Authors: Cathy Perkins,Taylor Lee,J Thorn,Nolan Radke,Richter Watkins,Thomas Morrissey,David F. Weisman
Tales of Chills and Thrills: The Mystery Thriller Horror Box Set (7 Mystery Thriller Horror Novels) (76 page)
KILL
TO INHERIT
by
Nolan Radke
Prologue
(Same for each book):
Enter the Ghost
Sam Riley pulled off the narrow dirt road and stopped the
borrowed police cruiser on the edge of the ditch. Opening the door, he adjusted
the small Colt .380 in the holster under his left arm and glanced at the badge
clipped to his belt. The sun caught the window glass on the door of the new
1929 Durant, flashing the light across Riley’s face. He ducked his head
slightly to let the Fedora block the glare and then stepped out onto the packed
soil. Sucking in a breath of cold air, Riley scanned the tree line back to the
driveway he had passed.
From Washington to Washington was a long train trip. He’d
borrowed the police cruiser in Seattle to drive out to the Fonck mansion in the
foothills of nowhere. He wasn’t expected company, and he didn’t expect a warm
welcome. Especially once he started asking his questions. He tugged at the long
gray overcoat he wore, straightening it out, allowing easy access to his gun,
then started up the driveway.
Wind blew the branches and they rattled a little. Most of the
leaves had fallen, yet so many trees were evergreens that he couldn’t see the
house. When it finally came into view, it shocked him. It was bigger than
anything back East. He shook his head, knowing that there wasn’t anyone around
for many miles and that a lot of work would have gone into a home this size.
Four cars were parked in front of the house, all Fords. The grass near the
house had been cut short and a large barn could be seen out back.
He was still taking in the big picture when the front door
opened and a man stepped outside, a rifle cradled across his left arm. He stood
in the shade of the porch and didn’t appear much more than a shadow.
“Good evening.” Riley called out.
The man nodded.
“I’m looking for Mister Fonck.”
“Which one?”
Riley heard a window open and looked up. A rifle barrel parted
the curtain and then steadied on him. “I’d like to talk to Pierre.”
The man shifted a little and his rifle leveled off, pointing
directly at him. “I’m Pierre.” He nodded at Riley. “Who are you?”
Riley pushed his hat up a little as he thought of the best
reply, and when he decided on one, he answered, “FBI.”
He was staring at Pierre
when he spoke and from the corner of his eye he saw a flash of light from the
rifle protruding from the window. Instantly he was struck in the head with a
sledgehammer-like force. Lights exploded in his vision, followed by darkness.
Riley opened his eyes and blinked. He felt no pain, no
discomfort. He looked around in the pitch blackness, but didn’t see anything.
There weren’t any lights. Nothing. No sun, no moon, or stars. There were no
sounds either. Not even the background noise of wind. Riley concluded that he must
be in a cellar and reached out with his hand. He swung it gently around trying
to find something. He touched his fedora, but other than his hat, there was
nothing within his reach. He felt panic rise in his chest. Was he blind? Deaf?
He sat up, reaching farther out and still not finding anything.
He reached farther and farther into the darkness. Still nothing.
He reached out with a foot, then moved upright. Suddenly he was seeing stars
through the outlines of branches. He scanned the area around him. The bushes.
Water dripping from branches. Soggy soil.
Chest deep in the ground? Why was that?
Riley lunged forward and rolled over, pulling the rest of his
body from the earth. He scrambled to his feet and glanced back. There was no
sign of a hole or disturbed dirt. His clothes were clean.
He shivered, but not because he was cold. In fact, he couldn’t
feel a thing. Habitually he reached for his gun and found it, then realized the
badge was missing. For a long time he stood staring at the ground from where he
had crawled. Then the rain came as if to answer a question that he was afraid
to ask. The rain came and the droplets fell, but Riley didn’t feel them. They
passed through him and hit the ground.
The spot of soil that
mesmerized him, hid his body. He was certain of that. There was one other thing
Riley was certain of
—
he wouldn’t rest until he found his killer.
Chase Bowden stood on the wood porch of the ancient white house
and knocked without ever touching the door. No one was expected to answer his
silent beckoning and he took the time to look around. He was on the outskirts
of Issaquah, Washington, but he felt like he was miles from nowhere.
He scanned the edge of the trees for any movement and then
glanced down the long driveway. Nothing moved except the driving rain. Fifteen
minutes had passed since the red Corvette convertible had sped away from the
house.
He pulled a soggy pair of black leather gloves from his pocket
and crammed them onto his hands, then flexed his fingers to loosen the fit. From
his pocket he pulled out his lock-picks and took one last look around, then
knelt in front of the lock. The cold wind bit through his wet clothes and he
shivered. He shook his head in disgust as the pick fell off the tumbler and he
had to start again. Two minutes later the lock was defeated, and he slowly
opened the door.
Water dripped from the sleeves of his coat onto the doormat. He
listened for any sound that might betray another person’s presence. The sound
of the falling rain, pattering in the mud and bouncing off the roof, covered
the sound of the door as he closed and locked it behind him. The interior of
the house was lit only by the ambient daylight. He decided that it was enough
and left the small flashlight in his pocket.
