Tales of Chills and Thrills: The Mystery Thriller Horror Box Set (7 Mystery Thriller Horror Novels) (78 page)

He couldn’t figure it out. Perhaps the dog lost the track at the
stream.

“I’d throw you back in jail if I didn’t have two deputies
swearing that they saw a guy in a gray trench coat, running out the back of the
house.” Cooper glared at Bowden.

“Can I have my Glock back?”

In answer, Cooper shoved the car door open. It sprung back and
he had to stop it with his foot. Outside the car, he placed his hand on the
roof and leaned back in.

“You’re still on my list,” he growled and slammed the door.

Bowden watched the detective stomp up to the house. Cooper
paused at the front door and looked at the frame. A moment later he stepped in.
He would be checking the crime scene to see if anything had been moved or taken,
then reseal everything and bring out the photos that were snapped yesterday to
compare the two scenes. It would be easy to see what had been moved, what had
been so vitally important to the man in gray.

Perhaps he had been too hard on the detective, he thought. Now
he was locked out of the house again and wouldn’t be able to get back in and
look around. The only place that he could check for clues was the clearing
where he had parked the other day, so he drove the Mercedes down the driveway
and turned out onto the street. The only marked units that were still around
sat in front of the house. The others had already left as was usual for them.
They handled the initial calls and the detectives followed it up.

He parked his rental car on the side of the road and walked into
the clearing. Tire tracks from several cars could be seen in the tall wet
grass. The bigger, double wheels of the tow truck could still be seen from the
other day. He made a mental note to call the rental office and let them know
where their car had gone.

He worked his way along the edge of the clearing where the grass
faded into the woods. If someone had come into this area today, it would be the
best place to find tracks. He bent over, examining the ground as he walked. The
rain beat down rhythmically on his back, quickly penetrating his coat and shirt,
and soaking his skin. The water ran under his shirt and down around front. It
felt much colder on his belly than his back. He wiped the rain from his
forehead, and squeezed the water from his hair with his palm.

The sounds around him stopped, and he paused. The woods are
never silent. He realized that it was too quiet. He didn’t know if it was his
presence or something else. It slowly dawned on him that it wasn’t his presence
that had caused the silence. He had been aware of the woodland sounds and now
they were gone.

The man in gray stepped out of the woods, a scant three feet in
front of him and placed a gun between his eyes. A chill ran through him and he
reached for the gun that wasn’t there. His fingers grasped his shirt. A seam
split as he pulled desperately.

3

The gun barrel hovered three inches from Bowden’s forehead. It
was an old gun, a Colt .380, but that’s not what caused his knees to start
shaking. The pale hand that gripped it and the man that stood behind it, turned
his blood to ice.

“Why are you here?” The voice was oddly hollow, low, and
resonating.

He looked into the cold, gray eyes and saw nothing there. He
remembered the way dead people looked, the way their eyes had no depth, no
richness or vitality…. This man’s eyes… they scared him.

“Were you looking for me?”

He heard the question but it didn’t register in his
terror-numbed mind. The gray fedora was pulled down low over the man’s forehead,
casting dark shadows over his eyes.

Forcing himself to break eye contact, he focused on the
blue-gray skin that appeared cold and clammy. He took an involuntary step back.

The gun didn’t waver, but a faint smile flicked across the man’s
lips. “Where are you going?”

Chris took another step backwards, more quickly, and then
another. The man in gray lowered the gun and Bowden ran. His heart raced as his
legs pumped up and down trying to move him as fast as he wanted to go. His skin
crawled, as he expected a bullet in the back. His head buzzed. He felt like he
was running in a dream; running but not getting anywhere, as though the danger
was always three feet behind, following effortlessly. An icy shiver shook him.
His legs faltered as he reached the car.

He gripped the handle and jerked it open, sliding behind the
wheel, and ramming the key into the ignition. The engine roared, and he jammed
the lever down into drive as he punched the gas. The Mercedes leapt forward in
response. Mud and grass flew from the tires until they hit the pavement.

Five minutes passed before he glanced at his speed. He was doing
65 on the narrow road that had a posted 35 mile-per-hour speed limit. He eased
off the gas pedal and the car settled down. As the car slowed, so did his heart
rate. He had never been terrified like that before. Not in the military. Not in
law enforcement. Never!

He reached under his jacket and touched the rip in his shirt. He
needed a gun. Now! He swore he’d never be without one again.

He cursed the cops for taking his Glock. It was a pre-ban Model
17 that held 17 rounds of 9-millimeter ammo. He needed a replacement and he
wasn’t going to wait five days.

