James PATTERSON - The Big Bad Wolf

‘Where?’ I asked.

‘Dallas. The money went to Dallas. And we have a name – a recipient for the funds. We’re hoping that he’s the Wolf. At any rate, we know where he lives, Alex. You’re going to Dallas.’

The earliest abduction cases we tracked had occurred in Texas and dozens of agents and analysts went to work investigating them in depth. Everything about the case was larger scale now. The surveillance details on the suspect’s house and place of business were the most impressive I had ever seen. I doubted that any police force in the country, with the possible exceptions of New York and Los Angeles, could afford this kind of effort.

As usual the Bureau had done a thorough job finding out everything possible about the man who had received money from us through the Caymans bank. Lawrence Lipton lived in Old Highland Park, a moneyed neighborhood north of Dallas proper. The streets there meandered alongside creeks under a canopy of magnolias, oaks, and native pecans. The grounds of nearly every house were expensively landscaped and most of the traffic during the day belonged to tradesmen, nannies, cleaning services and gardeners.

So far the evidence we’d gathered on Lipton was contradictory though. He had attended St Marks, a prestigious Dallas prep school and then the University of Texas at Austin. His family, and his wife’s, was old Dallas oil money, but Lawrence had diversified and now owned a Texas winery, a venture capital group, and a successful computer software company. The computer connection caught Monnie Donnelley’s eye, and mine as well.

Lipton seemed to be such a straight arrow, however. He sat on the boards of the Dallas Museum of Art, and the Friends of the Library. He was a trustee for the Baylor Hospital and a deacon at First United Methodist.

Could he be the Wolf? It didn’t seem possible to me.

The second morning I was in Dallas a meeting was held at the field office there. Senior Agent Nielsen remained in charge of the case, but it was clear to everyone that Ron Burns was calling the shots on this from Washington. I don’t think any of us would have been too surprised if Burns had shown up for the briefing himself.

At eight in the morning, Roger Nielsen stood before a roomful of agents and read from a clipboard. ‘They’ve been real busy through the night back in Washington,’ he said, and seemed neither impressed nor surprised by the effort. Apparently this had become s.o.p. on cases that got big in the media.

‘I want to acquaint all of you with the latest on Lawrence Lipton. The most important development is that he doesn’t seem to have any known connections to the KGB or any Russian mobs. He isn’t Russian. Maybe something will turn up later; or maybe he’s just that good at hiding his past. In the fifties, his father moved to Texas from Kentucky to seek his fortune on “the prairie”. He apparently found it under the prairie, in West Texas oil fields.’

Nielsen stopped and looked around the meeting room, going from face to face. ‘There is one interesting recent development,’ he went on. ‘Among its holdings, Micro-Management owns a company called Safe Environs in Dallas. Safe Environs is a private security firm. Lawrence Lipton has recently put himself under armed guard. I wonder why? Is he worried about us, or is he scared of somebody else? Maybe the big bad Wolf?’

If it wasn’t so incredibly terrifying, it would be mind-boggling. Lizzie Connelly was still among the living. She was keeping herself positive by being somewhere else – anywhere but here in the horrid closet. With this complete madman bursting in two, three, sometimes five times a day .

Mostly she got lost in her memories. Once upon a time, and it seemed so long ago, she had called her girls ‘Merry-Berry’, ‘Bobbie-doll’, names like that. They used to sing ‘High Hopes’ all the time, and songs from ‘Mary Poppins.’

They had endless positive-energy thoughts – which Lizzie called ‘happy thoughts’, and always shared them with one another, and with Brendan of course.

What else could she remember? What? Anything?

They had so many animals over the years that eventually they gave each one a number .

Chester, a black lab with a curly tail like a chow was number 16. The lab would bark constantly, all day and all night until Lizzie merely showed him a bottle of Tabasco sauce – his kryptonite. Then he would finally shut up.

Dukie, number 15, was a short-haired, orange calico who Lizzie believed had probably been an old Jewish lady in another life and who was always complaining, ‘Oh no, no, no, no.’

Maximus Kiltimus was number 11; Stubbles was number 31; Kitten Little was number 35.

Memories were all that Lizzie Connelly had – because there could be no present for her. None.

She couldn’t be here in this horror house .

Had to be somewhere else, anywhere else .

Had to be!

Had to be!

Had to be!

Because he was inside her now.

The Wolf was inside her, in the real world, grunting and thrusting like an animal, violating, raping, for minutes that seemed like hours.

But Lizzie had the last laugh, didn’t she?

She wasn’t there .

She was somewhere in her memories .

Then he was finally gone, the terrible, inhuman Wolf. Monster! Beast! He’d given her a bathroom break, and food, but now he was gone . God, his arrogance in keeping her here in his house! When is he going to kill me? I’m going mad. Going, going, gone!

She peered through teary eyes into the pitch-blackness. She’d been bound and gagged again. In a strange way, that was good news. It meant he still wanted her, right?

Good God, I’m alive because I’m desirable to a horrid beast! Please help me, dear God. Please, please, help me .

She thought about her good girls and then she turned her mind toward escape. A fantasy , she understood, and therefore escape in itself.

By now, she knew this closet by heart, even in total darkness. It was as if she could see everything, as if she had night sight. More than anything, she was aware of her own body – trapped in here – and her mind – trapped as well.

Lizzie let her hands wander as much as they could. There were clothes in the closet – a male’s – his . The closest to her was some kind of sport coat with round, smooth buttons. Possibly a blazer? Lightweight, which reinforced her belief that this was a warm-weather city.

Next was a vest. A smallish ball was in one pocket, hard, maybe a golf ball.

What could she do with a golf ball? Could it be a weapon?

A zipper on the pocket. What could she do with a zipper? She’d like to catch his tattooed dick in it!

Then a windbreaker. Flimsy. Strong, sickening smell of tobacco on it. And then, her favorite thing to touch, a soft overcoat, possibly cashmere.

There were more ‘treasures’ in the overcoat’s pockets.

A loose button. Scraps of paper. From a notepad?

A ballpoint pen, possibly a Bic – blue, black or red . Coins – four quarters, two dimes, a nickel. Unless the coins were foreign? She wondered endlessly.

There was also a book of matches, with a shiny cover and embossed letters.

What did the embossed letters say? Would it tell her the city where she was being kept?

Also, a lighter.

A half pack of mints which she knew to be cinnamon because she smelled it on her hands.

And at the bottom of the pocket – lint, so insignificant, yet important to her now.