Don't Blink

by James Patterson

  Chapter 70

  I HAD THOUGHT about going to Courtney’s apartment, but that was somewhere they might come looking for me. So I went someplace else, someplace safer.

  “How much did the taxi cost?” asked my sister, Kate, cradling her mug of chamomile tea at the head of her kitchen table. At one a.m., it was the only decaf she had had in the cupboard.

  “One hundred and seventy-six dollars,” I told her. “Plus tip.”

  Kate shook her head in disbelief. “You know, you could’ve negotiated a flat fee with the driver up front. Saved yourself some money, Nicky.”

  I started to laugh. It felt good, but only for a moment.

  “What’s so funny?” Kate asked. Then it occurred to her. “Oh yeah, you’re right. Given the night you’ve had, maybe the money wasn’t so important.”

  “No, that’s not it,” I said. “I still can’t get used to you being the frugal one in the family.”

  Of course, truth be told, I wasn’t surprised in the least. When Kate’s husband had been alive, they’d had lots of money, thanks to his job as an oil trader. After he died, she had even more from his insurance policy. But gone forever was her sense of security. In its place was a newfound appreciation for the value of everything, starting with life itself. Somewhere down the list was the true meaning of a dollar.

  Kate took a sip of her tea. “Life is just one big curveball, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is,” I said.

  A sleepy voice suddenly chimed in from the door to the kitchen. “You can say that again. Life is one big, nasty curveball.”

  We both turned to see Elizabeth standing there in her pink pajamas.

  “What are you doing up, young lady?” asked Kate. “You have school.”

  Elizabeth flashed her great smile, the one she’d inherited from her mother and father. “The blind have a heightened sense of hearing, remember?”

  “How are you, sweetheart?” I said.

  “I knew it was you, Uncle Nick.”

  “Let me guess… was it my cologne?”

  She laughed. “What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’ve got time.”

  “No, you don’t. You’ve got school tomorrow,” said her mother again. “You need to get to bed.”

  “Actually, that makes two of us,” I said, standing up from the table. “Walk me to the guest room, Lizzy, okay?”

  “Certainly. Be my pleasure.”

  I followed my niece toward the stairs to the second floor, marveling at how she had every step, every corner, every piece of furniture, mapped out perfectly in her mind. She didn’t need to reach out for anything, including my hand.

  “Will you be here tomorrow when I get home from school?” she asked, halfway up the steps.

  “I don’t know,” I answered.

  She stopped, turning back to me. “Wow,” she said. “When most people say ‘I don’t know’ to a question like that, they usually do know. But I can tell in your voice. You really don’t know.”

  Elizabeth was spot-on as usual. I had no idea what the next day would bring, or where it would even bring me. I was running from the police, albeit their protection, choosing instead an out-of-the-way home in the woods of Weston, Connecticut. “The pizza delivery guy can hardly find it,” Kate always joked. “Or even FedEx.”

  Still, just to make sure, I had had the taxi driver circle around a bit before pulling into the driveway. All quiet on the Weston front. There was no one following us.

  For one night at least, I was safe.

  Tomorrow – probably all hell would break loose again.

  Chapter 71

  I PULLED THE freshly cleaned and starched sheets, the blanket, the duvet – everything – over my head in Kate’s very comfortable guest room bed at the end of the hall. For some reason I thought that would help me sleep. It didn’t exactly work out that way.

  All I could see when I closed my eyes was Derrick Phalen, and no matter how much I tossed and turned, I couldn’t shake the image of him. His missing eyes.

  Would I ever? I doubted it.

  I was exhausted, tired beyond all belief, and yet I still couldn’t sleep a wink. Back in Manhattan I would have tried listening to certain street sounds, something I did when I needed to clear my mind. Basically, I’d count car horns instead of sheep.

  Out here in the woods of Connecticut, however, there was nothing but silence. And it was deafening – at least tonight it was.

  Frustrated, I pushed back the covers and reached blindly for my iPhone on the nightstand.

  I’d turned it off in the backseat of the taxi after it had started to ring like crazy. Needless to say, some people were a little curious as to where I was, not the least of whom was surely a very ticked-off David Sorren.

  But it was only Courtney I felt bad about. Really bad. Although I had texted her to let her know I was all right, I hadn’t responded when she’d written back “Where R U?” Better that she not have to lie on my behalf. Also, better that she didn’t get any more involved in my problems than she already was.

  I turned on my iPhone again now. 3:04 a.m., announced the home screen.

  Sure enough, there were a half-dozen messages from Sorren and even more from Courtney. I’d continue to ignore Sorren’s messages until morning, but I thought I’d at least listen to one from Courtney. I knew she had to be incredibly shaken up by Derrick Phalen’s murder. After all, she had been the one to send me to him and he had been her friend.

  “Nick, it’s me again,” began her message. “Please call me back. Please, Nick.”

  I reached for the volume because I could barely hear her, when suddenly the phone began to vibrate.

  Shit! What had I pressed?

  Nothing. Someone was actually calling me at three in the morning.

  I was so worried I would wake up Kate and Elizabeth that I didn’t even bother to check the caller ID.

