The Twelfth Card

by Jeffery Deaver

  "The answer?"

  "Then, listen up, this's important. You gotta push this button to send it to me. That little button with the antenna on it. You don't push it, it don't send. Second question, push two. Then the answer."

  "I don't understand."

  He laughed, wondering why she wasn't getting it. "Whatchu think? We got a deal, girl. I'll cover your back on the street. You cover mine in class."

  The realization hit her like a slap. Her eyes looked up, bored into his. "You mean cheat."

  He frowned. "Don't go talking that shit out loud." Looking around.

  "You're kidding. This's a joke."

  "Joke? No, girl. You gonna help me."

  Not a question. An order.

  She felt she was about to choke or be sick. Her breathing came fast. "I'm not going to do it." She held the organizer out. He didn't take it.

  "What's yo' problem? Lotta girls help me."

  "Alicia," Geneva whispered angrily, nodding and recalling a girl who'd been in math class with them until recently, Alicia Goodwin, a smart girl, a whiz in math. She'd left school when her family had moved to Jersey. She and Kevin had been tight. So that's what this was all about: When he'd lost his partner, Kevin'd gone looking for a new one and picked Geneva, a better student than her predecessor but not nearly as good-looking. Geneva wondered how far down on the list she'd fallen. Anger and pain raged in her like fire in a boiler. This was even worse than what had happened at the museum this morning. At least the man in the mask hadn't pretended to be her friend.

  Judas . . .

  Geneva raged, "You got a stable of girls feeding you the answers . . . What'd your GPA be if it weren't for them?"

  "I'm not stupid, girl," he whispered angrily. "Just, I don't need to learn this shit. I'll be playing ball and getting tall paper for endorsements the rest of my life. Better for everybody for me to practice, 'sted of study."

  " 'For everybody.' " She gave a sour laugh. "So that's where your grades come from: You steal them. Like you'd fiend somebody in Times Square for a gold chain."

  "Yo, girl, I telling you, watch yo' mouth," he whispered ominously.

  "I'm not helping you," she muttered.

  Then he smiled, giving her a lowered-lid gaze. "I'll make it worth yo' while. You come over to my place anytime you want. I'll fuck you good. I'll even go down on you. I know what I'm about in that department."

  "Go to hell," she shouted. Heads turned.

  "Listen up," he growled, gripping her arm hard. Pain surged. "You got the booty of a ten-year-old and you go round like some blondie from Long Island, thinking you're better'n everybody. A peasyhaired bitch like you can't be too choosy when it comes to a man, you know what I'm saying? Where you gonna find somebody good as me?"

  Geneva gasped at the insult. "You're disgusting."

  "Okay, girl, fine. You frigid, that's cool. I pay you to help me. How much you want? A C-note. Two? I got tall paper. Come on, name yo' price. I gotta pass this test."

  "Then study," she snapped and flung the organizer at him.

  He caught it in one hand and yanked her close to him with the other.

  "Kevin," a man's voice called sternly.

  "Fuck," the boy whispered in disgust, closing his eyes momentarily, letting go of her arm.

  Mr. Abrams, the math teacher, walked up and took the organizer away. He looked at it. "What's this?"

  "He wanted me to help him cheat," Geneva said.

  "The bitch's wack. It's hers and she--"

  "Come on, we're going to the office," he said to Kevin.

  The boy stared at her with cold eyes. She glared right back.

  The teacher asked, "You all right, Geneva?"

  She was rubbing her arm where he'd gripped her. She lowered her hand and nodded. "Just want to go to the bathroom for a few minutes."

  "Go ahead." He said to the class, all staring, all quiet, "We'll have a study period for ten minutes before the test." The teacher escorted Kevin out the back door of the classroom. Which filled suddenly with rapid-fire gossip, as if somebody had clicked off the mute button on a TV. Geneva waited a few seconds then followed.

  Looking up the corridor, she saw Detective Bell, standing with his arms crossed, near the front door. He didn't see her. She stepped into the hallway and plunged into the crowd of students heading for their classes.

