Invisible

by James Patterson

  Okay. Yes. That’s just it. If I seem too eager, she’ll pull back. Just be yourself, be relaxed, and let it happen.

  Oh, here’s the bad news about Mary: she works Mondays through Wednesdays, which leaves her best nights to socialize Thursday through Sunday. What rotten luck! Those are the nights that I take my little road trips. The nights I’m away are the nights she’s free! Is that a sign that we’re not meant to be?

  Okay, see, this is what I can’t do. I can’t put too much pressure on this. Let’s just have a nice Saturday night date and…take it slow.

  God, I’m speaking in clichés. But they’re clichés because they’re true, I guess. Just take it slow, relax, let the relationship breathe, like a young Cabernet Sauvignon.

  But don’t overthink it the other way, either—don’t spend so much time trying to look disinterested that you give off the wrong vibe. Don’t try too hard. Be yourself.

  Be myself? How can I be myself?

  I’m making myself crazy. Just go and have fun and don’t have any expectations. Good. Yes. That’s the ticket. Just go have fun and don’t think beyond tonight.

  And don’t forget to change the blade on the amputating knife.

  Just in case.

  [END]

  73

  MY EYES so heavy I can hardly raise them, I watch the clock in my office hit four o’clock. Four in the morning. Saturday night has come and gone without incident.

  I pick up the stapler on my desk and throw it at the clock, missing badly, putting a dent in the wall, chips of paint scattering on the carpet. Four consecutive nights of all-nighters—Wednesday night through Saturday night—with nothing to show for it but bags under my eyes and failing vision.

  Books, hearing the commotion, enters my office with trepidation, wary of being the target of a flying office supply.

  “What, he—he took the week off?” I shout. “He just decided, ‘Oh, no, not this week’? He doesn’t do that. He’s never done that. He’s like a robot. The one week we’re ready for him, the one last chance we have before the newspapers run their story and tip him off, and he takes a fucking vacation?”

  Books leans against the door. “I know. I don’t get it. But we deal with it. We have no choice—”

  “Oh, would you stop being so damn calm?” I hiss. “We could have ambushed him this week, Books. We had him. Now, he’s going to know we’re coming.”

  “Maybe not, Em. We don’t even know what the Tribune article’s going to say. Let’s just do our best to control what we can control.”

  I shake my head, my vision blurring in the process. When my eyes come back into focus, I am looking at the article from Marta’s hometown paper, the Peoria Times, the one written last month about how I was demanding that the Peoria Police Department treat Marta’s death as a murder, not an accidental fire. We understand Ms. Dockery is distraught, the police chief was quoted as saying. But we can’t allocate our resources based on the whims of a grieving sister. The police detectives, fire chief, and forensic pathologist all agree that Marta Dockery died of smoke inhalation from an accidental fire.

  Books follows my line of vision and sees the article, stuck to the cushion board on the wall by my computer with a blue tack. “Look how far you’ve come. What’s the date of that article—August seventh of this year? That article made you look like a quack, like an irrational sister who believed in Santa Claus. And now look at you, Emmy. Six weeks later, you’ve not only convinced the Bureau that you were right but also put into motion an intensive manhunt—and we’re getting close. Look how close we are, Emmy. Before he threw us this curveball, we were ready to throw a net over a football stadium and catch this asshole today. We’ll have another chance. I promise you we will. We’re inside his head now. We have his pattern down, no matter that he took this week off. Hey, look at me.”

  Suddenly he’s right next to me, hovering over me, without my noticing. Maybe that’s because his invasion of my personal space never used to be an invasion—it was his space, too. That was a simpler time. It was easier with him than it was without. It felt more natural. It felt right. Like we were just jagged puzzle pieces that made no sense alone, but together we fit perfectly. That’s what life’s supposed to be about for normal people, right? You find that other piece that matches yours, that completes yours, and you make the jags and the crevices fit, even if they don’t go in perfectly smoothly, even if they require a few adjustments. You don’t demand perfection. You make it work and appreciate the parts that fit instead of obsessing over the small angles that don’t.

