SERIAL UNCUT (18 page)

Joe:
I also
liked those who said that "free was too much money" and "I wish I
could rate this lower than 1 star." I'd love to watch some of those
haters read this uncut version. And then go to therapy to unread
it.

Blake:
SERIAL
UNCUT was your idea. How'd it come about?

Joe:
I'd been
wanting to do this uncut version of SERIAL ever since I wrote TRUCK
STOP. With TRUCK STOP, my goal was to unite the Jack Daniels series
with the Jack Kilborn books. But then we got so many bad reviews
saying how graphic SERIAL was, when in reality most of the violence
is understated and off the page, that I started wondering what
would happen if we really did pull out all the stops. If we added
TRUCK STOP to SERIAL, and then put even more material tying it in
with your novels, this would actually be a short book. A short book
about six horrible yet very different serial killers, that linked
together the majority of both of our work.

Blake:
From
the first time you mentioned expanding SERIAL, I knew I wanted to
do it, because I thought it would be fun to write some more about
Lucy. And what you did with TRUCK STOP and bringing in characters
from AFRAID and your Jack Daniels series seemed like so much fun.
If you'll recall, my pre-SERIAL Lucy story was actually conceived
in the Hyatt hot tub in Indianapolis at Bouchercon 2009 (the world
mystery convention). You and I were talking about expanding SERIAL
and what I could do with Lucy, and I came up with the idea of
bringing in Orson, Luther, and Andy Thomas. Since we were at a
mystery convention, and since Andrew Thomas is essentially a dark
mystery writer, it made sense to set my pre-SERIAL Lucy story at a
Bouchercon-type of convention.

Joe:
From my
end, putting this together was really easy. The opening section,
where we learn how Donaldson got his start, practically wrote
itself. Part of the fun of writing the original SERIAL was having
two killers playing cat and mouse. With TRUCK STOP, I decided to
see if killers could actually play well together. The opening
scene, with Donaldson and Mr. K, was a nice precursor to those two
scenes. Readers interested in the further adventures of Mr. K can
find him as the main villain in the next Jack Daniels novel, called
SHAKEN. Do you think it's more fun to write for the bad guys than
the good guys?

Blake:
Bad
guys are without a doubt so much more fun to write. And I don't
know what this says about me, but I definitely find them easier to
write. The idea of killers playing well together certainly was the
foundation of my Lucy/Orson/Luther section as well. We think of
serial killers as these loners, societal outcasts who can't connect
to other human beings. I think it's fascinating to consider two
such outcasts (or three in my case) finding each other and
comparing notes.

My next novel coming up is called SNOWBOUND.
It's a thriller about the search for a missing girl, and the
horrifying place the search leads. What's up next for you?

Joe:
Besides
SHAKEN, I've written two books in the TIMECASTER science fiction
series under the pen name Joe Kimball. They take place in 2056, and
the hero is Jack Daniels's grandson. I've also written two more
Jack Kilborn horror novels that should be coming out soon. The
working titles for them are TRAPPED and ENDURANCE, but titles
change all the time, and I don't know what they'll eventually wind
up being called. TRAPPED is sort of a semi-sequel to AFRAID, but
it's a lot more visceral. ENDURANCE is also pretty intense. I also
have a ton of ebooks available, including a lot of thriller and
horror books and stories. What's up with you on the ebook
front?

Blake:
I just
uploaded a short story collection to Kindle called FOUR LIVE
ROUNDS. I'm going to be putting a horror novella up soon called
PERFECT LITTLE TOWN, and possibly an early novel. Jeroen ten Berge,
the genius behind the SERIAL graphic design and illustrations (and
my website) is designing amazing covers for these eBooks. He has a
great website at www.jeroentenberge.com.

Joe:
Jeroen
rocks.

Blake:
There's
a bibliography after this interview, along with some excerpts of
AFRAID, SHAKEN, and SNOWBOUND. So what's next? Are we going to do a
Jack Daniels/Luther story?

Joe:
Hell
yeah, we are. And I'm not sure we're entirely done with SERIAL yet.
Careful readers will notice that we never say Donaldson and Lucy
are dead. I think we have a few more tales to tell about these
horrible characters...

