James Patterson - Now You See Her

“JEANINA! Get in here!” Charlie screamed from the office at ten to seven on Saturday morning.

I lifted my head off the pillow and sighed at the pet name Charlie had invented on the way back from our honeymoon the month before.

Charlie’s was the first face I saw when I woke up in the hospital a day after Peter’s attack and the last one I’d seen every night since. Not only had he forgiven me, but he’d done the impossible: helped me to forgive myself.

I’d also underestimated the response from my boss and firm. Tom couldn’t have been more supportive or understanding once everything came out. I even got a postcard from Justin Harris. It was from Antigua, where he’d relocated after he was finally cleared. He’d given me a standing offer to visit anytime.

He was going to be waiting awhile. I didn’t think I’d be heading back down to the Caribbean any time soon.

“Jeanina!” Charlie called again.

I crawled out of bed and stepped into the hall.

“What’s he hollering about?” Emma said with a groggy smile as she poked her head out of our new Upper West Side apartment’s second bedroom.

“No idea,” I said, happily noting the lack of bags under Emma’s eyes. She’d been having fewer and fewer nightmares. She was definitely moving on and so was I. We’d just about wiped the last of Peter off our shoes.

“Jeanina!” Charlie screamed again as I walked into his office. “Oh, there you are.”

“What is it?” I said.

“We need to celebrate,” Charlie said, springing up from his office chair.

He clicked a button on his laptop. The printer turned on with a long beep before pages start spitting out.

“I’m done!” he said triumphantly. “My book is finally done.”

“You’re done? Congratulations! Oh, Papa Charlie,” I said, giving him a kiss. “But wait a second. What’s your story about, anyway?” I said coyly, as if I hadn’t been editing the damn thing for the last year.

It was actually a really good lyrical detective story set in Dallas, where Charlie had grown up. Charlie had talent. Tons of it, in fact. Grisham had to watch his back.

“OK, here’s the pitch for Spielberg,” he said, his bathrobe billowing as he raised his hands. “It starts out with this young, very attractive girl on spring break in South Florida.”

He was joking, of course. I decided to go along. I’d go along with Charlie anywhere from here on out.

“A young Gisele Bündchen type?” I said, leaning in and kissing him.

“Exactly,” Charlie said with an intense nod. “She falls in love with this unbelievably handsome, muscular lawyer.”

I grabbed his biceps. “So it’s a romance with a sexy lawyer? I’m liking this already. Is there a trial?”

“Better,” Charlie said. “They get a guy off death row.”

I smiled at him, started laughing. “Does everyone live happily ever after?”

Charlie stopped. He grabbed his stubbled chin, thinking it over, as he looked up at the ceiling.

“You’ll just have to wait for the sequel,” he finally said with a grin.

AN INNOCENT ART STUDENT FINDS $13 MILLION IN DIAMONDS. LET THE MANHUNT BEGIN.

FOR AN EXCERPT, TURN THE PAGE.

SOME PEOPLE are harder to kill than others. The Ghost was thinking about this as he huddled in the deep, dark shadows of Grand Central Station. A man named Walter Zelvas would have to die tonight. But it wouldn’t be easy. Nobody hired the Ghost for the easy jobs.

It was almost eleven p.m. The evening rush was long over and the crush of commuters was now only a thin stream of weary travelers.

The Ghost was wearing an efficient killing disguise. His face was lost under a tangle of matted silver and white hair and a shaggy beard, and his arsenal was hidden under a wine-stained gray poncho. To anyone who even bothered to take notice, he was just another heap of homeless humanity seeking refuge on a quiet bench near Track 109.

He eyed his target. Walter Zelvas. A great hulk of a man with the nerves and reflexes of a snake and a soul to match. Zelvas was a contract killer himself, but unlike the Ghost, Zelvas took pleasure in watching his victims suffer before they died. For years the ruthless Russian had been an enforcer for the diamond syndicate, but apparently he had outlived his usefulness to his employer, and the Ghost had been hired to terminate him.

If he doesn’t kill me first, the Ghost thought. With Zelvas it was definitely a matter of kill or be killed. And this would surely be a duel to the death.

So the Ghost watched his opponent closely. The screen on the Departures monitor refreshed, and Zelvas cursed under his breath. His train was delayed another thirty minutes.

He drained his second cup of Starbucks cappuccino, stood up, crumpled his empty cup, and deposited it in the trash.

No littering, the Ghost thought. That might attract attention, and the last thing Zelvas wanted was attention.

That’s why he was leaving town by train. Train stations aren’t like airports. There’s no baggage check, no metal detectors, no security.

Zelvas looked toward the men’s room.

All that coffee will be the death of you, the Ghost thought, as Zelvas walked across the marble floor to the bathroom.

A half-comatose porter, mop in hand, was sloshing water on the terminal floor like a zombie tarring a roof. He didn’t see Zelvas coming.

A puddle of brown water came within inches of the big man’s right foot. Zelvas stopped. “You slop any of that scum on my shoes and you’ll be shitting teeth,” he said.

The porter froze. “Sorry. Sorry, sir. Sorry.”

The Ghost watched it all. Another time, another place, and Zelvas might have drowned the man in his own mop water. But tonight, he was on his best behavior.

Zelvas continued toward the bathroom.

The Ghost had watched the traffic in and out of the men’s room for the past half hour. It was currently empty. Moment of truth, the Ghost told himself.

Zelvas got to the doorway, stopped, and turned around sharply.

He made me, the Ghost thought.

Zelvas looked straight at him. Then left, then right.

He’s a pro. He’s just watching his back.

Satisfied he wasn’t being followed, Zelvas entered the bathroom.

The Ghost stood up and surveyed the terminal. The only uniformed cop in the area was busy giving directions to a young couple fifty feet away.

The men’s room had no door—just an L-shaped entryway that allowed the Ghost to walk in and still remain out of sight.

From his vantage point he could see the mirrored wall over the sinks. And there was Zelvas, standing in front of a urinal, his back to the mirror.

The Ghost silently reached under his poncho and removed his equally silent Glock from its holster.

The Ghost had a mantra. Three words he said to himself just before every kill. He waited until he heard Zelvas breathe that first sigh of relief as he began to empty his bladder.

I am invincible , the Ghost said in silence.

Then, in a single fluid motion, he entered the bathroom, silently slid up behind Zelvas, aimed the Glock at the base of his skull, and squeezed the trigger.

And missed.

Some people are harder to kill than others.

WALTER ZELVAS never stepped up to a urinal unless the top flush pipe was made of polished chrome.

It’s not a perfect mirror, but it’s enough. Even in a distorted image, he could see all he needed to see.

Man. Hand. Gun.

Zelvas whirled on the ball of his right foot and dealt a swift knifehand strike to the Ghost’s wrist just as he pulled the trigger.