WidowMaker Read online

  by

  Cristyn West and Elena Gray

  * * * * *

  Early praise for Widowmaker…

  “Widowmaker is horror at its best. Fun, clever, and SCARY. The suspense is unrelenting, and the action, punctuated by humor, holds you in its grip for the entire ride that is Widowmaker.”

  YourNeedToRead

  Book Reviewer

  “From the first page to the last, Widowmaker rocks, out loud. Part thriller, part horror, and completely awesome, Widowmaker is filled with great characters and situations that are just impossible enough to believe. You can’t find a better read for Halloween.”

  ThrillersRockT

  Book Reviewer

  “A film that kills people? Yep, we were right there for it. And how West and Gray weave such a great suspense tale amongst all the carnage is truly brilliant. And of course, we appreciated the sexual tension between the FBI agent and his ex-fiancée. I have no idea how you could create a sequel, but we want one!”

  ParaYourNormal

  Book Reviewer

  “I had to stop reading in parts. It was just too scary! Of course, two minutes later, my nose was back into my Kindle, reading more. I had to know the end. I love it when I can’t put a book down, no matter how much I want to!”

  RachelintheOC

  Author

  A Walk in the Snark

  “Gritty, creepy, and horrifying, all in one book. That pretty much sums up Widowmaker. It has been a long time since I read a book that made me jump at every little noise in the house, but this one did. Great job, West and Gray!”

  Amber Scott

  Author

  Fierce Dawn

  * * * * *

  Start Reading

  About the Authors

  More From Cristyn West and Elena Gray

  Other Works by Cristyn West, aka Carolyn McCray

  Copyright Information

  Contact Information

  Table of Contents

  * * * * *

  PROLOGUE

  What a dump, Jake thought as his eyes followed the snapping sound of a weathered banner, that read: “SMACKDANCE FILM FESTIVAL: Sundance’s ugly little sister.” Graffitied across the bottom were the words, “But damn, the bitch gives great head.”

  Nice.

  Jake stomped his feet to get the blood flowing to his toes. He flipped up the collar on his black trench coat, jamming his hands into the pockets. A light snow dusted his shoulders. He shivered, looking around him. Dozens waited in a line that wrapped around the corner of the squat building. Smackdance prided itself on “underground” films, but did they really have to show it in a freaking basement?

  But not even below-zero temperatures could keep these crazed horror fans away. As the snowflakes became fatter and wetter, Jake wished he hadn’t listened to Drew, who insisted that they “represent” Kevin Smith style. No, Jake wished he’d worn his nice, thick, and warm ski jacket instead of this thin trench coat. Drew owed him his left nut for dragging him out tonight. And not a hot chick in sight. No movie “experience” was worth freezing his ass over.

  Shoving his hand deeper in his pocket, he found a crumpled yellow flyer. The damn thing that started all of this. He pulled the flyer out and waved it in Drew’s face.

  “It’s all hype, I tell ya. Garbage,” Jake stated.

  “But it’s got great buzz. Look at the line,” Drew replied, gesturing to the crowd of people in front of him and the now-growing line that trailed past the liquor store and Laundromat. Yeah, this wasn’t exactly the Sundance side of town.

  Jake rubbed his already-numb hands together. “A freakin’ two-hour wait for this schlock movie? And to watch it in an unheated basement? This is so damn lame! I say we forget the buzz and go get buzzed.”

  “Lame? This could be the film that changes our lives!” his friend stated enthusiastically. No, no, no. It could change the entire world’s view of horror!”

  Others in the crowd nodded in agreement. Like he needed them to encourage Drew. The wall of the building next to them shook. With that much bass, the movie must be reaching the “darkest hour.” The streetlight next to them flickered, and then blew out. Jake wondered if the producers had paid for that effect as well to get the crowd in the mood.

  Ooh, now it’s all dark and scary. Right.

