John Lutz - Mister X

"What are you going to do with your information?" Addie asked.

"Tell Quinn. Let him tell Fedderman. It doesn't have to go any further."

Addie let out a long breath and took another sip of wine. "I can live with that. And I mean it literally."

"Do you think it's possible that the man who tried to kill you was the Carver?" Pearl asked.

"It's possible but hard to say. He broke off the attack before he had a chance to…well, you know."

"That's why you're here in New York," Pearl said. "Why you politicked so hard for the job. That part of it's personal, too."

Addie toyed with her wineglass, using the crystal stem to rotate it in short but smooth intervals that did nothing to disturb the wine. "Yes, it's intensely personal, even though I'm not totally sure whoever attacked me was the Carver. I'm not his usual type, not part of his psycho scenario." She met Pearl's gaze and held it. "In fact, you are, Pearl, and that's something to consider."

"I've considered it," Pearl said.

There was a hitch in Addie's voice when she said, "There's enough of a chance it was the Carver who tried to kill me that I can't leave it alone."

Pearl smiled and shrugged. "Obsessive pursuit fits right in with our organization."

Addie cautiously tried another bite of her beef and yogurt dish. "I noticed."

"You mean Quinn," Pearl said.

"No," Addie said, "not just Quinn."

"So Addie's really Geraldine Knott," Quinn said to Pearl, the next morning in the office. He was gazing off to his right, the way he did when he was distracted and thinking. He'd been sitting that way almost from the moment Pearl had begun telling him what she'd learned about Addie Price.

The air conditioner was still making its hammering noise, but not nearly as loudly as yesterday. The day hadn't heated up yet. Pearl had made coffee. Its fresh-roasted scent permeated the office.

"We shouldn't be surprised," Quinn said. "She's a sort of show-business figure in Detroit. Celebrities more often than not change their names."

"You're a kind of celebrity in New York," Pearl said, "and you haven't changed yours."

"I've thought about it, though," Quinn said. "I'm trying to choose between Mike Sledge and Sherlock Spade."

"After the last couple of nights," Pearl said, "I might settle on Nancy Droop."

Quinn winked at her. "Not hardly, Pearl. Hey, what about Feds?"

"Oh, he's definitely Inspector Clu-"

"So," Fedderman said, standing just inside the door. "Caught you talking about moi."

"We were talking about Addie Price," Quinn said in a businesslike tone. "It's information that doesn't go past you."

"I'm a deep well of secrets," Fedderman said, sitting down behind his desk and fitting his fingers together tightly, as if preparing to show some kid the church and all the people.

"Aren't we all," Pearl said, not smiling.

Five minutes later, when Fedderman had heard about the Geraldine Knott-Addie Price identity switch, he shook his head. "Poor woman. She musta gone around scared shitless all the time. Maybe she still does, even with her new identity."

"That's why we keep her secret limited to us," Quinn said.

"And maybe the Carver," Pearl said.

Fedderman stared at his laced fingers and thought about it. "Addie's not his type." He looked up at Pearl in a way she didn't like.

"I know," she said, "I've looked in the mirror and seen photos of all the Carver's victims. I'm the sicko's type."

"You and a million other New York women," Quinn said.

"More than a million," Fedderman said.

"Those are comforting odds," Pearl said, but she didn't mean it.

Ohio, 1997

Miriam Grantland wished the wipers sweeping the windshield of her Ford Taurus would swipe away her tears along with the rain.

When she'd gotten the phone call, she left immediately. She was halfway to Cleveland and had sobbed through most of her journey.

Her thoughts nagged her like restless demons.

Why had Jerry been born? What had gone wrong? What had she done wrong?

Maybe nothing, considering the circumstances.

Maybe everything.

Damned trucks! An eighteen-wheeler swished past the Taurus doing over eighty miles per hour, trailing a deluge of rainwater that temporarily blinded Miriam so that she was driving sightless through the night and into the glare of oncoming headlights.

The truck became an object of her fury. She leaned forward to peer out the windshield, honked the horn, flashed her highlights. The Taurus's engine strained, and the steering wheel began to shimmy in Miriam's sweating palms. Inch by inch, she recaptured the highway lost to the truck, and on a gentle curve she passed it.

Her rage was unabated.

She glanced at the speedometer. Eighty-five. She held her speed, watching the headlights of the semi fall farther and farther back. There were only a few cars ahead of her on the dark, rain-swept highway.

On the straightaway now, she eased up slightly on the accelerator until the shuddering in the steering wheel and the car's front end went away. The sheet metal on the hood stopped vibrating. Eighty-two miles per hour. That was as fast as she dared to go without risking mechanical trouble. Any sort of delay was out of the question. Miriam set the cruise control. She needed to get to Cleveland, do what she had to do, and then get back home.

She thought about Jerry and all the problems he'd caused. It had to be him. Something was very wrong with him. His behavior wasn't normal. That was a fact she had to face.

He'd been born almost a month prematurely and weighed only slightly more than four pounds. Had that caused the problem? Maybe. Had it been her fault? Hardly.

Jerry's father? The bastard hadn't been around long enough to have much of an effect one way or the other. But then, who knew for sure about such things? And at a certain point, what did it matter? So maybe it had been Jerry's father. The past was impossible to change. Like it or not, we all lived in the present.

Miriam had nothing against gay people; that was obvious. It was an old friend in Cleveland who'd phoned her, a woman named Grace who'd for years lived with her lesbian partner she'd met in college. No big deal. Other people's sex lives were none of Miriam's business. It was nobody's concern what people did behind closed doors, in the privacy of their homes or in businesses that catered to such clientele. Miriam didn't doubt that eventually, even in Ohio, people of the same sex would be able to legally marry. That was fine with her. Times were changing, and Miriam could change with them.

But Jerry! Her own son.

She'd suspected something was wrong, known how he used to sneak out of the house at night and spy on the twins next door. Miriam never talked to Jerry about that. It was heterosexual and possibly not so unusual behavior for a boy his age. So he peeked, probably mostly out of curiosity. If the little teases didn't lower their shades that was their problem. Besides, Miriam had her own problems, and they were crushing and repetitious. Work, drink, sleepless nights, loneliness. Now and then a relationship that meant nothing other than sex and went nowhere beyond the bed. Work, drink, sleepless nights, loneliness. Over and over. Like a damned treadmill that would wear her down and someday leave her useless and hopeless. That was her life. It was difficult enough without Jerry coming up with ways to make it worse.

Of course he had come up with ways, but this was something she hadn't considered. And she was trying now to consider it only in a detached way. The time for recriminations and philosophizing was past.

Right now, she had to act.

The dark highway seemed to roll out before her forever. Talk radio matched her mood and kept her company. There was trouble everywhere. A man claimed the government was using silent black helicopters to spy on people. Code was spray painted on the backs of road signs to guide armies that moved by night. A secret global triad was running things, and was scheduled to reveal itself at the turn of the century-only three years away!