  I look up into his eyes. I’ve seen the longing in his eyes before—I’ve returned that longing—but I know that I’m too broken right now for any meaningful response. Books knows it, too. As I’ve said before, he knows me better than I know myself.

  “We’re going to catch him,” he says. “And we’re going to do it soon.”

  74

  * * *

  “Graham Session”

  Recording # 18

  September 23, 2012

  * * *

  I don’t know what to do. I’m in deep. Deeper than I ever would have imagined. I didn’t know what to say when she said it to me. I just sat there and then—

  Oh, I’m not making any sense. We went for a walk after dinner and then we went back to her house and she has this old wood-burning fireplace, and even though it wasn’t that cold, she thought it would be romantic to fire it up, so we did.

  Then we started kissing, and we touched each other. It was so tender and warm and gentle. I’m not talking about sex. I’m talking about something much deeper. I’m talking about intimacy. Just caressing and stroking, looking into each other’s eyes, feeling each other’s breath on our faces. We shared a moment like I’ve never shared anything with anybody ever. I could have stayed there forever.

  Then I said to her, “Mary, you’re very special to me.” It really just came out. I didn’t plan it. That’s unusual for me, right there—since when did I shoot from the hip? I plan everything I do—everything, you know that, you know that about me—but not with her. I wanted to say it. It felt good to say it.

  And then she said, “Do you mean that?” And I told her, of course I meant it. Of course I did. But then she got quiet. I felt her withdraw a bit. And that’s not like her. She’s the open book, remember. But here she was, drawing into herself, holding back. It was the first time I saw vulnerability in her eyes. I’d moved her to a place where she didn’t feel comfortable. I didn’t know what to do. I thought I’d somehow made some huge mistake. I wondered if I should apologize. But that didn’t make sense. Apologize for telling someone they’re special? And then all kinds of thoughts were swirling through my head, This goes to show your inexperience, Graham, or This just proves that you’re not cut out for a relationship like this, but then instead of remaining frozen or falling back into my normal calculated self, I trusted my emotions, and I just spoke from my heart and I said, I think what I said was, “Did I say something to upset you?”

  And then tears welled up in her eyes, and at first I thought she was going to try to play off the whole thing in a casual way, but then this is what she said—it was a whisper, really, our faces only inches apart. “If you mean that, then I’ll give myself to you. I will. I’m ready to do that. But only if you’ll give yourself to me. If you can’t do that, it’s okay. But I’m ready to do that if you are.”

  I’ll give myself to you. That’s what she said!

  I didn’t—I didn’t know what to say. I kissed her then, and maybe she took that as an answer, or maybe she’s giving me time to decide. But I don’t need time to decide. Mary, I do want to give myself to you. More than you could ever know, I want to give myself to you. I want to put myself in your hands, to open up every locked door inside me and reveal myself. I want you to be the one person in this world who knows everything about me. Don’t you see? This is what I’ve always wanted. This is all I’ve ever wanted.

  But how? How can I do that? How can I
expect you to accept me?

  I think—I think she could be the one, though. She knows what it’s like to overcome a past, to move forward as a new person and not look back. Granted, my history is a bit more complicated than a bout with alcoholism, but in the end, isn’t the point the same? Looking ahead. Putting your past where it belongs, in the past. Becoming someone better.

  That’s what I want, Mary. I want to move forward with you. I can do that. I mean, I think I can do that. I want to try. Isn’t that what matters—that I want to try?

  But I have to be able to trust you, Mary.

  Can I trust you, Mary?

  [END]

  75

  I TAKE a long breath before I turn to the front page of Monday’s print edition of the Chicago Tribune.