He drove into Seattle and parked the rented Mercedes on 1
^st
Ave., then walked up into Pioneer Square. The old red bricks had recently been
washed, more recently than a large percentage of the people loitering in the
area.

He stepped into a bistro. “Coffee.”

The barista crinkled her brows. “Drip?”

“I don’t care what you call it. Just make it hot and black.” The
place reeked of smoke and body odor. Several transients sat just inside the
door with brown paper cups in their hands.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” She smiled, resting her
hands on the counter and leaning towards him.

He looked at the girl, who kept smiling at him. The hair on one
side of her head had been shaved off. The hair left on top had been bleached
blond and fell like a mop, strands going in every direction. Her look was
enhanced by a ring in her nose, several tattoos on her forearms, and a crooked
smile. But she was working.

“So, do you want the house blend?” she asked, pushing away from
the counter.

He relaxed a little and forced a return smile. “Whatever.”

“Yeah,” the girl nodded knowingly. “You’re not from around
here.” She pulled a cup off the stack and said, “People around here know their
coffee.” She filled the cup and set it on the counter in front of him.

He decided she was seventeen. He pulled out his wallet and set a
dollar on the counter.

The girl smiled at him. “That doesn’t even cover the coffee.”
She pointed at the sign over her head.

He pulled five from his wallet and set it on top of the one,
noticing that the barista eyed the thickness of the bills in his wallet.

The girl leaned over the counter, her blouse falling open to
expose an obscene tattoo on her breasts. “Now, can I help you with something
else?”

Blowing on his coffee, he looked up at the girl. She watched him
expectantly, a flirtatious grin on her face as she nodded her head.

“Is there somewhere…”

“Marco!” she shouted. “I’m taking a break!”

Another young kid poked his pimply head out of a room. He
grinned and sauntered up behind the counter as the girl walked around a corner,
motioning for Chase to follow her. She opened a closet door and waited for him
to step in.

“Lady’s first,” he said.

“Lady? Like hell.” She stepped into the closet and he shut the
door behind them.

The room had an open space of 3 by 5 feet. The girl slapped a
wall switch and the single sixty-watt bulb shut off. A nightlight plugged into
an outlet provided a little glow.

“Twenty for a blow job, a hundred for the real deal.” Her hand
reached downward and he caught it.

“Slow down.”

“I aint got all day.”

“I’ll give you fifty…”

“Forget it!” she said, as she jerked her hand free of his grasp.

“… for some information.”

The girl stopped. “What? What kind of information?”

“I need a gun, and I can’t wait five days for it.”

She smiled and held out her hand, palm up. “I can help you with
that.”

He set his coffee cup in her hand and dug out his wallet. He
removed a fifty and put the wallet away.

He took his cup back, and held out the money. “I don’t want a
cheap gun.”

She snatched the fifty from his fingers and pushed by him,
opening the door. “Talk to Slash. Come on. I’ll point him out.”

Marco’s eyes widened. “Back already?”

She flashed him the fifty, and Marco grinned. She stuffed the
bill into her pocket and stepped behind the counter. “He’s the prick in the
orange hat by the pay phone.”

Chase picked him out instantly. “Thanks for the drip,” he said,
raising the cup in a salute as he stepped out the door.

Outside Slash leaned against the wall next to the phone, smoking
a joint. He caught Bowden’s gaze, then glanced up and down the street.

He knew what Slash was thinking.
Was this a cop?
He
wondered how he would respond. Slash took one last drag on his joint and
dropped it. He put his toe on the evidence and ground it out of existence. He
smiled.

Slash opened the conversation. “You aint jacked me before. What
do you want?”

“I’m not a cop, Slash.” He could tell that the guy didn’t
believe him. “I need a piece. A clean one.”

Slash laughed. “Right.”

He adjusted his jacket, and Bowden knew he was carrying.

“And not some piece of junk.”

Slash looked at him, still grinning. His teeth were crooked and
stained brown, almost matching the color of his skin. Slash pulled on his
orange cap.

It was meant to be nonchalant but Bowden recognized it as a
signal. He glanced around. People were moving away. So, Slash had decided that he
was a cop.
Okay
, he thought,
we can play it that way
.

Chase stepped beside Slash and grabbed his arm. He locked
Slash’s wrist back and bent his elbow, swinging the arm behind the dealer’s
back. Slash slid up on his toes   and Bowden reached under the black
Raiders’ jacket and pulled the gun free, sliding it into his own waistband with
the same movement.

