James Swain - The Program

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From the national bestselling mystery novelist the Wall Street Journal calls "One terrific writer" comes a heart-pounding thriller pitting a deadly serial killer against two determined FBI agents.
Is it possible to create a serial killer? FBI Special Agent Ken Linderman (last seen alongside Jack Carpenter in bestseller The Night Monster) is about to find out. A serial killer has kidnaped seventeen-year-old Wayne Ladd, and is putting the boy through the Program, a fiendish project designed to turn young boys into raging killers. Along with hot-headed FBI Agent Rachel Vick, Linderman must race against the clock to save Wayne before he's turned into a monster.
With the odds against them and time running out, Linderman and Vick will stop at nothing to save Wayne, and bring a sadistic criminal to justice.

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“Special Agent Ken Linderman with the FBI.”

The officer reviewed Linderman’s ID with a sheepish look on his face.

“Sorry,” he said. “We got a call from a neighbor last night that there was a person trespassing on the Crutchfield property. They sent me out to have a look around.”

“It sure took you long enough to get here,” Linderman said.

“They don’t pay me to be brave. Was that you?”

Linderman nodded.

“Do you have a warrant to be out here?”

Linderman shook his head.

“It’s probably none of my business, but why were you snooping around?”

“A family was murdered in that house. I know the person who did it. Now I need to find the evidence to prove he did it.”

“Was it Jason?” the officer asked.

“Yes. Did you know him?”

“I went through school with his older sister, Madeline. She talked about Jason. He was a strange one, that’s for sure. You still need a warrant to go on the property.”

“I don’t have the time to get a warrant,” Linderman said. “One of my agents was abducted by one of Jason’s friends. I need to move fast.”

The officer blew out his cheeks. He had red cheeks and a round Irish face, and looked well past retirement age. Either he’d lost his life savings in the stock market and had to keep on working, or he really liked his job. Or maybe it was a little of both.

“My name’s Justin Fitch,” the officer said.

They shook hands. The look in Fitch’s face said he was going to play ball. He watched Fitch walk to the back of his cruiser and unlock the trunk. Taking out a pair of bolt clippers, he cut through the chain holding the gate shut.

“Follow me in your car,” Fitch said.

They parked on the front lawn of the old Victorian house. The swing on the front porch was still moving back and forth, the ghosts occupying it waiting to be set free.

Linderman followed Fitch up the creaky steps to the front door. He prayed that he did not experience any more hallucinations while in the police officer’s company. It was the last thing he needed to have happen right now.

Fitch tested the front door. He placed his shoulder against it, and gave a push. The hinges splintered against his weight, the door swinging in.

“I always figured Jason was up to no good,” Fitch said. “One day during his sophomore year, he came to school and announced that his mother and sisters had moved away to Canada, and left him to fend for himself. It never smelled right.”

“What kind of family were they?”

“Quiet. They mostly kept to themselves.”

They stepped through the front door. The smell hit them like a heavy punch. Dead air, held captive for decades, the rotting essence of life as potent as a toxic cloud. They retreated to the porch and both took deep breaths.

“Sweet mother of God,” Fitch proclaimed.

“We need to open the place, and let it air out,” Linderman said.

“You think there are corpses in there?”

“Could be.”

The porch was wraparound, and they walked around to the back of the house, their feet stepping on warped boards. The back door of the house had a small window, and Fitch punched out the glass with his gun, reached inside, and released the lock.

“You go first,” the officer said.

Covering his face with a hanky, Linderman walked into a large kitchen, and quickly opened the windows that weren’t stuck. The kitchen had a lived-in feel: A stack of moldy dishes filled the sink, the open cupboards lined with cans of food with peeling labels. On the counter beside the sink sat a platter holding the skeletal remains of an animal that resembled a large chicken. He’d killed them during dinner, Linderman thought.

Linderman glanced through the open door onto the porch. Fitch was staying outside. Either the officer didn’t want to come in, or was purposely staying out of the way.

He was starting to gag. He’d read about the long-term effects of breathing bad air. It could cause your lungs to harden, if you weren’t careful.

He didn’t care. He needed to find the dining room, and confirm his suspicions that this was indeed where Crutch had ended his mother and sisters’ lives.

Crossing the kitchen, he pushed open a swinging door with his shoulder, and stuck his head into the next room. It looked like a bomb had gone off inside it. Splintered chairs lay upturned on the floor and several framed paintings had fallen off the walls. There was broken glass everywhere he looked.

He’d found the dining room.

Stepping inside, he let the door shut behind him. The dining room table contained four dusty place settings. A round platter sat in the center of the table that was the right size for a cake. He’d waited until his mother had served dessert , Linderman thought.

He walked around the perimeter of the room, careful not to disturb anything. The walls were filled with gashes and tears. Crutch hadn’t just wanted to kill his family; he’d tried to destroy the room as well. A true rampage.

He halted by a dusty cabinet in the corner. Something was sticking out from beneath. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he knelt down, and carefully pulled the object out. It was a broken baseball bat.

He’d found the murder weapon.

He stood up. An uncontrollable shudder ran through his body. Evil was a strange beast; its presence could be felt long after the animal had left. The dining room was filled with such a presence. Like the spirits outside on the porch, the evil had not left.

He went outside to the back porch and filled his lungs with sweet-tasting air. The mist had turned into a dull, drenching rain that dulled the landscape to the eye. Fitch leaned against the porch railing, holding his hat in his hands.

“Find anything?” Fitch asked.

“Their last meal,” Linderman said.

“That’s a good start.”

“And the murder weapon.”

“Even better. What about the bodies?”

“That’s next.”

Linderman took another deep breath before heading back inside.

Chapter 44

He checked the upstairs first. There were four bedrooms and one shared bathroom with an old-fashioned claw-foot tub. Each bedroom occupied a different corner of the upstairs, with its own distinct view of the grounds. They shared the same decorating scheme, with wallpaper and furniture coverings straight out of a Laura Ashley catalogue. Each room also contained a four-poster bed and matching antique furniture.

He was mildly surprised. He’d half-expected to find the bodies of Crutch’s mother and three sisters lying in their beds with their heads bashed in. He’d seen that before with serial killers, a desire to take the victims and return them to some normal setting, as it to separate them from the horrible violence which ended their time on this earth.

He also checked each of the room’s walk-in closets to make sure the bodies were not hanging from a hook, or the ceiling. He’d seen that as well.

Walking downstairs, he realized that he’d not seen a boy’s bedroom, and found himself wondering where Crutch had slept.

The air had cleared enough to breath freely. He checked the den, living room and a small sitting area, but did not find the bodies. The rooms were coated with a thick veil of dust but still remarkably intact, the destruction contained to the dining room.

The house had to have a basement. In the kitchen he found a door that led down a darkened flight of stairs. Rifling the kitchen drawers, he removed a pack of matches and a box of birthday candles. He lit one of the candles, and headed downstairs.

A mad scrambling of tiny feet heralded his approach. Rats. Stopping at the bottom, he did a slow three-sixty, and took in his surroundings. The space beneath the house was dank and low-ceilinged. On one wall, a washer and dryer. On the opposite wall, a work area with an assortment of hanging tools, and a shelving unit lined with coffee cans containing rusted nails of varying sizes. Beside the washing machine was a door. The words NO ENTRY – THIS MEANS YOU!was printed across the door in white letters, the handwriting child-like. He’d found Crutch’s bedroom.

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