  Feds Probe Series of Fires As Work of Serial Killer

  Cross-Country Spree of “Criminal Genius” Includes Fires in Champaign, Lisle

  Chicago—Federal agents in Chicago and elsewhere are probing a series of residential fires, previously believed to be accidental, as the work of a “criminal genius” who has repeatedly fooled investigators and forensic experts across the country over the last year, sources close to the investigation say. The fires, which are now being reclassified as homicides, include the recent deaths of Curtis Valentine, 39, of Champaign, and Joelle Swanson, 23, of suburban Lisle. Authorities would not comment on the number of deaths involved but estimated they number “several dozen, if not a hundred” deaths across the country. “He makes the fires look accidental,” said one source, “and the deaths look natural.” New forensic procedures and updated police work, according to sources, have uncovered brutal torture-murders that were largely concealed by the intense burning of the fire. “Most of the evidence went up in flames,” said one investigator.

  I get a mention in the sixth paragraph, referring to me as an “FBI staff analyst” whose sister, Marta, perished in a house fire outside Phoenix, Arizona, last January and who had been lobbying for a federal probe of several seemingly similar fires. “Emmy’s persistence was the catalyst,” said one source. And the lone photo accompanying the article, where the article continues on page five, is of me hustling away from the reporter in front of my hotel.

  But here’s the most interesting paragraph of all:

  Sources familiar with the investigation say that forensic evidence and fieldwork have allowed investigators to pinpoint the general location of the perpetrator, though that information was not disclosed to the Tribune. “We know generally where he lives,” said the source. “It’s only a matter of time.”

  Where do they get this stuff? We know generally where he lives? Yes, if by generally you mean somewhere in the Midwest.

  “Well, on the bright side, you’re famous,” says Denny Sasser, putting his hand gently on my shoulder. “This could have been a lot worse,” he adds with less levity.

  It’s true. There is no mention in the article about the patterns of his cross-country travel, or about NFL football games, or any indication that we have moved beyond a very preliminary investigation.

  “Nothing about football stadiums,” Books says, rushing into my office.

  “No mention of football games,” says Sophie, entering the room as well. “So that’s good, right?”

  “It’s good, everyone,” I say, patting the air with my hands. “Yes, it’s good.”

  We are all silent as we reread the article. For me, it’s the fourth time.

  “The leak was local,” says Denny. “Whoever spilled it doesn’t know much about what we’re doing.”

  Probably true…still reading…talking about the initial conclusions of the medical examiners here…the work of the FBI forensic pathologist that contradicted the locals…other kill-site locations, not known to the reporters, but reportedly reaching all corners of the United States…some general information and statistics about house fires in the United States and the known incidents of arson…ending with some more drama: “This is one of the most ingenious murderers we’ve ever seen,” according to some source.

  Mentally exhausted, coming down from our initial trepidation, the four of us are quiet for a moment. Books, as usual, breaks the silence by clearing his throat.

  “So?” he says with a shrug. “What does our subject do now?”

  76

  * * *

  “Graham Session”

  Recording # 19

  September 24, 2012

  * * *

  No, no, no. This can’t be happening. Not now. Not now!

  I don’t understand. How did this happen? How could they have possibly figured this out? I did everything right! They even said so: “A criminal genius,” they said, “who has repeatedly fooled investigators and forensic experts.” Of course I did. My execution was flawless. And yet this criminal genius apparently wasn’t so genius after all, was he?

  That stupid girl. Oh, that stupid, stupid little girl named Emmy Dockery. The “catalyst” behind this investigation, that article said.

  I shouldn’t be surprised. Marta told me you were relentless, Emmy, brilliant and dedicated. And I was cocky. Who cares if her sister works for the FBI? I told myself. Nobody could possibly figure this out.

