A Reagan Keeter Box Set: Three page-turning thrillers that will leave you wondering who you can trus by Reagan Keeter (fiction novels to read txt) 📗

PITCH BLACK

NOW

ALMOST IMMEDIATELY AFTER entering the westward tunnel, Martin came to a dead end. All black earth and rock. Or so he thought until he scanned the walls more carefully with his headlamp.

There, hidden by the shadows of small stalagmites, was a hole. He had to clear away several big rocks to be sure the opening was wide enough to crawl into.

Martin had told Ethan that Cynthia was the one who hated the grime and the dirt, which was why Ethan was so impressed he had convinced her to go caving. However, the truth was quite the opposite. Cynthia had been a tomboy until she was fifteen. Those early teenage years were when she had learned to fight and conquered her fear of bugs.

At least once a month, she had come home with a black eye, and her mother had worried she was going to grow up to be a “bad kid.” And while she now wore makeup and designer labels and high heels most of the time, she still didn’t mind getting dirty when the situation called for it.

Such was not the case for Martin. His idea of roughing it was two nights in a cheap motel. But he had agreed to the trip when Ethan suggested it because he hadn’t wanted to look weak—that, and other reasons which weren’t important right now.

THEN

ONE MONTH AFTER Ethan asked Stark to release him, he asked again. This time he was in a session with three other patients. They met regularly in a room on the west wing that reminded Ethan of an old school building. Stark always had the chairs arranged in a circle before the patients arrived.

“Group therapy?” Ethan asked the first time.

“I prefer to think of it as a gathering,” Stark said. “Like a meeting of minds.”

Ethan shrugged. No matter how the doctor dressed it up, the meeting was still group therapy, and Ethan knew even before the first session that he would have benefited as much from talking with a rotted tomato as he did from his conversations with these three whack jobs.

One was a girl with stringy blond hair, her face scarred from severe acne; she was delusional to the point of absurdity, as far as Ethan could tell. The second was an overweight man in his late forties who spoke little. The third would jerk his head spastically to the right and talk about the end of mankind.

“They’re just going to swoop down and take over. I’m telling you, that’s what they have planned.”

“Who?” Stark asked.

“Them.” He jerked his head and pointed upward. “The aliens.”

“Last time you said it was the ground dwellers that were threatening us,” Ethan said, with no attempt to hide the annoyance in his voice.

The patient shook his head violently up and down. “Them, too. The people underground. They’re working together.”

“The time before that you said the plants were conspiring against us.”

The man tensed up, and his eyes glazed over with confusion. He clearly didn’t remember this last conspiracy.

“You said you could hear the trees plotting,” Ethan reminded him, but it didn’t help any.

Then Stark leaned forward like he was just about to say something when the girl added, “My sister could protect us. She’s a botanist.”

Ethan dropped his head, crossed his arms over his chest. He knew from past conversations that the girl didn’t have a sister, and he did not hesitate to tell her so.

“I do have a sister. I have two sisters.” Then she counted on her fingers. “I mean, three sisters.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Stark said, “focus on me. One problem at a time.”

“Sounds fair,” Ethan said, hopping to his feet. “Me first.” He stepped to the middle of the circle and stared down the doctor. “Get me out of this hell hole.”

“I’d really like to, Ethan.”

The overweight man looked up. “Can you get me out, too?”

“And me?” asked the girl.

The doctor’s eyes moved quickly from one patient to the other, and he said, “I’d like to get all of you out. That’s why we’re here.”

Suddenly Ethan’s annoyance turned to fury. The logical plan he had formed before—to be patient, agreeable, and considerate—was no longer even a memory. He spun around. “You three are never going to get out of here! You’re nuts! All of you!”

“I don’t want to get out of here,” said the patient with the jerking head. “I’m safe in here.”

Ethan balled his fists and screamed until he was out of breath. He could find no words to describe the absurdity of his situation. He was the only sane man in Ridgeview, and nobody would let him out!

He pointed a finger at Stark. “Why are you doing this to me? What’s the matter with you?” He grabbed the plastic chair Stark was sitting on by the seat and lifted, dumping the doctor onto the floor. “Can’t you see I’m ready to go home?” He kicked the doctor in the ribs. “Can’t you see I’ve been in here long enough?”

The other patients stared—terrified and immobile.

Another kick. “How long are you going to keep me for?”

At that moment, two male nurses ran in and dragged Ethan away from Stark. The doctor rolled onto his side, curled into a ball, and coughed loudly. Ethan continued to shout for his release. Then, just like when he was admitted, a syringe sank into his arm, and he blacked out.

Byron never visited because Norma had forbidden it. “My legs will be closed to you forever if you go see that boy,” she’d said. So he wrote instead.

His letters were frequent and long. The first one Ethan received came after his outburst: “I’m sorry to hear about the recent incident. I know I shouldn’t tell you this, but I had talked Norma into letting you come home just before it happened. Now we’re both sure that you’re not ready. But I miss you, son, and I can’t wait for you to get better.”

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