"Because you said 'please.' "
"Very funny. Quite the wit today."
"I try." But he frowned as he studied Rhyme and read something in his expression. "Maybe a double?" he asked softly.
"A double would be lovely," Rhyme said, lapsing into Brit English.
The aide poured a large tumblerful of Glenmorangie and arranged the straw near his mouth.
"Join me?"
Thom blinked. Then he laughed. "Maybe later." It was the first time, Rhyme believed, that he'd ever offered his aide a drink.
The criminalist sipped the smoky liquor, staring at the pocket watch. He thought of the note the killer had included with the timepiece. Rhyme had long ago memorized it.
The pocket watch is a Breguet. It is the favorite of the many timepieces I have come across in the past year. It was made in the early 1800s and features a ruby cylinder escapement, perpetual calendar and parachute anti-shock device. I hope you appreciate the phases-of-the-moon window, in light of our recent adventures together. There are few specimens like this watch in the world. I give it to you as a present, out of respect. In my years at this profession, no one has ever stopped me from finishing a job; you're as good as they get. (I would say you're as good as I, but that is not quite true; you did not, after all, catch me.) Keep the Breguet wound (but gently); it will be counting out the minutes until we meet again.
Some advice--If I were you, I would make every one of those seconds count.
You're good, Rhyme spoke silently to the killer.
But I'm good too. Next time, we finish our game.
Then his thoughts were interrupted. Rhyme squinted, looking away from the watch and focusing out the window. Something had caught his eye.
A man in casual clothing was dawdling on the sidewalk across the street. Rhyme maneuvered his TDX to the window and looked out. He sipped more whisky. The man stood beside a dark overpainted bench in front of the stone wall bordering Central Park. He was staring at the town house, hands in his pockets. Apparently he couldn't see that he was being observed from inside the town house's large window.
It was his cousin, Arthur Rhyme.
The man started forward, nearly crossing the street. But then he stopped. He walked back to the park and sat on one of the benches facing the town house, beside a woman in a running suit, sipping water and bobbing her foot as she listened to her iPod. Arthur pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, looked at it and put it back. His eyes returned to the town house.
Curious. He looks like me, Rhyme reflected. In all their years of comradeship and separation, he'd never realized it.
Suddenly, for some reason, his cousin's words from a decade ago filled his mind: Did you even try with your father? What do you think he felt, having a son like you, who was a hundred times smarter than he was? Going off all the time because he'd rather hang out with his uncle. Did you even give Teddy a chance?
The criminalist shouted, "Thom!"
No response.
A louder summons.
"What?" the aide asked. "You finished the scotch already?"
"I need something. From the basement."
"The basement?"
"I just said that. There're a few old boxes down there. They'll have the word 'Illinois' on them."
"Oh, those. Actually, Lincoln, there are about thirty of them."
"However many."
"Not a few."
"I need you to look through them and find something for me."
"What?"
"A piece of concrete in a little plastic box. About three by three inches."
"Concrete?"
"It's a present for someone."
"Well, I can't wait for Christmas, to see what's in my stocking. When would you--?"
"Now. Please."
A sigh. Thom disappeared.
Rhyme continued to watch his cousin, staring at the front door of the town house. But the man wasn't budging.
A long sip of scotch.
When Rhyme looked back, the park bench was empty.
He was alarmed--and hurt--by the man's abrupt departure. He drove the wheelchair forward quickly, getting as close to the window as he could.
And he saw Arthur, dodging traffic, making for the town house.
Silence for a long, long moment. Finally the doorbell buzzed.
"Command," Rhyme said quickly to his attentive computer. "Unlock front door."
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Calvin Geddes's comment about a "brave new world" is, of course, a reference to the title of Aldous Huxley's 1932 futuristic novel about the loss of individual identity in a supposedly utopian society. The book remains as harrowing as ever, as does George Orwell's 1984.