  Geneva Settle didn't make for the girls' room, however. She came to the end of the hallway and pushed through the door into the deserted school yard, thinking: Nobody on earth's going to see me cry.

  *

  There! Not a hundred feet from him.

  Jax's heart gave a fast thud when he saw Geneva Settle standing by herself in the school yard.

  The Graffiti King was in the mouth of an alley across the street, where he'd been for the past hour, waiting for a glimpse of her. But this was even better than he hoped. She was alone. Jax looked over the block. There was an unmarked police car, with a cop inside, in front of the school, but it was some ways from the girl and the cop wasn't looking at the school yard; he wouldn't be able to see her from where he was even if he turned around. This might be easier than he'd thought.

  So quit standing around, he told himself. Get your ass moving.

  He pulled a black do-rag out of his pocket, slicked down his 'fro with it. Easing forward, pausing beside a battered panel truck, the ex-con scanned the playground (which reminded him a lot of the yard at prison, minus, of course, the razor wire and gun towers). He decided he could cross the street here and use the cover of a Food Emporium tractor-trailer that was parked along the sidewalk, its engine idling. He could get to within maybe twenty-five feet of her without being seen by Geneva or the cop. That'd be plenty close enough.

  As long as the girl continued to look down, he could slip through the chain link unnoticed. She'd be spooked after everything that'd happened to her, and if she got a glimpse of him approaching, she'd probably turn and run, shouting for help.

  Go slow, be careful.

  But move now. You may not get a chance like this again.

  Jax started for the girl, picking his steps carefully to keep his limping leg from shuffling leaves and giving him away.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Was that the way it always worked?

  Did boys always want something from you?

  In Kevin's case, he wanted her mind. Well, wouldn't she have been just as upset if she'd been built like Lakeesha and he'd hit on her for booty or boobs?

  No, she thought angrily. That was different. That was normal. The counselors at school talked a lot about rape, about saying no, about what to do if a boy got too pushy. What to do after, if it happened.

  But they never said a word about what to do if somebody wanted to rape your mind.

  Shit, shit, shit!

  Her teeth ground together and she wiped the tears, flung them away on her fingertips. Forget him! He's a lame asshole. The calc test--that's all that's important.

  d over dx times x to the nth equals . . .

  Motion to her left. Geneva looked in that direction and, squinting against the sun, saw a figure across the street, in the shadows of a tenement, a man with a black do-rag on his head and wearing a dark green jacket. He'd been walking toward the school yard but then disappeared behind a big truck nearby. Her first panicked thought: The man from the library had come for her. But, no, this guy was black. Relaxing, she glanced at her Swatch. Get back inside.

  Only . . .

  Despairing, she thought about the looks she'd get. Kevin's boys, who'd give her the bad eye. The bling girls, who'd stare and laugh.

  Get her down, get the bitch down . . .

  Forget about them. Who gives a shit what they think? The test is all that matters.

  d over dx times x to the nth equals nx to the nth minus one . . .

  As she started back for the side door she wondered if Kevin would be suspended. Or maybe expelled. She hoped so.

  d over dx times . . .

  It was then that sh
e heard the scrape of footsteps from the street. Geneva stopped and turned. She couldn't see anyone clearly, because of the glare of the bright sun. Was it the black man in the green jacket coming toward her?

  The sound of footsteps paused. She turned away, started toward the school, pushing aside every thought but the power rule of calculus.

  . . . equals nx to the nth minus one . . .

  Which is when she heard footsteps again, moving fast now. Somebody was charging forward, headed straight for her. She couldn't see. Who is it? She held her hand up to block the fierce sunlight.

  And heard Detective Bell's voice call, "Geneva! Don't move!"

  The man was sprinting forward, with someone else--Officer Pulaski--at his side. "Miss, what happened? Why'd you come outside?"

  "I was--"

  Three police cars squealed up nearby. Detective Bell looked up, toward the large truck, squinting into the sun. "Pulaski! That's him. Go, go, go!"

  They were looking at the receding form of the man she'd seen a minute ago, the one in the green jacket. He was jogging away quickly, with a slight limp, down an alley.