Jack Daniels series by JA Konrath:
Whiskey Sour
Bloody Mary
Rusty Nail
Dirty Martini
Fuzzy Navel
Cherry Bomb
Shaken (featuring Mr. K)

Exclusive ebooks by JA
Konrath:
55 Proof - Short Story Omnibus
Origin
The List
Disturb
Shot of Tequila
Crime Stories - Collected Short Stories
Horror Stories - Collected Short Stories
Jack Daniels Stories - Collected Short Stories
Suckers by JA Konrath and Jeff Strand
Planter's Punch by JA Konrath and Tom Schreck
Floaters by JA Konrath and Henry Perez
SERIAL by Blake Crouch and Jack Kilborn (included in SERIAL
UNCUT)
Truck Stop by Jack Kilborn and JA Konrath (included in SERIAL
UNCUT)
Writing as Jack
Kilborn:
Afraid (featuring Taylor)
Trapped
Endurance
Non-Fiction
The Newbie's Guide to
Publishing
Visit Joe at www.JAKonrath.com
By Blake Crouch
Desert Places (featuring Andrew, Orson and Luther)
Locked Doors (sequel to Desert Places)
Abandon
Snowbound
Four Live Rounds - Collected Short Stories
Visit Blake at www.BlakeCrouch.com

The following is an excerpt of Afraid by
Jack Kilborn, now available everywhere books are sold from Grand
Central Publishing...

The hunter's moon, a shade of orange
so dark it appeared to be filled with blood, hung fat and low over
the mirror surface of Big Lake McDonald. Sal Morton took in a
lungful of crisp Wisconsin air, shifted on his seat cushion, and
cast his
Lucky 13
over the
stern. The night of fishing had been uneventful; a few small bass
earlier in the evening, half a dozen Northern Pike--none bigger than
a pickle--and then, nothing. The zip of his baitcaster unspooling
and the plop of the bait hitting the water were the only sounds
he'd heard for the last hour.

Until the helicopter exploded.

It was already over the water before Sal
noticed it. Black, without any lights, silhouetted by the moon. And
quiet. Twenty years ago Sal had taken his wife Maggie on a
helicopter ride at the Dells, both of them forced to ride with
their hands clamped over their ears to muffle the sound. This one
made a fraction of that noise. It hummed, like a refrigerator.

The chopper came over the lake on the east
side, low enough that its downdraft produced large eddies and
waves. So close to the water Sal wondered if its wake might
overturn his twelve foot aluminum boat. He ducked as it passed over
him, knocking off his Packers baseball cap, scattering lures,
lifting several empty Schmidt beer cans and tossing them
overboard.

Sal dropped his pole next to his feet and
gripped the sides of the boat, moving his body against the pitch
and yaw. When capsizing ceased to be a fear, Sal squinted at the
helicopter for a tag, a marking, some sort of ID, but it lacked
both writing and numbers. It might as well have been a black
ghost.

Three heartbeats later the helicopter had
crossed the thousand yard expanse of lake and dipped down over the
tree line on the opposite shore. What was a helicopter doing in
Safe Haven? Especially at night? Why was it flying so low? And why
did it appear to have landed near his house?

Then came the explosion.

He felt it a moment after he saw it. A
vibration in his feet, as if someone had hit the bow with a bat.
Then a soft warm breeze on his face, carrying mingling scents of
burning wood and gasoline. The cloud of flames and smoke went up at
least fifty feet.

After watching for a moment, Sal retrieved
his pole and reeled in his lure, then pulled the starter cord on
his 7.5 horsepower Evinrude. The motor didn't turn over. The second
and third yank yielded similar results. Sal swore and began to play
with the choke, wondering if Maggie was scared by the crash, hoping
she was all right.

Maggie Morton awoke to what she thought was
thunder. Storms in upper Wisconsin could be as mean as anywhere on
earth, and in the twenty-six years they'd owned this house she and
Sal had to replace several cracked windows and half the roof due to
weather damage.