He pressed Slash against the wall. “You know the drill.”

“Up yours!”

“You got a permit to carry this?”

“Screw you!”

“I didn’t think so, and you’re a convicted felon, I believe.”

Slash only responded by turning his head away.

“So what will I find when I run it?”

“Nothing! It’s clean, man.”

Bowden was glad to hear that, but he sighed. “I don’t want to
take you in, Slash. The jail is full enough with pukes like you. If I run this,
and find it’s hot, I’ll hook you.”

“It’s clean, man. Honest.”

He released his grip on Slash’s wrist. “Your friends are going
to want to know what’s up. You just tell them I wanted info, but if I see you
out here with another piece, I’ll take it from you, too. I know you’re dealing
guns, and I’m going to hurt you.”

His threat wasn’t physical, and Slash knew it. He was going to
have to relocate his business. Slash pounded on the wall with his fist, and was
still cussing as Bowden rounded the corner and climbed into the Mercedes.

The bulge in his waistband was comforting and he tried to guess
the model just by the feel of it.  He thought it was a Glock, but didn’t
dream he could be so lucky. He lifted his jacket and glanced down. It was a
Glock Model 21; a .45 caliber semi-auto with a ten round magazine.

He grinned. His luck was getting better.

Pulling out into traffic, he drove back to his room in the
Sheraton, where he bolted the door behind him. He took the Glock out of his
waistband and checked the magazine. It was fully loaded. It even fit into his
shoulder holster. Strapping it on, he felt much more secure.

He dropped onto the bed and dialed his employer.

The phone was answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hi. It’s Chase Bowden.”

“I’ve been trying to reach you,” Vincent said.

“Yeah. The cops took my cell phone when they impounded the car.
I won’t be too accessible until I get another one.”

“Do you know how Adam died?”

“He was stabbed in the back.”

A moment of silence followed the revelation. “Any...um, ideas as
to who might have killed him?”

He had a couple of ideas, but didn’t want to disseminate the
information. “Who’s Andre Fonck?”

“Andre? Is he involved?”

Bowden lay on his back, his head on the pillow.
This was the
way to conduct an interview. Much better than standing in the pouring rain.
“Maybe. Andre’s car was at the house.”

“Yes. He lives over in that area, somewhere.”

Chase didn’t say any more while he waited for Vincent to answer
his question.

“He’s another nephew.”

“Was he Adam’s brother?”

“No. My dad had three boys and one girl. My sister and her
family are now living in that old house. Adam and Andre were cousins.”

“Why would they be after the painting?”

There was another long silence, then Fonck asked, “Do you have
the painting?”

“Someone beat me to it. Why is it so important? You told me your
dad painted it himself.”

“He did. He did.” Another break occurred where no one spoke.

Bowden pushed the issue. “You told me the painting was your
inheritance.”

“It is. My sister got the house and the sixty acres that it sits
on. My dad left the painting to my brothers and me. I’m the only one still
alive.”

“Then why are your nephews after it?”

“The executer of my father’s will said that my father ‘placed
great value in the painting.’ I thought it referred to sentimental value until
the rest of the will had been divided up.” Fonck cleared his throat. “The
painting was the only thing my father left me, which indicated that it really
did have great value. For some reason, that painting is worth a lot of money.
If the value isn’t in the painting itself, then the value has to be in the
subject matter.”

“Which is what?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen it.”

Bowden sighed. “Do you think there’s something behind the
painting?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know someone who wears a gray coat and fedora, who might
be in this area?”

“No.”

 “Do you know anyone else that might have a reason to steal
the painting?”

“Mister Bowden, I have eight… well, seven nephews now, and two
sons of my own. I haven’t seen or heard from any of them in four or five years.
I think people are coming to the same conclusion. Dad had a lot more money than
anyone imagined.”

Setting the phone on its cradle, he sat up on the bed, and
looked at his watch. It was almost 5 p.m. He hadn’t eaten yet and needed some
warmer clothes. He made a quick stop at REI for outdoor gear, then grabbed a
sandwich, which he ate in the car. Traffic out to Issaquah at this time of day
was horrendous, taking more than thirty minutes just to get across the bridge,
and almost an hour to get past the plateau.

Darkness had settled in by the time he reached the house, and he
parked east of it this time. He pulled on a pair of oilskin pants over the ones
he already wore. The label claimed that they were black and waterproof. They
were actually a charcoal gray and he hoped the second part of the label would
be more accurate. He also put on a thick pair of wool socks and heavily
insulated boots. He laced them up and climbed out of the car.