Tess Gerritsen - Keeper of the Bride

“Fine. Just keep your distance from Nina Cormier. I shouldn’t have to tell you this. This kind of thing happens, someone always gets hurt. Right now she thinks you’re John Wayne. But when this is all over, she’s gonna see you’re human like the rest of us. Don’t set yourself up for this, Sam. She’s got looks, she’s got a daddy with lots of money. She doesn’t want a cop.”

I know he’s right, thought Sam. I know it from personal experience. Someone’s going to get hurt. And it’ll be me.

The conference room door suddenly swung open and an excited Ernie Takeda stuck his head in the room. “You’re not gonna believe this,” he said, waving a sheet of fax paper.

“What is it?” asked Coopersmith.

“From NCIC. They just identified that fingerprint off the bomb fragment.”

“And?”

“It’s a match. With Vincent Spectre.”

“That’s impossible!” exclaimed Sam. He snatched the sheet from Ernie’s grasp and stared at the faxed report. What he read there left no doubt that the ID was definite.

“There has to be a mistake,” said Coopersmith. “They found his body. Spectre’s been dead and buried for months.”

Sam looked up. “Obviously not,” he growled.

The rowboat was old and well used, but the hull was sound. At least, it didn’t leak as Nina rowed it out into the lake. It was late afternoon and a pair of loons were paddling lazily through the water, neither one alarmed by the presence of a lone rower. The day was utter stillness, utter peace, as warm as a summer day should be.

Nina guided the boat to the center of the pond, where sunlight rippled on the water, and there she let the boat drift. As it turned lazy circles, she lay back and stared up at the sky. She saw birds winging overhead, saw a dragonfly hover, iridescent in the slanting light.

And then she heard a voice, calling her name.

She sat up so sharply the boat rocked. She saw him then, standing at the water’s edge, waving to her.

As she rowed the boat back to shore, her heart was galloping, more from anticipation than exertion. Why had he returned so soon? Last night he’d left without a word of goodbye, the way a man leaves a woman he never intends to see again.

Now here he was, standing silent and still on the shore, his gaze as unreadable as ever. She couldn’t figure him out. She’d never be able to figure him out. He was a man designed to drive her crazy, and as she glided across the last yards of water, she could already feel that lovely insanity take hold of her. It required all her willpower to suppress it.

She tossed him the painter rope. He hauled the rowboat up onto the shore and helped her step out. Just the pressure of his hand grasping her arm gave her a thrill of delight. But one look at his face quelled any hopes that he was here as a lover. This was the cop, impersonal, businesslike. Not at all the man who’d held her in his arms.

“There’s been a new development,” he said.

Just as coolly, she met his gaze. “What development?”

“We think we know who the bomber is. I want you to take a look at some photographs.”

On the couch by the fireplace — the same fireplace that had warmed them when they’d made love the night before — Nina sat flipping through a book of mug shots. The hearth was now cold, and so was she, both in body and in spirit. Sam sat a good foot away, not touching her, not saying a word. But he was watching her expectantly, waiting for some sign that she recognized a face in that book.

She forced herself to concentrate on the photos. One by one she scanned the faces, carefully taking in the features of each man pictured there. She reached the last page. Shaking her head, she closed the cover.

“I don’t recognize anyone,” she declared.

“Are you certain?”

“I’m certain. Why? Who am I supposed to recognize?”

His disappointment was apparent. He opened the book to the fourth page and handed it back to her. “Look at this face. Third one down, first column. Have you ever seen this man?”

She spent a long time studying the photo. Then she said, “No. I don’t know him.”

With a sigh of frustration, Sam sank back against the couch. “This doesn’t make any sense at all.”

Nina was still focused on the photograph. The man in the picture appeared to be in his forties, with sandy hair, blue eyes, and hollow, almost gaunt, cheeks. It was the eyes that held her attention. They stared straight at her, a look of intimidation that burned, lifelike, from a mere two-dimensional image. Nina gave an involuntary shiver.

“Who is he?” she asked.

“His name is — or was — Vincent Spectre. He’s five foot eleven, 180 pounds, forty-six years old. At least, that’s what he would be now. If he’s still alive.”

“You mean you don’t know if he is?”

“We thought he was dead.”

“You’re not sure?”

“Not any longer.” Sam rose from the couch. It was getting chilly in the cabin; he crouched at the hearth and began to arrange kindling in the fireplace.

“For twelve years,” he said, “Vincent Spectre was an army demolitions expert. Then he got booted out of the service. Dishonorable discharge, petty theft. It didn’t take him long to launch a second career. He became what we call a specialist. Big bangs, big bucks. Hired himself out to anyone who’d pay for his expertise. He worked for terrorist governments. For the mob. For crime bosses all over the country.

“For years he raked in the money. Then his luck ran out. He was recognized on a bank security camera. Arrested, convicted, served only a year. Then he escaped.”

Sam struck a match and lit the kindling. It caught fire in a crackle of sparks and flames. He lay a log on top and turned to look at her.

“Six months ago,” he continued, “Spectre’s remains were found in the rubble after one of his bombs blew up a warehouse. That is, authorities thought it was his body. Now we think it might have been someone else’s. And Spectre’s still alive.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because his fingerprint just turned up. On a fragment of the warehouse bomb.”

She stared at him. “You think he also blew up the church?”

“Almost certainly. Vincent Spectre’s trying to kill you.”

“But I don’t know any Vincent Spectre! I’ve never even heard his name before!”

“And you don’t recognize his photo.”

“No.”

Sam stood up. Behind him, the flames were now crackling, consuming the log. “We’ve shown Spectre’s photo to the rest of your family. They don’t recognize him, either.”

“It must be a mistake. Even if the man’s alive, he has no reason to kill me.”

“Someone else could have hired him.”

“You’ve already explored that. And all you came up with was Daniella.”

“That’s still a possibility. She denies it, of course. And she passed the polygraph test.”

“She let you hook her up to a polygraph? ”

“She consented. So we did it.”

Nina shook her head in amazement. “She must have been royally ticked off.”

“As a matter of fact, I think she rather enjoyed giving the performance. She turned every male head in the department.”

“Yes, she’s good at that. She certainly turned my father’s head. And Robert’s, too,” Nina added softly.

Sam was moving around the room now, pacing a slow circle around the couch. “So we’re back to the question of Vincent Spectre,” he said. “And what his connection is to you. Or Robert.”

“I told you, I’ve never heard his name before. I don’t remember Robert ever mentioning the name, either.”

Sam paced around the couch, returned to stand by the fireplace. Against the background of flames, his face was unreadable. “Spectre is alive. And he built a bomb intended for you and Robert. Why?”