  As tinny screams echoed from the movie, a geeky kid with a “Team Edward” T-shirt got down on his mittened hands and tried to see in the basement window, but it was blacked out. Probably so no one could see how incredibly bad the special effects were before they paid their money.

  Jake read the flyer aloud. “Terror in the Trees, a docu-horror film.” He glanced up at Drew. “First of all, what the hell does that mean? Docu-horror?”

  Crushing the flyer into a ball, he chucked it at Drew. It hit him square in the nose before fluttering to the ground.

  “Jesus, Jake! It just means that it’s a freakin’ scary documentary,” Drew said as he bent over and rescued the flyer from the snow-encrusted sidewalk. His friend straightened the paper almost reverentially. “And, this could be worth a lot someday.”

  “Right,” Jake sneered. “And scary? This plot’s been done a hundred times before. I mean how many coeds can you watch get sliced and diced? That’s not horror.”

  “Excuse me? Are you trying to tell me that Sorority Slaughter was highbrow?” Drew asked, his eyebrow arched as though he were Spock or something.

  “All right, I concede on that one small point ...” Jake held his hands up in surrender. “But come on. Ashley Blake ran around half naked for most of the movie.” Oh yeah, Ashley definitely made that movie worth watching a few dozen times.

  “And the first time you saw Alien vs. Predator?” Drew asked.

  “Scott’s original Alien was better,” Jake quickly retorted, getting in his classic horror props as he dodged a weak attempt by Drew to punch him in the arm. “Okay ... okay ... I give AvP props for the gore factor.”

  Gore was right. It had been the first R-rated film Jake’d ever seen. Not because he was even close to seventeen, but because he stole a bottle of whiskey from his dad and used it to pay a senior to take him to the movie. It was Alien vs. Predator, for God’s sake! Jake couldn’t wait two years for it come out on DVD.

  “I remember waiting in line, ya know, trying to act all cool, and a chick came running out into the lobby,” Jake reminisced. “She puked all over the floor. Popcorn and Milk Duds. I can still smell it. At that moment, I knew I was in good hands.”

  Drew bounced on the balls of his toes, excitement radiating from him. “Exactly! Visceral horror.” This time, his attempted punch to Jake’s arm was successful. “Fear that has a physical effect. That’s what I’m looking for here.”

  Jake rubbed his arm, staring at Drew in disbelief. Both at the punch that landed and his friend’s naïveté. “In a movie titled Terror in the Trees?”

  Drew couldn’t honestly believe this crap, could he? Clearly, the gazillion trailers he watched on YouTube had fried his brain. It was all a gimmick to get lame-os like Drew to spend their cash, watching a film over and over again until their eyes bled.

  Jake was about to say so when a window shattered at Drew’s feet. Before his friend could jump out of the way, a hand latched onto his ankle. Manicured nails dug into Drew’s flesh. Bright red drops splattered against the snowy ground. Drew screamed like a little girl as he flailed and kicked, trying to shake the hand off.

  Others in the crowd grabbed Drew and finally wrenched him from the attacking hand.

  “Help us!” screamed a voice from the basement, as the music cranked to full throttle.

  “Holy crap, did you see that? Did you see that?” Drew panted, staring at the bloody fingerprints on his ripped jeans.
“Did. You. See. That?”

  Jake tried. He really tried not to laugh, but with the look on Drew’s pasty-ass face as he probed the red welts on his ankle, Jake just couldn’t help himself. Bursting out laughing, Jake bent over, clutching his stomach. His body was shaking so hard that he feared he’d go into a convulsion.

  “Damn it, Jake! That was real,” Drew yelled, as he crouched down on all fours alongside the Twilight wannabe, trying to see into the basement.

  In between bursts of laughter, Jake panted, “You are so freakin’ lame! That was the cheapest publicity stunt in the book, and you fell for it!”

  Jake swiped the tears from his eyes. Remembering the look on Drew’s face made him burst out laughing all over again. What a dumbass! It was a classic “Boo, I’ve got you!” trick. Drew probably had the tread marks on his tighty whities to show for it.