Old portraits, some in black and white, hung on the wall. On his
right were stairs leading up to the bedrooms. Underneath the stairs was a
closet door and next to it a door for a half-bath, but he wasn’t interested in
this. He wanted to find the study. Now that he was in, he didn’t know how much
time he had. Padding through the house, he passed the kitchen and dining room,
another bathroom, and down a small hallway to an open door. He glanced in and
saw a large oak desk. The study. As he stepped inside, he scanned the walls for
the painting he’d been sent to retrieve.
A bookcase covered the entire wall behind the desk. The wall on
the south side contained two large windows, and the other wall held a dozen
paintings. None were the size he was looking for. A blank spot on the fourth
wall showed where the painting had hung.
He exhaled and his head dropped to his chest. Three days of
vigilant surveillance, wasted. Three days standing in the rain, soaked and
shivering. Wasted! He looked at the huge desk and wondered if the eccentric old
man had left anything that might hold something of value to his client.
As he stepped towards the desk, he saw a shag of sandy blond
hair on the floor. He jumped back and thrust his hand under his jacket, jerking
his Glock free of the holster. Three swift steps carried him to the other side
of the desk, and he brought the gun up to eye level as the hidden person came
into view. Then he lowered his gun. No threat here.
The large bloodstain between the man’s shoulder blades showed
the cause of death. Bowden knelt beside him and took a closer look at the
two-inch gash in the back of the dead man’s coat. A puncture wound caused by a
large knife.
Chase Bowden swallowed and glanced back at the doorway. Was the
murderer still here? The house was supposed to be empty, and this man wasn’t
supposed to be here, dead or alive.
His thoughts raced back to the man who had left in the Corvette.
He wasn’t carrying anything. Had he stumbled onto the same scene, or had he
committed the murder? Bowden didn’t know. He daren’t touch the body to feel the
temperature. This guy lived long enough after he was stabbed to lose a lot
blood. He hadn’t died instantly, and the blood still looked wet.
The guy in the Corvette just became a murder suspect. But he
didn’t have the painting with him. So someone else had swiped that.
Glancing at his watch, Chase rose to his feet. His time was up.
He couldn’t afford to be caught burglarizing a house, especially one that
contained a dead man. He walked out of the room and down the hallway.
A movement caught his attention. Someone was outside, running
away. He burst through the back door just in time to see a man disappear into
the woods at the rear of the house. Slamming the door shut, he sprinted after
him.
He jumped into the tree line carrying the Glock in his right
hand. The fleeing subject could be seen a couple of dozen yards ahead, ducking
around the fir trees. A slate gray trench coat billowed out behind him, and a
gray fedora covered his head.
Bowden smashed through some dead branches and scrambled through
a bunch of Oregon grapes. The sharp pointed leaves scratched him through his
khakis. He ran on, trying to keep the other man in sight, using his left hand
to knock branches out of the way. Each branch he touched showered water onto
him. His hair soon lay plastered to his head, while his clothes soaked up the water.
He was running all out, closing in on the fleeing man, darting
in between the trees, twisting and turning. He leapt over a log and landed on
the soggy soil, his left foot sliding in the mud, shooting out from under him.
He landed on his chest, holding the Glock high to keep it free of soil, while
he slid about three feet. Mud splashed against his face and into his eyes. When
he stopped sliding, he pushed himself to his knees, then to his feet. His
quarry was gone.
He couldn’t hear anything over his own heavy breathing, so he
sucked in a deep breath and held it while he tried to listen. Silence. Well,
not total silence. The rain pattered on the leaves. His heart pounded in his
ears.
He looked around for tracks. If he didn’t find any marks
quickly, the rain would wash them away, so he kept searching. No one could run
full speed through the woods and not leave a track, especially when the soil
was so soft. He followed the same direction of travel and within fifty yards
found a slow-moving stream. He searched the bank for a track and still couldn’t
find anything. Water ran down his face and down the back of his neck. He
shrugged deeper into the Arctic shell he had purchased as a coat.
The thing was worthless. It claimed to be waterproof, but
wasn’t, and it did absolutely nothing to block the wind. He looked up through
the trees at the ominous gray clouds, and a stupid song went through his head,
a song about the bluest skies being in Seattle. He’d been in Seattle for three
days, and had yet to even see the sky.
His rented Volvo was parked off the road about a mile from the
ancient white house, and he sloshed through the rain-drenched woods trying to
find a short route to it. The sky grew darker and he glanced at his watch. It
was only four p.m. The sun, hidden behind the dark clouds, was beginning to
set.
He thought about the heater in the car and smiled. He was
going to crank that heat up full, thaw out, and dry off. As soon as he saw the
silver paint of the Volvo, he punched the button on the key. The alarm chirped
merrily as it shut off, and the doors unlocked.
He stepped out of the woods.
“Get on the ground!”
The sudden command startled him. It took him a second to locate
the person who had barked the order. A King County deputy stood near Chase’s
car, with his gun pointed at him.