She opened her eyes, listened for the dual
accompaniment of wind and rain. Strangely, she heard neither.

Maggie squinted at the red blur next to the
bed, groped for her glasses, pushed them on her face. The blur
focused and became the time: 10:46

"
Sal?" she called. She repeated it,
louder, in case he was downstairs.

No answer. Sal usually fished until
midnight, so his absence didn't alarm her. She considered flipping
on the light, but investigating the noise that woke her held much
less appeal than the soft down pillow and the warm flannel sheets
tucked under her chin. Maggie removed her glasses, returned them to
the night stand, and went back to sleep.

The sound of the front door opening roused
her sometime later.

"
Sal?"

She listened to the footfalls below her, the
wooden floors creaking. First in the hallway, and then into the
kitchen.

"
Sal!" Louder this time. After
thirty-five years of marriage, her husband's ears were just one of
many body parts that seemed to be petering out on him. Maggie had
talked to him about getting a hearing aid, but whenever she brought
up the topic he smiled broadly and pretended not to hear her, and
they both wound up giggling. Funny, when they were in the same
room. Not funny when they were on different floors and Maggie
needed his attention.

"
Sal!"

No answer.

Maggie considered banging on the floor, and
wondered what the point would be. She knew the man downstairs was
Sal. Who else could it be?

Right?

Their lake house was the last one on Gold
Star Road, and their nearest neighbor, the Kinsels, resided over
half a mile down the shore and had left for the season. The
solitude was one of the reasons the Mortons bought this property.
Unless she went to town to shop, Maggie would often go days without
seeing another human being, not counting her husband. The thought
of someone else being in their home was ridiculous.

Reassured by that thought, Maggie closed her
eyes.

She opened them a moment later, when the
sound of the microwave carried up the stairs. Then came the muffled
machine-gun report of popcorn popping. Sal shouldn't be eating at
this hour. The doctor had warned him about that, and how it
aggravated his acid reflux disease, which in turn aggravated Maggie
with his constant tossing and turning all night.

She sighed, annoyed, and sat up in bed.

"
Sal! The doctor said no late night
snacks!"

No answer. Maggie wondered if Sal indeed had
a hearing problem, or if he simply used that as an excuse for not
listening to her. This time she did swing a foot off the bed and
stomp on the floor, three times, with her heel.

She waited for his response.

Got none.

Maggie did it again, and followed it up with
yelling, "Sal!" loud as she could.

Ten seconds passed.

Ten more.

Then she heard the sound of the downstairs
toilet flush.

Anger coursed through Maggie. Her husband
had obviously heard her, and was ignoring her. That wasn't like Sal
at all.

Then, almost like a blush, a wave of doubt
overtook her. What if the person downstairs wasn't Sal?

It has to be,
she told herself. She hadn't heard any boats coming up to the
dock, or cars pulling onto their property. Besides, Maggie was a
city girl, born and raised in Chicago. Twenty-some years in the
Northwoods hadn't broken her of the habit of locking doors before
going to sleep.

The anger returned. Sal was
deliberately ignoring her. When he came upstairs, she was going to
give him a lecture to end all lectures. Or perhaps she'd
ignore
him
for a while.
Turnabout was fair play.

Comforted by the thought, she closed her
eyes. The familiar sound of Sal's outboard motor drifted in through
the window, getting closer. That Evinrude was older than Sal was.
Why he didn't buy a newer, faster motor was beyond her
understanding. One of the reasons she hated going out on the lake
with him was because it stalled all the time and--

Maggie jack-knifed to a sitting
position, panic spiking through her body.
If Sal was still out on the boat, then who was in her
house?

She fumbled for her glasses, then picked up
the phone next to her clock. No dial tone. She pressed buttons, but
the phone just wouldn't work.

Maggie's breath became shallow, almost a
pant. Sal's boat drew closer, but he was still several minutes away
from docking. And even when he got home, what then? Sal was an old
man. What could he do against an intruder?

She held her breath, trying to listen to
noises from downstairs. Maggie did hear something, but the sound
wasn't coming from the lower level. It was coming from the hallway
right outside her bedroom.