  “No way, man! She grabbed me! Look, that’s blood on my pants!” Amped, Drew pointed to the red coating his jeans.

  A tortured scream came from the front of the line. Jake spun toward the entrance of the building as a man stumbled through the door, blood dripping from his eyes. He lurched, frantically clawing at his face. Jake knew better, but it looked like actual bone glistening beneath the shredded skin. Veins throbbed before being torn open, gushing blood down the man’s shirt.

  Bile burned up Jake’s throat. Now he regretted adding the extra hot sauce to his fast food taco.

  “Holy shit,” the Edward-phile exclaimed. His eyes wide, mouth agape like a kid in a candy store. “They’re pullin’ out all the stops.”

  Jake cleared his throat. “Jesus, it’s so fake.”

  He tried to play it off like he didn’t just pee his pants. As chunks of cheek landed on the pure, white snow, Jake had to avert his gaze even as he asserted, “Don’t they know we’re horror connoisseurs? That blood’s way too red! It’s gotta be watered-down ketchup.”

  But just thinking about the moist flesh and the glistening red made his stomach twist. He was gonna have to find a condiment other than ketchup to put on his burgers. And maybe even hold off on the medium-well burgers for a while.

  The crowd surged forward, nearly knocking Drew to the ground as Jake grabbed hold of the lamppost to keep from doing a face plant. The sound of sirens wailed in the distance.

  “What happened?” someone behind him asked. The answers ranged from “slipped on ice” to “Ebola virus.”

  “Ebola in Park City? Guys, it’s just good special effects,” Jake shouted to anyone who would listen. Were these people really that stupid to believe this was real? Sure, it was gross, but real?

  A kinda cute girl careened out of the building as red and blue lights announced the ambulance’s arrival. Seeming oblivious to everything and anything, the short-skirt ran directly in its path. The crowd screamed in unison. Brakes squealed as the ambulance swerved, missing the chick by mere inches.

  Drew’s bony elbow caught Jake in the ribs not once, but twice. “Oh my God, dude! I told you the movie made people do some freaky shit!” Drew pushed a college-aged preppy out of the way to get a better view.

  “Dude, this is just excellent marketing. Making losers like you think the movie can kill them.”

  As the EMTs restrained the man from further ruining his face, Drew shook his head so hard that the dusting of snowflakes on his hair became airborne again.

  “No, freaking way, Jake. This is real.”

  “They are trying to sell a crappy horror film.” Jake explained. “They are just trying to scare the shit out of a bunch of hard-core bloggers to get some advanced hype. I mean, it’s a freakin’ genius marketing move, but a marketing move nonetheless.”

  “Oh man!” Drew shook his head. “Who drops this kind of money on an ultra low-budget movie? It doesn’t add up.”

  As more sirens descended on their little snow globe full of drama, Jake pressed his friend. “It does when it’s the Baxter brothers, Drew. They’re loaded. They crap out hundred-dollar bills to tip the valet. They’re going to spend what it takes to break this bitch out Blair-style.”

  The chaos around them only escalated. Police and paramedics pushed through the throng of onlookers. Blinding lights flooded the area, announcing that the local news channel had gone live as their fresh-from-junior-college reporter stepped up to the camera. The camera caught every moment of movie patrons sporadically stumbling out of the theater, blood seeping from random parts of their bodies.

  The crackle of a police radio broke through the maddening noise. A police officer barked orders into the unit strapped to his shoulder. “We need more help! Call paramedics in from Saint Andrews! Get the SWAT team down here!”

  The officer’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the reply coming through the radio.

  “Unit is half an hour out.”

  He clicked the button on the mic, the urgency in his voice clear. “We don’t have half an hour! We’ve got four down ... maybe more. We need help now!”

  People scattered as a gurney hit the sidewalk. Its wheels rattled against the sidewalk as EMTs slammed it through the front door of the building, nearly wiping out a chick. Immediately, the door burst back open as four EMTs carried a man out on a stretcher.