  “Hello?” I whispered.

  “Hello, Nick.”

  “Who is this?”

  I immediately knew I’d heard the voice before, but I couldn’t place it. Right away, he placed it for me.

  “I warned you at the diner, Nick, but you didn’t listen,” he said. “You should’ve listened.”

  I shot straight up and turned on the light beside the bed.

  Jesus. It was the guy from the Sunrise Diner, the one with the gun. The one who’d told me I was in a shitload of danger.

  “Do you know what time it is?” I asked.

  “I sure do,” he said. “I also know what room you’re in, Nick. It’s the only one in the house with the light on.”

  In the middle of the night, he was here.

  Chapter 72

  I RACED OVER to the small window facing the front of the house. Tearing back the closed curtain, I pressed my nose up against the glass. I didn’t care if he could see me – could I see him?

  Was he really out there? It sure sounded like it. And it looked like it, too.

  Even with the reflection from the light in the room, I couldn’t miss the shining headlights on the car parked outside in the driveway. But that’s all I could see. Where are you, you son of a bitch?

  It was as if he could read my mind and was playing with me. The next second, he stepped out of the darkness, a creepy-as-hell silhouette right in front of his car. His elbow was bent, the phone to his ear.

  “You didn’t think anyone could find you out here, huh?” he asked. Only it wasn’t a question. It was a boast. I guess he was impressed with his own skills.

  “I’m calling the police,” I said.

  “Yeah, just like you did at the diner.”

  “This is different.”

  “Why? Because you’re not alone in this nice house out here in Disturbia?”

  The mere suggestion of Kate and Elizabeth sent a jolt up my spine. All at once my worst fears collided with sheer rage. My body was spilling over with adrenaline. Whoever this guy was, he was r
oyally pissing me off.

  “You listen to me,” I said, changing my grip on the phone. I squeezed it so tight I thought it would break in my hand.

  “No, you listen to me,” he shot back, cutting me off. “You’re in so far over your head, you don’t know which way is up. You can’t deny that, can you, Nick?”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “At three in the morning, I’d say I’m your worst fucking nightmare. Agree or disagree?”

  Then he stepped away from the headlights, slipping back into the darkness.

  Shit! Where is he? I thought.

  And – the far scarier thought – where is he heading?

  Chapter 73

  SPRINTING OUT OF the guest room, I called to Kate and Elizabeth. With one hand I was dialing 911; with the other I was groping for a light switch in the hallway.

  Kate beat me to it. Flick!

  The hallway lit up brightly as my eyes locked onto hers. She’d come rushing out of her bedroom like her house was on fire. Sweats, T-shirt, panicked expression.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Nick, what’s going on?”

  “Yeah, what is it?” asked Elizabeth, emerging from her room at the same time.

  They both got their answer as the voice of the 911 operator suddenly chimed in on my phone. It was a woman. Very calm and sure of herself, thank goodness. An emergency professional.

  Like that speed talker in those old FedEx commercials, I gave her the address. “There’s a man outside the house,” I said next. “I think he’s about to break in. He’s armed.”

  Like a bolt, Kate ran over to Elizabeth, grabbing her hand. “Come with me,” she said. “Right now.”

  She led Elizabeth to the stairs heading up to the third floor, the attic.

  “Wait, I want to stay with you guys,” Elizabeth pleaded.

  “No,” insisted Kate. “You go up into that attic and lock the door behind you. No matter what you hear, you do not open that door. Do you understand?”

  Elizabeth nodded, fighting back tears. She reached out for the railing, only to stop and turn around. Suddenly, she dashed down the hall. Just from my voice she knew exactly where I was.

  “Be careful, Uncle Nick,” she said, plastering me with a hug. Then she dashed back to the attic stairs, climbing them so fast I almost forgot she couldn’t see the steps.

  Meanwhile, Kate had disappeared into her bedroom. I was about to call out to her when she returned.

  “What the hell is that?” I asked.

  But I could see it plain as day. She was holding a handgun.

  My sister!

  The Northeast liberal who once referred to the NRA as the Nincompoop Republican Army.

  “Things change,” she said. “Here, take it.”

  I didn’t merely take it, I grabbed it. “Thanks.” “It’s loaded,” she added.

  “I hope so. It’s not much good if it isn’t.”

  She rolled her eyes and for a moment we were kid brother and big sister back in Newburgh. But only for a moment.

  “What do we do now?” she asked.

  “We listen. We wait for the police to get here.” If they can find the house…

  Edging to the top of the stairs, I peered down to the first floor. Would he smash a window? Shoot the lock off the door at point-blank range?

  I stared at Kate, raising my index finger to my mouth.Shhh.

  We both held our breath. For a second I thought I heard Elizabeth upstairs in the attic. God, how frightened she must have been.

  “What do you think?” whispered Kate after a minute or so went by. “Is he gone or what?”

  I was about to answer when we heard it. Only it wasn’t exactly the sound I expected. It was a car’s engine.

  Were the police here?

  I rushed back to the window in the guest bedroom, staring out at the driveway. No, the police weren’t there.

  Neither was anyone else.