  What am I supposed to do now? Just pick up my marbles and go home? Just call it a good run and move on? That’s what they want, you know. They leaked this story just for me to see it. Don’t you see that? There’s hardly any detail in there. They don’t know what I’m doing or how or why. If they did, they wouldn’t have leaked the story to the press. No, they’ve somehow managed to figure out what I’ve done, but they have no idea who I am or where I am. I’m as invisible to them as I’ve always been. So they’re trying to scare me off. Yes, of course—they’re trying to spook me into believing that they’re close. But I know they’re not close. No—that’s right, they aren’t close, they couldn’t be close, they’re not close. They’re not close.

  No, no, no. No, no, no!

  How did they figure this out? I just don’t see how. I was so careful. I was so disciplined.

  You think you can make me stop? Is that it? You think planting a vague, stupid newspaper article is going to deter me? You think I don’t know that you guys deliberately plant stories to spook suspects? You could put a hundred agents on this case and you’d never find me. You could put me on a bus filled with FBI agents and they’d never find me. You guys are way out of your league—you do realize that, don’t you?

  Well, what’s that saying? “You can’t have a rainbow without a storm, you can’t have a diamond without friction”? You’re just going to make me better. Yes, that’s right, that’s the old Graham talking. Maybe I needed a new challenge. Maybe this can be chapter two of our story. In the first chapter, I move about the country with virtual impunity while the FBI sleeps in blissful ignorance at the Hoover Building. In this new chapter, the FBI wakes up but still can’t find its own shadow. Yes, I’m going to turn it up, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to turn it up and do it right under their nose and show them how impotent they are.

  But how—how did they figure this out? I can’t believe this. I can’t believe this. I really can’t. Somebody please explain this to me.

  No matter. No, it doesn’t matter. I’m actually glad this happened because it was getting too easy. And now I really have a taste for it again. This week’s going to be a lot of fun. I’m going to make this week extra special.

  You think you can scare me? Watch what happens this week, campers, and then you can decide how scared I am.

  [END]

  77

  BOOKS CLOSES his eyes and winces as the Dick completes his tirade through the speakerphone.

  “…so instead of spending our resources chasing down a predator, we’re spending it addressing media inquiries.”

  Well, technically, Dickinson is working with the media inquiries, not any of us in Chicago, and it’s not like he was doing any work on the case, anyway, unless you count stealing all the credit as work.

&n
bsp; “What happens now?” he asks.

  I look over at Books, slumped in his chair, who nods to me to answer. Just moving my focus from one side of the room to the other causes a lightning strike behind my eyes.

  “This week is week four of the NFL season,” I say. “Of the eight stadiums our subject has yet to visit that are outside the Midwest, only three of them have home games this week: Detroit, Philadelphia, and Dallas. Dallas is playing on Monday Night Football, so he won’t go to Dallas. He doesn’t do Monday nights.”

  “He doesn’t, eh? You know him that well? Then maybe you can explain why he decided to take last week off.”

  I respond to the substantive point, not the jab. “He’s never gone to a Monday night game. That’s not his pattern. So it’s either going to be Detroit or Philadelphia.”

  “Which one?” Dickinson asks.

  “Philadelphia,” I say.

  Books looks at me with a quizzical expression.

  “Our subject likes to spread himself out geographically,” I explain. “He never wants to go back to the same general area within a close window of time. That’s why, when he’s gone to the different stadiums in Florida, for example—Miami, Jacksonville, Tampa Bay—he spreads out his visits so they’re not too close together. When he’s gone to the New York area for Buffalo, the New York Jets, the New York Giants, same thing—he’s always careful not to do it too close together in time. He’s trying to avoid anyone detecting a pattern.”

  “You still haven’t explained why you’re sure he’ll go to Philadelphia this weekend,” says Dickinson.

  “Because there are two stadiums in Pennsylvania—for the Steelers and Eagles,” I answer. “And he hasn’t gone to either one yet. He only has eight weeks left to complete his tour of these stadiums, and he’s got two trips to Pennsylvania to fit in. If I wanted to spread out my visits, I’d hit Philadelphia this week and do Pittsburgh at the end of my tour.”