  It was like a freaking revolving door of carnage. The guy’s clothes were shredded and soaked in red as he started flipping out, having a full-blown seizure. His body arched, straining hard enough to break the restraints. A paramedic sprawled over him, trying to pin him down.

  “I need help over here!”

  Blood spewed from the man’s mouth, spraying the paramedic and a nosy bystander. The paramedic tumbled backward as the guy bucked him off. The man’s head cracked against the pavement as his body crashed to the ground, giving one final lurch.

  Jake leapt back from the curb as a police car skidded past. An older officer jumped out, hand braced on his holster. The cop scanned the scene, assessing the situation.

  “Come on,” Drew said, indicating the cops, the reporters, and the blood. “Even you’ve got to admit that this can’t all be staged.”

  But Jake shrugged. “Um … have you forgotten the launch of Carte Blanche? They closed the freaking airport in London, and commandos repelled into the Champagne Bar just to deliver the new Bond book.”

  Before Drew could retort, the officer grabbed the arm of a younger cop.

  “How many down?” the officer asked.

  “I don’t know, at least six,” the younger officer panted, looking behind him toward the entrance to the building.

  “Have they found the perp?”

  “It weren’t no gunman, lieutenant,” the cop rushed on. “They’re all medical.”

  “Medical?” The officer glanced around the scene, confusion sweeping his features. “What in the hell does that—?”

  The younger officer cut him off, his eyes panicked. “The first one’s eyes just started bleeding, and this one’s seizing.” He gestured to the now-lifeless body on the ground. “Another went blind, one girl put her hand through a window, and another one fainted.”

  Another gurney crashed through the doors. A paramedic, straddling a patient, counted each thrust that he applied to his chest.

  “One ... two ... three ...”

  “What about him?” the officer asked, tipping his head toward the gurney.

  “Heart attack,” replied the younger officer.

  “Heart attack?”

  The young officer broke eye contact and glanced to the building. “From the damned movie.”

  Jake looked at Drew, his eyes wide, with a grin plastered across his face.

  “Holy crap!” they cried simultaneously.

  Jake hopped over a puddle of blood and tapped the cop on the shoulder.

  “How long until the next showing?”

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER 1

  FBI agent Derek Boulder waited in line at his favorite hot dog stand with his younger partner, Fred Meyers, who happened not to be his favorite partner—at the moment.

  Fre
d was texting or sexting, or whatever the hell twentysomethings fresh from the academy did when they weren’t whining about the lack of action they were getting. The kid still thought running was an exercise, not the necessity it was in undercover work.

  Of course, Derek wasn’t exactly in his best fight-a-meth-head-off shape himself. Since transferring over to the White Collar division, his six-pack had melted into a bit of a two, or let’s be honest, “for individual sale only” pack.

  Sucking in his gut a little, Derek watched as the elderly woman at the front of the line slowly counted pennies to pay for her hot dog and can of root beer. Her white hair was neatly pinned up in the back.

  A warm breeze blew in off the Pacific Ocean. The temperature must be hovering in the mid-80s. Hot for late October. San Diego was experiencing a prolonged Indian summer, although he wasn’t sure whether that was the politically correct term anymore. Whatever it was called, Derek could feel sweat gathering under his holster. On days like these, he pined for his old undercover “uniform” of jeans and a T-shirt. Alas, he was relegated to a suit and tie now. Probably a fitting punishment for all that had gone down in D.C.

  Restless, Derek shuffled from one foot to the other. He could feel his patience unraveling with each clink of the coins. He should be home by now. Pizza, beer, and the Chargers on TV. Now he had to put in overtime with Fred. Sitting in the car. Just the two of them. Perfect.

  How many hours was Derek going to have Fred “pick his brain” on how to be an upwardly mobile agent? Derek was sure the kid had a five-year plan stashed in his underwear drawer at home—with a fifteen-year plan that had Fred as the director of the FBI. Wonder how that was going?