James Patterson: Kill Me If You Can

He rolled up his shirtsleeves. Covered in skin grafts, his arms looked even more gruesome than his face.

“My bride-to-be was locked in that storeroom,” Maxim said. “She didn’t even work there. She came to show me photos of our wedding cake. We were going to be married in two more days. You killed her.”

“Not me,” Nathaniel said. “It was Chukov. Vadim Chukov—”

A swift cuff to the right eye silenced him.

“Chukov was your puppet,” Maxim said. “You pulled the strings. You lit the match.”

“What happened was not my fault,” Nathaniel said. “I swear. I was in the hospital. My own family had just been run down by one of your drivers.”

“One!” Maxim screamed. “Not twenty-seven. Not three generations of an entire family.”

“I know your pain,” Nathaniel said. “We were both injured parties. Let me try to make it up to you. I have money — not a lot, but some. I could make restitution for Chukov’s evil deeds.”

“Money? You think we’re here for money?”

“Everybody needs money,” Nathaniel reasoned. “Tell me what you want.”

“You took what we want. You murdered what we need. Now, like they say in America, you have to face some music.”

He took a cassette player from his pocket and pressed a button.

“Wedding music,” Maxim cried out.

Even with only one good ear Nathaniel could make out the fiddle, the mandolin, and the garmoshka playing the joyful sounds of his homeland’s traditional folk music.

“Everyone,” Maxim said, “a toast to the bride.”

The four men lifted their imaginary glasses.

“Nazdaróvy!” they shouted. Then they began to dance around the bride.

Natalia.

“This is the wedding dance you stole from me,” Maxim shouted.

Fluid was seeping out of Nathaniel’s inner ear. The room was spinning, and watching the four men dance in a circle around Natalia made him even dizzier.

Maxim ripped the tape from Natalia’s mouth, and she gasped for air.

“Raise the bride up high,” he bellowed.

The four men each grabbed a leg of the chair and hoisted it almost to the top of the ten-foot ceiling.

Natalia screamed in terror. “Papa!”

And in that moment Nathaniel knew.

“Please,” he begged. “I’ll give you everything I have. Three million dollars. You can have every penny.”

“This will be payment enough,” Maxim said, as the four men danced toward the terrace door.

Leonid kicked it open, and now Natalia, too, realized her fate. “Please,” she screamed. “You can see I’m pregnant.”

“I hope,” Kostya Dmitriov said, “with a son.”

“Death to the whore,” Maxim yelled, and they heaved the chair, the woman, and her unborn child over the balcony rail.

Natalia’s screams were loud and piercing, but Nathaniel couldn’t hear them. He was vomiting. He was still gagging on his own puke when he realized the chair underneath him was being lifted up. He closed his eyes and felt the cool September air as it penetrated his wet jogging suit.

The last thing he heard was the voice of the scar-faced man.

“Feed this incestuous pig to the pigeons.”

A FEW WEEKS after our dinner with Newton, Katherine flew back to New York to attend the annual College Art Association conference. I went with her. I had some unfinished business that I couldn’t do by fax, phone, or e-mail.

I met Ty, Zach, and Adam at one of our favorite hangouts — the White Horse Tavern. It’s on Hudson Street at 11th Street, a few blocks from the Fortress, but its reputation has spread across continents.

Urban lore has it that the White Horse is where Dylan Thomas drank himself to death. He pounded down eighteen whiskeys, went home to his room at the Chelsea Hotel, and croaked. The restaurant has perpetuated the legend by turning one of their rooms into a shrine for the Welsh writer.

The yuppies and the tourists go there to soak up history and possibly even plop their asses on the very same bar stools that Thomas and other artsy boozers fell off. The guys and I go there because they have excellent burgers at reasonable prices and seven different kinds of beer on tap.

We found a quiet four-top under a red-and-white umbrella on the Hudson Street side. Guys, especially Marines, don’t get all gushy about reunions, but after ten minutes and one beer, we were into that Bro, it’s so good to see you shit you see in lame beer commercials.

But damn, it was so good to see them.

The burgers came, and after a few more minutes of “How’s Paris?” and “What’s up with you?” Adam got down to the nitty-gritty.

“What’s next?” he said.

“Yeah,” Zach said. “We’re just sitting around getting old and fat. We’re itching for a job.”

“That’s why I’m here,” I said. “I’ve got one for you guys. A big one.”

“Lay it on us,” Ty said.

“We have to eliminate someone,” I said.

“Who?” Adam asked.

“First let’s do this,” I said. I had three envelopes and handed one to each of them. “I’m paying you up front.”

They each took an envelope and started to stuff it into a pocket.

“No, you gotta open it,” I said.

“Hey, Matt,” Zach said. “Whatever it is, we’re in.”

“Open it.”

I got a couple of eye rolls, then one by one they opened the envelopes, and one by one they reacted. Ty just sat there with his mouth open. Zach responded with “Holy shit.” Adam looked at me dumbfounded and finally said, “Who do we have to kill? The President?”

“No,” I said. “The Ghost.”

“Matt, you’re not making any sense,” Adam said. “I think somebody slipped something funny in your soufflé while you were in France.”

He passed his check over to Ty and Zach. “Is this what you guys got?”

They nodded.

“A million bucks apiece for what? ” he said. “To kill the Ghost?”

“Since I’m the Ghost, I don’t want you to actually kill him. But I’ve decided to eliminate him,” I said. “It’s over, guys. This is the Ghost’s retirement party and all my loyal employees are getting bonus checks.”

“Matt, this is a million bucks,” Ty said. “This is like Wall Street money.”

“Hey, I made a killing in the diamond market. I believe in sharing the wealth.”

“Why?” Zach said. “Why quit?”

“Because I’m happy with the life I’m living now, and I don’t miss the life I had.”

“You’re going to miss us,” Zach said.

“You’re not going anywhere. You’re my buds. We can fish, we can hunt, we can play poker. Shit, now that you got money, I’m gonna take you for every dime.”

“Matt, I understand you want to give up the life. But a hundred percent? Why not just do a few jobs a year?”

“You know me, Zach. Everything I do is whole hog. From now on, my hundred percent is going to go toward building a life with Katherine.”

A busboy came over and cleared our dishes. The four of us just sat there in stony silence. Finally, we were alone again.

Adam raised his beer. “To Matthew and Katherine. A long, happy, and healthy life.”

“And to the Ghost,” I said. “May he rest in peace.”

After lunch, I walked to Sixth Avenue, caught the uptown F train toward Jamaica, and settled in for the forty-five-minute ride to the Union Turnpike station.

I emerged on Queens Boulevard, one of the busiest roads in the borough. And with twelve lanes of bus, car, and truck traffic, one of the deadliest.

I weaved my way through streets I’d never seen before, but I’d mapped them out and committed them to memory that morning.