  The driveway was empty, his car gone. Mr. Sunrise Diner, whoever he was, had scared the living bejesus out of us.

  But nothing more.

  Why?

  Who the hell was that bastard?

  What did he want from me?

  Chapter 74

  OKAY, MAYBE POLICE protection isn’t such a bad idea after all…

  Besides, it was a little hard to say no to it after I was the guy calling 911 in the middle of the night. By morning, as David Sorren put it, I had “seen the light.” Yeah, he was pissed at me, but he was also very relieved that I’d called him, if for no other reason than they hadn’t caught the guy who’d been shooting at me.

  “He was on a rooftop that connected in the back to a brownstone on the next block,” explained Sorren. “We never had a chance to get him.”

  “Do you think it was the same guy who killed Derrick?” I asked.

  “Does it really make a difference? I mean, c’mon, Nick, it’s time to get real.”

  Good point. “Either way, I’m still a target, right?”

  “Exactly. Which is why I’m sending the first two-man shift of patrolmen assigned to you out to Connecticut right away. They’ll bring you back to your apartment,” he said. “And Nick?”

  “Yeah? I’m here. I’m listening to every word, David.”

  “Don’t even think about taking off again. You got that?”

  “Got it.”

  Fair enough. I deserved that. I also deserved the incredibly sick feeling I had in my stomach for having put Kate and Elizabeth in danger. What the hell had I been thinking? That the Mafia had an honest-to-God moral code against hurting women and children?

  In the back of the police car that came and got me, I had plenty of time to mull that over. I also made a promise to myself to keep Courtney out of this. If she would listen to me, that is.

  “Okay, here’s how it works, Mr. Daniels,” said Officer Kevin O’Shea, one of the two cops who had driven me back into Manhattan. We were in my apartment, although not before he and his partner, Sam Brison, had first scoped it out with their guns drawn.

  “You wear this on your body at all times. At the first sign of trouble, any trouble, you press this panic button.”

  O’Shea handed me a necklace fashioned from a sneaker shoelace and what looked like a cheap, plastic garage-door opener. James Bond and Q, this wasn’t.

  I put the device on, glancing down. The panic button, appropriately bright red, was the size of a quarter and hung right smack in the middle of my chest.

  “It looks more like a target, if you ask me,” I joked. Apparently I wasn’t the first.

  “Yeah, we get that a lot,” said Brison.

  He went on to explain how one officer would always be posted outside my door while the other would be in the lobby after securing any and all doors in the basement. If I had a visitor – the kind that didn’t want to kill me – the doormen had been instructed to clear the person with the cops first, then with me. There would be no exceptions.

  “Any questions, Mr. Daniels?”

  “What if I want to go out?”

  “Like where?” asked O’Shea with a squint of his eyes.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Like, the movies or something.” “The movies? Did you just say the movies? I don’t think you’re catching on to what’s happening to you.”

  “It was just an example.”

  He shook his head. “No, you don’t go to the movies or anywhere else. For the time being, this is where you need to stay. Safe and sound in your apartment.”

  “Okay then, I have one more question. How long is ‘for the time being’?”

  “Until you’re told otherwise.”

  Well, that clears everything up…

  The two officers started to leave. There was really nothing more to say. Still, I couldn’t help myself.

  “Be careful, guys, okay?” I said.

  I meant it, too. But I could understand how it must have sounded strange to the two of them. They exchanged odd glances before looking back at me.


  “We will,” said Brison casually.

  “No, I’m serious,” I said. “People have an awful way of dying around me.”

  Chapter 75

  HAD I EVER wondered what it felt like to be under house arrest, I now had my answer. Problem was, I’d never wondered.

  And for good reason.

  This.

  Sucks.

  After a few hours, my cramped shoe box of an apartment was beginning to feel more like a matchbox. I swear the walls were creeping in on me.

  I’d been staring at my MacBook screen straight into the afternoon. Courtney was right: I was literally living the story of a lifetime. Now I had to start writing it.

  So why couldn’t I?

  Maybe because I didn’t know if I’d live long enough to finish it.

  Ten years ago, I’d done a long piece on Salman Rushdie when he’d still been the target of a fatwa against his life. I had asked him what it had felt like to know there were people hell-bent on killing him, that there were substantial rewards out for him, dead or deader. His answer? There are some feelings for which words are utterly useless. And remember, Salman Rushdie is a damn fine writer who had obviously done his research on the subject of death threats.

  As I continued to stare at my blank computer screen, I now fully understood what he’d meant. Of course, it didn’t help matters that even if I could write the article, I no longer had Citizen magazine waiting to publish it. In case I’d somehow forgotten that, all I had to do was turn on the television.

  So much for TV as a diversion.

  “… For that story we turn now to Brenda Evans, who’s outside the Citizen magazine building.”

  There she was, the “Bull and Bear Babe,” my ex-girlfriend reporting for the World Financial Network on Thomas Ferramore’s “stunning announcement” that he was folding Citizen magazine.

  “Stunning, of course,” said Brenda, holding her microphone as if it were one of her News Emmy Awards, “because Citizen has been a profitable holding for Mr. Ferramore. Selling it would be one thing, but folding it?”