Readers wishing to know more about the issue of privacy might want to peruse some of the following organizations' Web sites: Electronic Privacy Information Center (EPIC.org); Global Internet Liberty Campaign (www.gilc.org); In Defense of Freedom (www.indefenseoffreedom.org); Internet Free Expression Alliance (https://ifea.net); The Privacy Coalition (https://privacycoalition.org); Privacy International (www.privacyinternational.org); Privacy.org (www.privacy.org); and the Electronic Frontier Foundation (www.eff.org).
I think you'll also enjoy--and be unnerved by--the excellent book from which I borrowed several quotations to use as epigrams, No Place to Hide, by Robert O'Harrow, Jr.
Those who'd like to know more about how Amelia Sachs came to meet Pam Willoughby might wish to read The Bone Collector, and their follow-up story in The Cold Moon. Similarly, The Cold Moon describes Lincoln Rhyme's first meeting with the killer whom he and Inspector Longhurst try to capture in this novel.
Oh, and be sure to keep an eye on your identity. If you don't, there're plenty of people out there who will.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to a great crew: Will and Tina Anderson, Louise Burke, Luisa Colicchio, Jane Davis, Julie Deaver, Jamie Hodder-Williams, Paolo Klun, Carolyn Mays, Deborah Schneider, Vivienne Schuster, Seba Pezzani, Betsy Robbins, David Rosenthal, Marysue Rucci . . . and, of course, Madelyn Warcholik.
ROADSIDE CROSSES
JEFFERY DEAVER
Coming in June 2009 in hardcover from Simon & Schuster
Turn the page for a preview of Roadside Crosses. . . .
MONDAY
Chapter 1
Out of place.
The California Highway Patrol trooper, young with bristly yellow hair beneath his crisp hat, squinted through the windshield of his Crown Victoria Police Interceptor as he cruised south along Highway 1 in Monterey. Dunes to the right, modest commercial sprawl to the left.
Something was out of place. What?
Heading home at 5:00 p.m. after his tour had ended, he surveyed the road. The trooper didn't write a lot of tickets here, leaving that to the county deputies--professional courtesy--but he occasionally lit up somebody in a German or Italian car if he was in a mood, and this was the route he often took home at this time of day, so he knew the highway pretty well.
There . . . that was it. Something colorful, a quarter mile ahead, sat by the side of the road, sitting at the base of one of the hills of sand that cut off the view of Monterey Bay.
What could it be?
He hit his light bar--protocol--and pulled over onto the right shoulder. He parked with the hood of the Crown Vic pointed leftward toward traffic, so a rear-ender would shove the car away from, not over, him, and climbed out. Stuck in the sand just beyond the shoulder was a cross--a roadside memorial. It was about eighteen inches high and homemade, cobbled together out of dark, broken-off branches, bound with wire like florists use. Dark red roses lay in a splashy bouquet at the base. A cardboard disk was in the center, the date of the accident written on it in blue ink. There were no names on the front or back.
Officially these memorials to traffic accident victims were discouraged, since people were occasionally injured, even killed, planting a cross or leaving flowers or stuffed animals.
Usually the memorials were tasteful and poignant. This one
was spooky.
What was odd, though, was that he couldn't remember any accidents along here. In fact this was one of the safest stretches of Highway 1 in California. The roadway becomes an obstacle course south of Carmel, like that spot of a really sad accident several weeks ago: two girls killed coming back from a graduation party. But here, the highway was three lanes and mostly straight, with occasional lazy bends through the old Fort Ord grounds, now a college, and the shopping districts.
The trooper thought about removing the cross, but the mourners might return to leave another one and endanger themselves again. Best just to leave it. Out of curiosity he'd check with his sergeant in the morning and find out what had happened. He walked back to his car, tossed his hat on the seat and rubbed his crew cut. He pulled back into traffic, his mind no longer on roadside accidents. He was thinking about what his wife would be making for supper, about taking the kids to the pool afterward.
And when was his brother coming to town? He looked at the date window on his watch. He frowned. Was that right? A glance at his cell phone confirmed that, yes, today was June 25.
