Джеймс Паттерсон - Unsolved

He pops in the DVD and waits for everything to boot up.

I pull out my phone. This is the one part of the building where I can get some reception.

My phone is lit up with voice-mail messages from Rabbit—one from twenty-eight minutes ago, one from twenty-one minutes ago, one from twelve minutes ago.

All while I was downstairs, unable to receive them.

The TV screen comes to life and starts playing the DVD, showing the alley outside Books’s store in grainy black-and-white.

I access my voice mail and lift the phone to my ear as the image of Sergeant Petty ambling down the alley with the duffel bag over his shoulder appears on the screen.

“Emmy, we just got the prints back,” I hear Rabbit say, her voice higher-pitched than usual, urgent.

“My God, I’ve seen that guy,” says Tom, pointing at the TV screen. Rabbit’s voice, in my ear, keeps going, rapid-fire.

“…real name is Todd Crisman. He was in Special Forces, later recruited by the CIA. You know how these people talk, but I could read between the lines. He was an assassin. He did special-ops assassinations around the world.”

A fire erupts in my chest and cascades down my arms and legs. My phone slips from my hand and falls to the drop cloth at my feet. I can’t breathe. I try to draw in oxygen but can’t.

No, please, no, not now —

The fire runs through me as the room starts to spin, everything at an angle, the pounding of my heart throbbing in my ears—

“Emmy, that’s him, that’s the—are you okay?”

I stagger back, grab the radiator for support as my legs threaten to give out.

“Hey, what’s happening? Are you having a heart attack?”

“No. No,” I whisper breathlessly, shaking my head furiously.

“A panic attack?”

He reaches for me, but with my free hand, I swat him away.

He draws back, startled, alarmed, his head cocked. He looks down at the phone at my feet and then back at me as I struggle for air, any tiny bit of oxygen.

Tom picks up the phone and pushes a button, putting the voice mail on speakerphone, then starts the message again. We listen together to Bonita Sexton’s urgent voice.

“Emmy, we just got the prints back. From your water bottle, I mean. It somehow ended up in Michelle’s evidence bag. His name isn’t Tom Miller. His real name is Todd Crisman. He was in Special Forces, later recruited by the CIA. You know how these people talk, but I could read between the lines. He was an assassin. He did special-ops assassinations around the world. His mother was a prostitute who would stay in homeless shelters and SROs. She was murdered, apparently, by two homeless men when Tom was twelve. He’s our guy. It’s Tom Miller. His psych profile says that he—”

Tom punches off my phone and holds it at his side. “Well, Emmy, I can’t tell you how disappointed I am in myself.” He looks over at the pack of bottles on the floor. “When you asked for a bottle of water yesterday? You tricked me there.”

He takes a single step toward me.

“That must have been before you got so excited about this other guy, Petty, whoever the hell he is.”

He walks right up to me as I struggle to stay upright, as I pray that oxygen will come, that I won’t lose consciousness—

“But you still have no proof,” he whispers to me, putting his hand on my cheek. “Whatever I did in the military doesn’t make me a killer now. Any proof you come up with is proof that points to Lieutenant Wagner. Who has fled, by the way, which doesn’t exactly make him look innocent.”

“We…we…found his body,” I say, black spots flashing before my eyes.

His expression changes, the confidence disappearing, but only for a moment. “No, you didn’t,” he says. “That’s a lie.”

“People…know I’m here,” I say.

He grips my hair in his hand, jerks my head. “But then you left here,” he whispers, “and I have no idea where you went. Must be that this Petty character killed you. Or maybe Lieutenant Wagner. Oh, the list of suspects.”

“Petty is…Petty…”

“Petty is what?” He jerks my head again. “Hmm? Petty is what, Emmy?”

“…in…cust—custody…”

“You already have Petty in custody?” Tom releases my hair, scrolls through the messages on my phone. “Well, Emmy, here’s a text from your beloved Agent Bookman from nine minutes ago that says ‘We missed him.’ That must be Petty… not in custody. All these lies.”

In one powerful movement, Tom grips my hair again and jerks me to the floor like a rag doll. My elbow hits something, a pan and a paint roller, and they’re knocked to the floor along with me, making a loud commotion.

I land hard on my shoulder, turn over onto my back, and look up at my stranger danger.

He drops down on me, pinning my body. He holds my arms with his hands and leans into me, his eyes ablaze.

Need air…can’t breathe…can’t pass out…can’t lose conscious—

“I need to know everything the FBI knows,” he whispers. “You have ten seconds. If you don’t tell me, I’ll find that fiancé of yours and gut him like a fish. If you tell me, Books lives. Go. One, one thousand…two, one thousand…three, one thousand…”

“No…no…”

“Oh, you won’t tell me.” His hands grip my throat and his thumbs press down on my windpipe, everything shutting down, everything dimming—

Books. Books. I’m —

“It didn’t have to be this way, Em—”

An explosion, then another following it instantly, glass shattering above us, raining shards of the window down on Tom and me. Tom releases me and bounces to his feet.

I suck in oxygen in exaggerated, raspy gulps. Then I turn and look toward the doorway.

I see Bonita Sexton, a gun in her hand, tears streaming down her face, the gun shaking so violently she can hardly maintain her grip.

126

“WHO ARE you?” Tom Miller asks. Then, quickly recovering: “Thank God someone’s here. We need an ambulance.”

I force myself up onto my elbows.

Rabbit takes another step into the room. “You kill… homeless people? Sick people? Why? How could anyone do that?”

“What? No. No, it’s not me. Me? Are you kidding? Please—please just put the gun down and we can talk.”

Rabbit shakes her head, her mouth in a snarl, fresh tears rolling down her face.

Using the window ledge for support, I get to my feet.

“You killed so many…innocent, harmless people,” Rabbit says, her voice cracking.

“Rabbit,” I say, finding my voice, my throat scorched.

She shakes her head and takes another step closer.

“Be careful with that thing,” says Tom. “Do you even know how to use it?”

I have the same question. She’s worked at the FBI for decades. She could’ve used the firing range in the Hoover Building as much as she wanted. But did she? It’s one thing to shoot at a large picture window, another to shoot at a dangerous man like Tom if he makes a move. Which he’s going to do.

“Bonita,” I say. “Don’t kill him. Stay right where you are. Let me call it in.”

“No,” she whispers, the gun threatening to fall from her grip, the trembling of her arms increasing the more emotional she gets.

“Honey, you’re not a killer,” I say. “Don’t become one.”

Her eyes narrow; her jaw clenches. “Why not?” More tears, more sobbing. “What do I have to lose?”

Prison, she means. For the Citizen David bombings. She figures she’s going to spend the rest of her life behind bars anyway.

“What’s left for me now?” she whispers.

“I won’t turn you in,” I say. “I won’t!”

Her eyes shut, but only for a moment, the gun moving in her hand. “Yes, you will.”