Bowden looked past the gun and into the deputy’s eyes. They
didn’t waver.
“Get down! Now!” The deputy took a step towards him.
The soggy grass didn’t look very appealing, and Bowden took one
last glance at the unwavering stare of the deputy before dropping to his knees.
He clasped his hands behind his head without being told to do so.
“All the way down.”
He sucked in a deep breath of air and let it out. This wasn’t
his idea of fun. He knew the deputy could cuff him this way if he wanted to,
but the deputy had to play a little game with him. Lying in the water, he
waited for the deputy to come up and put the cuffs on him.
There was a short, beep… beep as the deputy keyed his mike. “Nora
Three. I’ve got one at gunpoint.”
The metallic response of the dispatcher came back. “Nora Three
has one at gunpoint. Your location Nora Three?”
“I’m at the car.”
“Received. Nora Three has one at gunpoint at the car.”
Bowden lifted his head off the ground until his ear was out of
the water puddle that had formed under him. It was cold, damp, and unwelcoming.
“Put your head down!”
He silently cursed the deputy, and put his ear back in the
water.
“Put your arms out. Palms up.”
This was academy stuff. Hopefully he didn’t have a nervous
recruit holding the gun on him. He hadn’t noticed if the deputy was indexing,
or if his finger was resting on the trigger. He could hear the sirens now,
faintly at first, but growing stronger.
Two patrol cars splashed off the road, and slid to a stop on the
wet grass. Doors slammed and two deputies ran forward, the gear on their duty
belts clanking with each step. He heard them closing in on him.
They’ll drop.
He tightened for the
impact.
A knee dropped into his back with the full force of the deputy’s
weight and drove the breath from his lungs. The second deputy dropped down on
the back of his neck. Strong hands grabbed his and slapped on the steel cuffs.
One of the officers stood up, and the other turned Bowden onto his side. The
deputy ran a hand up his side and felt the shoulder holster.
“Gun!” he shouted. “He’s got a gun.” The deputy grabbed him by
the hair and shoved his face into the puddle. “Don’t move!”
He lifted his head to get some air and the deputy shoved it back
down. Rough hands ripped his coat down over his arms, and his Glock was torn
from the holster.
“It’s loaded!” the deputy shouted.
What other kind was there?
The deputy handed Bowden’s Glock to another deputy that stood close
by. That man released the magazine and snapped the slide back, so that the
bullet in the chamber spun into the air and landed with a splat. He scooped it
up in his fingers.
“Gun’s clear.”
Their searching hands found his notebook and pen in the inside
pocket of his jacket. Next his wallet was removed from his pants pocket. These
items were handed to another deputy, so that the one doing the searching could
keep his hands free.
The deputy on his back yelled, “Get up!” and jerked up on the
cuffs.
He clinched his teeth as pain seared through his wrists and
right shoulder. He struggled to his knees, as the deputy pulled him backwards.
It was hard to get on his feet, because the deputy kept jerking him towards the
patrol car. He was shoved in and the door slammed.
The deputy who had drawn down on him put his hand on his heart
as he explained how scared he was when the Volvo chirped, and Bowden had
appeared out of the forest. The other two started laughing and slapped him on
the back. Bowden sat in the back seat and enjoyed the heat.
One of the deputies opened Bowden’s wallet and looked at the
license. He keyed his mike and spoke into it. “Nora Six with a name out of New
York.”
The police radio in the car kicked the words back out for Bowden
to hear.
“Go ahead Nora Six,” the dispatcher responded.
“Out of New York; last of Bowden, first of Chase, middle ‘A’
like Adam. D.O.B. is one, two… zero, eight… six zero.”
“Received.”
Another unit spoke up on the air. “David One. What’s the E.T.A.
on the M.E.?”
“Stand by, David One,” the dispatcher said. There was a moment
of silence then the dispatcher came back over the air. “David One, the M.E.
will be there in about two hours.”
David One answered dejectedly. “Received.”
“And Nora Six, your name is clear and current out of New York.
No record, Washington.”
The deputy outside the car glanced at him through the side
windows before keying his mike. “Can I get physicals on him?”
“Affirmative. White male. Six-foot-one. One-ninety-five. Black
hair. Green eyes.”
The deputy leaned closer to the window. Bowden looked at him so
the deputy could see his green eyes.
“Received.”
The radio squawked again. “David One to…Nora Three?”
“Nora Three.”
“Do you have a suspect?”
“Affirmative.”
“What’s he saying?”
“Nothing yet. Haven’t had a chance to talk to him. I’m still
going through his car.”
“Received.”
“Um… He’s got the address written down here… on a piece of
paper. I just found it in the car.”
“Received.”
Bowden adjusted the cuffs on his wrists. He wondered if the guy
in the red Corvette had called the cops, or if it was the man he had chased
into the woods. It was almost dark now. There weren’t any roads on that
side of the house and really no other place to park a car. He smiled as he
realized that the man in gray would be spending the night out in the wind and
the rain.
One of the deputies came up on the air again. “Nora Six with a
plate.”
“Nora Six.”
“Adam, Boy, Paul… Six, Eight, One.”