That was curious. Whoever had left the roadside cross had made a mistake. He remembered that the date crudely written on the cardboard disk was June 26, Tuesday, tomorrow.
Maybe the poor mourner who'd left the memorial had been so upset they'd jotted the date down wrong.
Then the images of the eerie cross faded, though they didn't vanish completely and, as the officer headed home down the highway, he drove a bit more carefully.
TUESDAY
Chapter 2
The faint light--the light of a ghost, pale green--danced just out of her reach.
If she could only get to it.
If she could only reach the ghost she'd be safe.
The glow, floating in the dark of the car's trunk, dangled tauntingly above her feet, which were duct-taped together, as were her hands.
A ghost . . .
Another piece of tape was pasted over her mouth and she was inhaling stale air through her nose, rationing it, as if the trunk of her Camry held only so much.
A painful bang as the car hit a pothole. She gave a brief, muted scream.
Other hints of light intruded occasionally: the dull red glow of the brake light, the turn signal. No other illumination from outside; the hour was close to 1:00 a.m.
The luminescent ghost rocked back and forth. It was the emergency trunk release: a glow-in-the-dark hand pull emblazoned with a comical image of a man escaping from the car.
But it remained just out of reach of her feet.
Tammy Foster had forced the crying to stop. The sobs had begun just after her attacker came up behind her in the shadowy parking lot of the club, slapped tape on her mouth, taped her hands behind her back, and shoved her into the trunk. He'd bound her feet as well.
Frozen in panic, the seventeen-year-old had thought: He doesn't want me to see him. . . . That's good. He doesn't want to kill me.
He just wants to scare me.
She'd surveyed the trunk, spotting the dangling ghost. She'd tried to grip it with her feet but it slipped out from between her shoes. Tammy was in good shape, soccer and cheerleading. But because of the awkward angle, she could keep her feet raised for only a few seconds.
The ghost eluded her.
The car pressed on. With every passing yard, she felt more and more despair. Tammy Foster began to cry again.
Don't, don't! Your nose'll clog up, you'll choke.
She forced herself to stop.
She was supposed to be home at midnight. She'd be missed by her mother--if she wasn't drunk on the couch, pissed about some problem with her latest boyfriend.
Missed by her sister, if she wasn't online or on the phone. Which of course she was.
Clank.
The same sound as earlier: the bang of metal as he loaded something into the backseat.
She thought of some scary movies she'd seen. Gross, disgusting ones. Torture, murder. Involving tools.
Don't think about that. Tammy focused on the dangling green ghost of the trunk release.
And heard a new sound. The sea.
Finally they stopped and he shut the engine off.
The lights went out.
The car rocked as he shifted in the driver's seat. What was he doing? Now she heard the throaty croak of seals nearby. They were at a beach, which at this time of night, around here, would be completely deserted.
One of the car doors opened and closed. And a second opened. The clank of metal from the backseat.
Torture . . . tools.
The door slammed shut, hard.
And Tammy Foster broke. She dissolved into sobs, struggling to suck in more lousy air. "No, please, please!" she cried, though the words were filtered through the tape and came out as a sort of moan.
Tammy began running through every prayer she could remember as she waited for the click of the trunk.
The sea crashed. The seals barked.
She was going to die.
"Mommy . . ."
But then . . . nothing.
The trunk didn't pop, the car door didn't open again, she heard no footsteps approaching. After three minutes she controlled the crying. The panic diminished.
Five minutes passed, and he hadn't opened the trunk.
Ten.
Tammy gave a faint, mad laugh.
It was just a scare. He wasn't going to kill her or rape her. It was a practical joke.
She was smiling beneath the tape, when the car rocked, ever so slightly. Her smile faded. The Camry rocked again, a gentle push-pull, though stronger than the first time. She heard a splash and felt a shudder. Tammy knew an ocean wave had struck the front end of the car.
Oh, my God, no! He'd left the car on the beach, with high tide coming in!
