Thriller: Stories to Keep You Up All Night

Silence.

"Lipski, you hear me?"

The forest was so silent. Even the wind had ceased breathing in the hemlocks. The cloying smell of wet moss and rotting wood filled his nostrils.

"I was stupid. I admit it. Please." He gave a choking sob.

He heard a faint sound and saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Suddenly, a bloody hand shot around from behind the tree and seized his shirt.

"Get away from me!" he screamed, flailing his arm and slashing with his knife, wrenching himself free, his shirt buttons popping. He backed away from the tree, shakily holding the knife out ahead of him, his shirt open and hanging loose. "Don't do this to me, Lipski," he choked out. "Don't."

But now he wasn't sure it was Lipski.

The flashlight. He had to turn it off. He had to get away, move in darkness. He started walking, not fast, and turned the light off. But the deep blackness of the forest seemed to smother him, and a feeling of dread and terror overwhelmed him, and he snapped it back on.

Perotta caught sight of something low to one side. He swung the beam over in a panic, thinking it was the attacker, crouching and ready to spring. He stopped, frozen by horror at what the flashlight revealed.

The beam illuminated a very white foot, severed at the ankle. Perotta stumbled back with a retching sound. The beam jumped from that to another thing lying on the pine needles: an arm. And farther on, two-thirds of a head, cleaved at an angle, with one halfway forced-out eye, white showing all around.

The other piece of the head lay some feet away, with the second staring, surprised-looking eye. "Oh, Jesus! No, no!"

A voice came from behind him, and he swung around with an inarticulate gargle. But there was nobody there; the voice seemed disembodied, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, as if the demonic forest itself were speaking. In the extremity of his horror Perotta turned around and around, unable to get a fix on it.

"That's what they do to them, you know," the voice was saying, soft and hoarse. "Take a good look-that's what they do to them. And now, that's what I'm going to do to you."

Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta, NYPD, watched the M.E. place the last piece of victim number two in a wet evidence container. It had taken them quite a while to sort through which piece belonged to who. The hot summer sun barely filtered through the branches of the tall hemlocks, creating a green, humid atmosphere that reeked of death. The flies had arrived in force and a steady drone filled the cathedral-like woods, like a low undertone to the hiss of radios and the murmur of the forensics team as they did the final walk-through before closing down the scene.

D'Agosta heard the soft press of footsteps and turned to see the local cops coming back up the hill.

"They were staying in the McCone cabin," one of them said. "We got their wallets, IDs, car, the works. Two employees of the Natural History Museum."

"Yeah?"

"Looks like we're almost done here. Thanks for coming up so quickly, Lieutenant."

"Appreciated the call," said D'Agosta.

"We heard on the radio about that heist at the museum," the other cop said. "When we found that artifact in the tank, we put two and two together and figured you'd be interested."

"Yeah." D'Agosta looked down. "Interested."

"Is that golden knife really worth millions?" the first officer asked, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

D'Agosta nodded.

"Looks like they double-crossed the wrong person."

"Maybe," D'Agosta said. But this took work, he thought to himself. A whole lot of work. You could send a message with a lot less effort. And why was the artifact still in the toilet tank? That was the first place anyone would look.

The M.E. began carting the body bags and evidence lockers back out toward the road. It had been a long day.

"Let's get back to the station," the first officer said. "Finish up the paperwork. Once that's been processed and the evidence boys are done, we'll release the knife to you, Lieutenant."

D'Agosta stood for a moment, staring at the sticky, torn-up killing ground. It was as if the earth itself had been cut, violated. He fetched a sigh and turned to follow the others. His part was over. The Tumi knife was found. As for the double homicide, it wasn't his jurisdiction.

On the way out, D'Agosta paused by the first officer. Almost against his will, he said, "This is just the first. There'll be more."

The officer looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"

D'Agosta nodded back toward the woods. "What happened back there had nothing to do with the museum theft."

A hesitation, a firming of the mouth. "Thank you, Lieutenant, for your opinion."

D'Agosta could read the skepticism and a

The Fisherman sat behind the wheel of his VW bus, waiting in the muddy turnout at the side of the road. The police cars had come and gone, and now the road from Waldo Falls was silent. It was twilight and a layer of mist had formed, drifting through the trees, beading up on his windshield.

He adjusted his wig, pulling it down tighter, grasping the long locks of polyester hair and giving them a tug. Then he lit up a Marlboro and waited.

It was a while before a pair of yellow headlights appeared, heading out of town. He stubbed out his cigarette and watched the car materialize in his rearview mirror. It was a foreign car, a Toyota, which was good. They would buy Jap over American.

As the car passed it honked.

The man waited until the taillights had disappeared around the gentle curve. Then he put the VW into gear, started up the windshield wipers and eased it onto the road. He allowed himself a slow, crooked smile, and a prayer of thanks to the Lord for once more presenting the opportunity to serve Him.

The Fisherman had just hooked another killer of the unborn.

A uthor Biographies

Ted Bell is a native Floridian. He began his career in advertising as a copywriter at Doyle Dane Bernbach in New York. He has also worked in Chicago, where he was president of the Leo Burnett Company, and later served as vice chairman and worldwide creative director of Young & Rubicam in both London and New York. Ted is the New York Times bestselling author of three action-adventure thrillers: Hawke, Assassin and Pirate. The series features the dashing British intelligence agent Alex Hawke. Ted lives in Florida where he writes thrillers, reads and messes about in boats. Visit Ted at his Web site, www.tedbellbooks.com.

Steve Berry, a New York Times bestselling writer, lives on the Georgia coast. He's a lawyer who has traveled extensively throughout the Caribbean, Mexico, Europe and Russia. Steve's thrillers include The Amber Room, The Romanov Prophecy, The Third Secret and The Templar Legacy. His novels have been feature selections for major book clubs, chosen as BookSense picks, and have been sold in thirty-two countries. Visit his Web site at www.steveberry.org.

Grant Blackwood caught the writing bug while reading Clive Cussler's The Mediterranean Caper. He's a U.S. Navy veteran, having spent three years on active duty aboard a guided-missile frigate as an operations specialist and pilot rescue swimmer. He's been writing for nineteen years and lives in Mi