Джеймс Паттерсон - The 13-Minute Murder

“Yes,” Beck said, “I imagine you are. Why are you doing this? Why are you trying to kill me?”

Beck didn’t think he’d get a real answer. But he definitely wasn’t expecting the burst of laughter, either.

“Oh, God, you really are a shrink, aren’t you? You don’t ask me who I am. No, you want to know why . It makes me so glad I quit going to therapy.”

“You probably should have stuck with it,” Beck said. “You don’t strike me as the sanest person I’ve ever met.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough, Doctor.”

Beck wasn’t sure he was, either. It probably wasn’t a good idea to insult an obvious sociopath. But on the other hand, what did he have to lose? He was already dying, and there was clearly no way he could talk her out of whatever she had planned for him. He wasn’t going to make any mental-health breakthrough with her.

So he might as well be honest.

“You’ve tried to kill me twice. And I’m still here. I don’t think you’re taking me seriously enough. You’ve sent a couple of mouth breathers and an incompetent killer after me. Whatever your master plan is, I’m not too worried. You can’t threaten me, you idiot. You’ve already done your worst.”

Susan stared at him, wide-eyed. What are you doing? she mouthed.

Beck tried not to grin. Not real smart, he had to admit. But it felt good.

Then the woman on the other end of the line said something that put a halt to his little victory dance.

“How’s Susan?”

Beck felt himself go cold.

“Nothing to say, Doctor?” the woman asked, her tone mocking now. “I know you’re already dying, Dr. Beck. I’ve seen your medical records. You’re right. I can’t threaten you. But I can make Dr. Carpenter’s life much more unpleasant—at least, for as long as it lasts.”

Beck found his voice again. “If you try to hurt her, if you even come anywhere close to her—”

“Don’t be pathetic. You can’t threaten me, either, Dr. Beck. So we have a standoff. Here’s what I’m offering you. Stay quiet. Go hide somewhere. Don’t go to the police, or the media, or anyone else. And if you’re a good little boy for the next twelve hours, then your friend Susan won’t get hurt.”

“And if I’m not?”

“Then she pays for your mistakes. I’m sure you can imagine what that will be like. You’re such a smart guy, after all.”

Beck’s mind raced. He needed to talk to her; he could find a way out of this, if he just had more information. “Listen—”

“No,” she said. “This is not a negotiation. Do as you’re told. Or Susan dies.”

She hung up. Beck looked at the phone, and then at Susan.

She looked back, worried. But not about herself. She’d only caught his side of the conversation. She looked concerned because she was worried about him.

She cared about him, and he hadn’t thought of her for a second. Of course they knew she was with him. They’d known everything else so far.

He’d screwed up. He’d been stupid.

And now Susan was in danger—even more danger than he was—because of him.

Beck dropped the phone. It was useless now.

He got out of the car, feeling dizzy. He heard Susan get out of the other side. She said his name. “Randall?”

But it seemed to be coming from very far away. He was having trouble breathing. His pulse hammered behind his ears.

He hit the ground hard as his legs went weak.

And all he could think was that he’d put a target on Susan’s head. It was all his fault.

Chapter 19

Susan dragged him to his feet. He managed to walk almost a block toward her car before he nearly fell again. Fortunately, there was a bus shelter nearby. Susan set him on the bench.

Beck breathed deeply and closed his eyes. He taught his patients relaxation techniques for moments like this.

Funny how useless they seemed to him now.

But after a moment, his pulse returned to normal. The world stopped spinning. He’d screwed up. That was done. The question now was how to fix it.

“Susan,” he said, opening his eyes. “You have to get away from me. Find a place to hide. I will deal with this on my own. But you have to go. Now.”

She stared at him for a moment. Then swore, quietly, under her breath. Then she asked, “Are you completely out of your mind?”

“It’s not safe to be around me—”

“Shut up,” she said, her voice like a door being slammed. “Do you really expect me to run away just because you tell me to? You think I didn’t know this was dangerous? I am trying to keep you alive. I will not let you run off and commit suicide now.”

“I am dying anyway—”

“So you’re just going to give up? Really? You? You never give up. Never . Remember? Not on your patients. Not when you think you’re right. So don’t ask me to do it, either.”

Beck shrugged. He was too tired to argue with her. And it didn’t help that she was right. “Fine,” he said. “What do you suggest?”

“I know you’re frightened. But I really believe our best chance is to go to the police. Whoever is behind this, they cannot control everything. That’s the problem with conspiracy theories. No one has that much power. There are still people we can trust. They cannot possibly control all the cops—”

The sound of sirens and screeching tires drowned out whatever Susan was going to say next.

They both looked up the street and saw several squad cars barreling around the corner, lights flashing, zeroing in on the bus shelter.

Beck watched, helplessly. He should have known. The woman kept him on the phone to trace his location. It was so obvious.

Now the police were headed right for them.

Chapter 20

The Metro PD’s squad cars raced toward them on the street. Beck hunched back inside the bus shelter, as if that would protect them.

Then the cars skidded to a halt a block away.

They surrounded the assassin’s car.

Where Beck had dropped the phone.

The cops were out of their cars, guns up, almost before their tires had stopped spinning. One officer grabbed his mike from the dashboard and began shouting into it.

“You! In the car! Come out with your hands up! Now!”

Beck realized they couldn’t see inside the car. The windows were tinted, and the glare from the sun made it impossible.

“I said, come out now or we—”

Whatever the officer said was lost in a sudden hail of gunfire.

Someone decided not to wait for the order to fire, and the rear windshield exploded. The other cops, afraid that someone inside the car was shooting at them, unloaded their weapons as well. The entire street echoed with staccato pops and cracks as the bullets slammed into the car. The windows disintegrated first. The door panels deformed and crumpled as they were hit by ammo from both the pistols and shotguns of the police.

It seemed to take forever before the shooting stopped, as the officer in charge bellowed, “Cease fire! Cease fire!” over and over through his car’s PA system.

A moment later, the car sat in the street like a wounded, dying animal. It had been torn apart by the shots.

It was clear that if anyone had been inside the vehicle, they would have been dead many times over.

A police officer carefully moved toward the shot-up car. He swung the passenger door open. Then he looked at the other cops. He shook his head.

The officer in charge dropped his mike and yelled at the other cops. “All right! Who shot first? I want to know! Who shot first?!”

No one spoke up.

Beck and Susan sat in the bus shelter, hardly breathing. No one had seen them. No one had even glanced in their direction.