The car settled into the sand, as the ocean undermined the tires.
No! One of her worst fears was drowning. And being stuck in a confined space like this . . . it was unthinkable. Tammy began to kick at the trunk lid.
But there was, of course, no one to hear, except the seals.
The water was now sloshing hard against the sides of the Toyota.
The ghost . . .
Somehow she had to pull the trunk release lever. She worked off her shoes and tried again, her head pressing hard against the carpet, agonizingly lifting her feet toward the glowing pull. She got them on either side of it, pressed hard, her stomach muscles quivering.
Now!
Her legs cramping, she eased the ghost downward.
A tink . . .
Yes! It worked.
But then she moaned in horror. The pull had come away in her feet, without opening the trunk. She stared at the green ghost lying near her. He must've cut the wire! After he'd dumped her into the trunk, he'd cut it. The release pull had been dangling in the eyelet, no longer connected to the latch cable.
She was trapped.
Please, somebody, Tammy prayed again. To God, to a passerby, even to her kidnapper, who might show her some mercy.
But the only response was the indifferent gurgle of salt water as it began seeping into the trunk.
*
The Peninsula Garden Hotel is tucked away near Highway 68--the venerable route that's a twenty-mile-long diorama, "The Many Faces of Monterey County." The road meanders west from the Nation's Salad Bowl--Salinas--and skirts the verdant Pastures of Heaven, punchy Laguna Seca Racetrack, settlements of corporate offices, then dusty Monterey and pine-and hemlock-filled Pacific Grove. Finally the highway deposits those drivers, at least those bent on following the complex passage from start to finish, at legendary Seventeen Mile Drive--home of a common species around here: People With Money.
"Not bad," Michael O'Neil said to Kathryn Dance as they climbed out of the car.
Through narrow glasses with gray frames, the woman surveyed the Spanish and deco main lodge and half-dozen adjacent buildings. The inn was classy though a bit worn and dusty at the cuffs. "Nice. I like it."
As they stood surveying the hotel, with its distant glimpse of the Pacific Ocean, Dance, an expert at kinesics--body language--tried to read O'Neil. The chief deputy in the Monterey County Sheriff's Office Investigations Division was hard to analyze. The solidly built man, in his forties, with salt-and-pepper hair, was easygoing, but quiet unless he knew you. Even then he was economical of gesture and expression. He didn't give a lot away kinesically.
At the moment, though, she was reading that he wasn't at all nervous, despite the nature of their trip here.
She, on the other hand, was.
Kathryn Dance, a trim woman in her thirties, today wore her dark blond hair as she often did, in a French braid, the feathery tail end bound with a bright blue ribbon her daughter had selected that morning and tied into a careful bow. Dance was in a long, pleated black skirt and matching jacket over a white blouse. Black ankle boots with two-inch heels--footwear she'd admired for months but been able to resist buying only until they had gone on sale.
O'Neil was in one of his three or four civilian configurations: chinos and powder blue shirt, no tie. His jacket was dark blue, in a faint plaid pattern.
The doorman, a cheerful Latino, looked them over with a gaze that said, You seem like a nice young couple. "Welcome. I hope you enjoy your stay." He opened the door for them.
Dance smiled uncertainly at O'Neil and they walked through a breezy hallway to the front desk.
*
From the main building, they wound through the hotel complex, looking for the room.
"Never thought this would happen," O'Neil said to her.
Dance gave a faint laugh. She was amused to realize that her own eyes occasionally slipped to doors and windows. This was a kinesic response that meant the subject was subconsciously thinking about ways to escape--that is, was feeling stress.
"Look," she said, pointing to yet another pool. The place seemed to have four.
"Like Disneyland for adults. I hear a lot of rock musicians stay here."
"Really?" She frowned.
"What's wrong?"
"It's only one story. Not much fun getting stoned and throwing TVs and furniture out the window."
"This is Carmel," O'Neil pointed out. "The wildest they'd get here is pitching recyclables into the trash."
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