“I came here to thank you,” he said.
“For what? I tried to shut down The Dead Club. But I never could find you.”
“Yeah, well, our application makes it easy to erase all information about the club from a member’s computer. And Grover Marshall isn’t my real name.”
“Figured that. So what are you here thanking me for?”
“Well, you made me a lot of money.”
“Yeah? How’s that?”
I asked the question, but I already had a knot forming in my stomach. I knew what his answer would be.
“You deserve to know that you were never in The Dead Club, Bobby.”
I swallowed hard. My throat was tightening, but I still managed a slight, near-imperceptible nod.
“You were The Dead Club, Bobby.”
I caught a devilish gleam in his eyes and it made me shiver.
“You were betting on me?” I croaked.
Grove didn’t budge, but he did jump in his seat when I smacked my hand hard against the reinforced Plexiglas that separated us.
“Hands off the glass, Tomlinson!” A guard’s voice boomed from a crackly PA system.
I glanced down the long hallway, past the row of other prisoners on my side of the glass, toward the guard’s station. I waved my hands in the air, the well-understood signal that I promised no further breech of prison protocol.
“I wouldn’t tell you this if they recorded our conversation,” Grove said, smiling again. “But I thought you’d appreciate knowing that a lot of members were betting you wouldn’t go through with it. I mean, they really didn’t think you could. But I gambled with you in Vegas, Bobby. I guess I had the inside skinny. I doubled down and bet half a million that you’d kill that guy to win the bet. I really owe you for coming through.”
“My win streak, the neurologist in Generoso’s hospital record not being blanked out, all part of the set up to suck me in?”
Grove nodded, real slow and deliberate.
“I also bet a bundle that you’d get caught,” he said. “Gotta hand it to you, Bobby. You don’t disappoint.”
“This isn’t over, Grove, or what ever your name is. Not by a long shot. Five years from now I’m up for parole. When I’m out, I’m going to track you down and make sure you’re either sitting on my side of the glass, or lying somewhere six feet underground. You hear me? That’s what’s going to happen.”
Grove laughed in a jolly, warm guffaw that reminded me of the week we met in Vegas.
“You’re not going to do anything of the sort, Bobby. And don’t count on making parole either.”
“Oh yeah?” I replied.
My eyes narrowed on Grove as I balled my hands into tight fists.
“Yeah,” Grove said.
“You want to bet?” I said.
Massachusetts native DR. MICHAEL PALMER is the author of fourteen novels of medical suspense, all international bestsellers. His books have millions of copies in print worldwide, and have been translated into thirty- eight languages. Palmer was educated at Wesleyan University and Case Western Reserve School of Medicine. His most recent novel is The Last Surgeon, dealing with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. His novel Extreme Measures was made into the hit film of the same name starring Hugh Grant, Gene Hackman, and Sarah Jessica Parker. Palmer also works as an associate director of the Massachusetts Medical Society’s Physician Health Services, helping doctors with physical and mental illness, as well as drug dependence, including alcoholism. He has three sons, two cats, and some fish.
DANIEL JAMES PALMER holds a master’s degree in communications from Boston University, and is a musician, songwriter, and software professional. His debut thriller novel, Delirious, is scheduled to be published by Kensington Publishing in early 2011, part of a three-book contract with the publisher. He lives with his wife and two children in one of those sleepy New England towns.
Underbelly by Grant McKenzie
Shorty Lemon poked his index finger between tiny nylon teeth and gave it a wiggle. The teeth parted easily and the brass slider ran smooth, but it still took some dexterous finger kung fu to unzip the suitcase from the inside.
Once he negotiated the first awkward corner, the lid opened wide enough for him to peek out.
The compartment was dark and noisy.
Just beyond thin metal walls, a Cummins diesel roared as the transaxle drove eight massive steel-belted radials. On the other side, wind slapped against baggage doors, desperate to force its way inside. And below, the pavement whined as if protesting the weight of twenty-eight thousand pounds of fast-moving steel.
Noise was good. It stopped the passengers in soft seats a short distance above Shorty’s head from hearing his movements.
Shorty finished unzipping the case and stood to stretch. Even at three feet ten and one-quarter inches, a suitcase was a tight fit.
Dressed in black cargo pants and turtleneck, Shorty liked to believe he looked as cool as Steve McQueen in Bullitt. With an excited grin, he pulled on his spelunking lamp, tightened the headband, and flipped the switch. Three super bright LEDs lit up the cabin to reveal a mountain of luggage.
He hoped at least one of them contained chocolate. Milky Swiss was his favorite, but he had to be careful. Two months earlier he wolfed down a full box of festive Irish whisky liqueurs. The alcohol-filled chocolates had sent him into a near sugar coma and he was barely able to zip himself back inside the case before passing out. When his partner retrieved the case at the terminal, he discovered Shorty had puked all over his favorite McQueens.
The memory still made him shudder.
After rubbing his hands together to get the blood flowing, Shorty ripped bags open.
He started with the largest one, but was disappointed to find that all it contained was a collection of old lady clothes. And from the look of them, they would have found more use in a landfill than in somebody’s wardrobe.
He rolled his eyes. “Freakin’ loser.”
He shoved the bag aside.
The second bag contained a slick digital camera, a superthin Mac laptop, and a snack pack of Ritz Crackers with the fake cheese goop in the middle. A nest of rolled socks protected the crackers as though they were some kind of luxury treat.
“Loser number two.”
Shorty crushed the crackers in his hand before sprinkling the disgusting remains over the own er’s clothes. Whoever ate that garbage, he decided, deserved to wear it, too.
He slipped the camera and laptop inside his own suitcase and moved to the next.
Unzipping the bag, he stared at a gun… attached to a hand… pointing at a spot between his eyes.
“Shorty.” A familiar scratchy voice was attached to the hand that was aiming the gun.
“Twinkle?” Shorty lifted his head and exposed the gunman’s face to his headlamp. “What the hell are you doing? You’re Wednesdays on the Washington run.”
Twinkle squinted against the light and his upper lip curled in a sneer. “Change of plans.”
Jonathon “Twinkle” Toews climbed out of the suitcase, his gun never wavering from Shorty’s head. Shorty had heard Twinkle brag he had a quarter-inch on him in the height department, but he suspected the lying dwarf wore lifts.
“Well fuck me blue,” Shorty said with a laugh. “This is some mix-up.”
“No mix-up, Shorty. Big haul on this bus and I want my cut.”
“Big haul?”
Twinkle snorted. “Don’t play dumb. The horse is trotting crosscountry, but it ain’t gonna make the stable.”
Twinkle cocked the hammer. Even amid the blanket of engine noise, it was decidedly menacing.
“Whoa, back up.” Shorty raised his hands in surrender. “I ain’t part of your circus, so what the fuck?”