  "I'm on it." The officer sprinted after him. He squeezed through the gate and disappeared into the alley, in pursuit of the man. Then a half dozen police officers appeared in the school yard. They fanned out and surrounded Geneva and the detectives.

  "What's going on?" she asked.

  Hurrying her toward the cars, Detective Bell explained that they'd just heard from an FBI agent, somebody named Dellray, who worked with Mr. Rhyme. One of his informants had learned that a man in Harlem had been asking about Geneva that morning, trying to find which school she went to and where she lived. He was African-American and wearing a dark green army jacket. He'd been arrested on a murder charge a few years ago and was now armed. Because the attacker in the museum that morning was white and might not know Harlem very well, Mr. Rhyme concluded, he'd decided to use an accomplice who knew the neighborhood.

  After Mr. Bell learned this, the detective had gone into the classroom to get her and found out that she'd slipped out the back door. But Jonette Monroe, the undercover cop, had been keeping an eye on her and followed her. She'd then alerted the police to where Geneva was.

  Now, the detective said, they had to get her back to Mr. Rhyme's immediately.

  "But the test. I--"

  "No tests, no school until we catch this guy," Bell said firmly. "Now, come on, miss."

  Furious at Kevin's betrayal, furious that she'd been dragged into the middle of this mess, she crossed her arms. "I have to take that test."

  "Geneva, you don't know what kind of muley I can be. I aim to keep you alive and if that means picking you up and carrying you to my car rest assured I will do just that." His dark eyes, which had seemed so easygoing, were now hard as rocks.

  "All right," she muttered.

  They continued toward the cars, the detective looking around them, checking the shadows. She noticed his hand was near his side. Close to his gun. The blond-haired officer trotted up to them a moment later. "Lost him," he gasped, catching his breath. "Sorry."

  Bell sighed. "Any description?"

  "Black, six feet, solid build. Limp. Black do-rag. No beard or mustache. Late thirties, early forties."

  "Did you see anything else, Geneva?"

  She shook her head sullenly.

  Bell said, "Okay. Let's get out of here."

  She climbed into the back of the detective's Ford, with the blond officer beside her. Mr. Bell started for the driver's side. The counselor they'd met earlier, Mrs. Barton, hurried up, a frown on her face. "Detective, what's wrong?"

  "We have to get Geneva out of here. Might be that one of the people wants to hurt her was close by. Still could be, for all we know."

  The heavy woman looked around, frowning. "Here?"

  "We aren't sure. A possibility, all I'm saying. Just better to play it safe." The detective added, "We're thinking he was here about five minutes ago. African-American, good-sized fella. Wearing a green army jacket and do-rag. Clean-shaven. Limping. He was on the far side of the school yard, by that big truck there. Could you could ask students and teachers if they know him or saw anything else?"

  "Of course."

  He asked her too to see if any school security tapes might have picked him up. They exchanged phone numbers, then the detective dropped into the driver's seat, started the engine. "Buckle up, everybody. We aren't exactly going to be moseyin' on out of here."

  Just as Geneva clicked her seat belt on, the policeman hit the gas and the car skidded away from the curb and started a roller-coaster ride through the ragged streets of Harlem, as Langston Hughes High School--her last fortress of sanity and comfort--disappeared from view.

  *

  As Amelia Sachs and Lon Sellitto organized the evidence she'd collected at the safe house on Elizabeth Street, Rhyme was thinking about Unsub 109's accomplice--the man who'd just gotten real damn close to Geneva at her school.

  There was a possibility that the unsub had been using this man solely for surveillance, except that with the ex-con's violent background and the fact he was armed, he too was probably prepared to kill her himself. Rhyme had hoped that the man had shed some evidence near the school yard, but no--a crime scene team had looked over the area carefully and found nothing. And a canvass team had located no witnesses on the street who'd seen him or how he got away. Maybe--

  "Hi, Lincoln," a male voice said.

  Startled, Rhyme looked up and saw a man standing nearby. In his mid-forties, with broad shoulders, a close-cropped cap of silver hair, bangs in the front. He wore an expensive, dark gray suit.

