificial leech. It was used by doctors in the 1800s for bloodletting, back when it was thought that bad blood caused ailments and bleeding cured people.

Tom had encountered Kite in the past, and had done a lot of research on him. Moni has over two hundred scars on her body, where Kite had used the device on her. She’d been found nearly dead, but somehow had rebounded. And, judging by her general attitude, she’d moved on with her life.

Tom had his share of nightmares, mostly due to what had happened at Senator Stang’s mansion in Springfield. But he’d never been at the total mercy of a maniac who was excited by causing pain. He didn’t know if he’d be able to adjust like Moni seemed to. And he hoped he’d never have to find out.

“You smell bullshit,” Moni said.

“If something seems too good to be true, it usually is.”

“Stay with me.”

“Excuse me?”

“They’re going to try to scare us. Maybe the threat won’t be real. Maybe it will. Either way, I want to be with the strongest guy in the room, and that’s you.”

Tom nodded.

“We can…” Moni smiled slyly, “seal the deal if you like. I’ve done lots of cops.”

Back when Kite had done that to her, Moni was a prostitute. Apparently the attack hadn’t scared her out of the profession.

“Kind of you to offer, but I’m okay.”

“Is it because of the scars?”

“It’s because I’m in a committed relationship.”

Moni pulled her shirt down, revealing her pock-marked cleavage. “So this doesn’t disgust you?”

She jiggled a bit. Tom didn’t reply. Moni continued to pose for another five seconds before saying, “So are you disgusted or not?”

“I’m still deciding,” Tom said. “Give me a minute.”

Moni giggled, walked over, and gave Tom a friendly punch on the shoulder. “You’re okay for a pig, you know that?”

Tom wasn’t offended by her use of the word
pig
. If anything, it amused him. “Thanks. And I promise I’ll do my best to protect you if things get crazy.”

“I believe you. Who’s the special lady?”

“Her name is Joan. She’s a Hollywood producer.”

“She have any interest in the story of a plucky whore who survived multiple attacks by maniacs and then went on to become a millionaire?”

“I’ll ask her.”

“What’s that?” Moni pointed at a wrapped plastic disk in Tom’s kit.

“A Bolin chest seal. For sucking chest wounds.”

“Like getting stabbed in the lungs?”

“Or shot.”

She continued to point. “I know that’s a tourniquet, and that’s one of those airway breathers. What’s in that package? Celox?”

“Clotting powder. Stops bleeding quickly.”

“You came prepared. But I bet you don’t have one of these.”

Moni reached for her purse, then stopped. “Where are you from?”