  "Doctor. Didn't hear the bell."

  "Thom was outside. He let me in."

  Robert Sherman, the doctor supervising Rhyme's physical therapy, ran a clinic that specialized in working with spinal cord injury patients. It was he who'd developed Rhyme's regimen of therapy, the bicycle and the locomotor treadmill, as well as aquatherapy and the traditional range-of-motion exercises that Thom performed on Rhyme.

  The doctor and Sachs exchanged greetings, then he glanced at the lab, noting the bustle of activity. From a therapeutic point of view, he was pleased that Rhyme had a job. Being engaged in an activity, he'd often said, vastly improved one's will and drive to improve (though he caustically urged Rhyme to avoid situations where he could be, say, burned to death, which had nearly happened in a recent case).

  The doctor was talented and amiable and damn smart. But Rhyme had no time for him at the moment, now that he knew two armed perps were after Geneva. He greeted the medico in a distracted mood.

  "My receptionist said you canceled the appointment today. I wondered if you were okay."

  A concern that could easily have been addressed via telephone, the criminalist reflected.

  But that way the doctor couldn't have put the same pressure on Rhyme to take the tests as he could in person.

  And Sherman had indeed been pressuring him. He wanted to know that the exercise plan was paying off. Not only for the patient's sake but also so that the doctor himself could incorporate the information into his ongoing studies.

  "No, everything's fine," Rhyme said. "A case just fell into our laps." He gestured toward the evidence board. Sherman eyed it.

  Thom stuck his head in the doorway. "Doctor, you want some coffee? Soda?"

  "Oh, we don't want to take up the doctor's precious time," Rhyme said quickly. "Now that he knows that there's nothing wrong, I'm sure he'll want to--"

  "A case?" Sherman asked, still looking over the board.

  After a moment Rhyme said in a brittle voice, "A tough one. Very bad man out there. One we were in the process of trying to catch when you stopped by." Rhyme wasn't inclined to give an inch and didn't apologize for his rude behavior. But doctors or therapists who deal with SCI patients know that they come with some bonuses: anger, bad attitudes and searing tongues. Sherman was completely unaffected by Rhyme's behavior. The doctor continued to study Rhyme as he respo
nded: "No, nothing for me, Thom, thank you. I can't stay long."

  "You sure?" A nod toward Rhyme. "Don't mind him."

  "I'm fine, yes."

  But even though he didn't want a refreshing beverage, even though he couldn't stay long, nonetheless here he was, not making any immediate move to depart. In fact, he was pulling up a fucking chair and sitting down.

  Sachs glanced toward Rhyme. He gave her a blank look and turned back to the doctor, who scooted his chair closer. Then he leaned forward and whispered, "Lincoln, you've been resisting the tests for months now."

  "It's been a whirlwind. Four cases we've been working on. And now five. Time-consuming, as you can imagine . . . And fascinating, by the way. Unique issues." Hoping the doctor would ask him for some details, which would at least deflect the course of the conversation.

  But the man didn't, of course. SCI doctors never went for the bait. They'd seen it all. Sherman said, "Let me say one thing."

  And how the hell can I stop you? thought the criminalist.

  "You've worked harder on our exercises than any other patient of mine. I know you're resisting the test because you're afraid it won't've had any effect. Am I right?"

  "Not really, Doctor. I'm just busy."

  As if he hadn't heard, Sherman said, "I know you're going to find considerable improvement in your overall condition and functional status."

  Doctor-talk could be as prickly as cop-talk, Rhyme reflected. He replied, "I hope so. But if not, believe me, it doesn't matter. I've got the muscle mass improvement, the bone density improvement . . . . Lungs and heart are better. That's all I'm after. Not motor movement."

  Sherman eyed him up and down. "You really feel that way?"

  "Absolutely." Looking around, he lowered his voice as he said, "These exercises won't let me walk."

  "No, that won't happen."

  "So why would I want some tiny improvement in my left little toe? That's pointless. I'll do the exercises, keep myself in the best shape I can and in five or ten years, when you folks come up with a miracle graft or clone or something, I'll be ready to start walking again."