James Patterson - Postcard killers

The electronic noise started up again, longer and more persistent this time.

It was her cel phone.

Damn, it was in her knapsack, which had slid under the bed the night before, during their somewhat chaotic entry into the little room.

She waited until it stopped buzzing. Jacob stirred in his sleep beside her.

She leaned over the edge of the bed, pul ed out the knapsack, and fished out her phone.

One missed cal.

One new message.

She clicked on the message.

It was a news flash from the main Swedish news agency, short and concise as usual.

She gasped, "Oh, no."

Jacob's heavy breathing stopped and she realized he was awake. She'd woken him. She felt his warm hand on her back, a caress that carried the promise of something more.

She turned to face him, meeting his radiant eyes.

His smile faded when he saw the look on her face.

"What is it?" he said. "What's happened?"

Oh god, oh god, how was she going to tel him?

He sat up so abruptly that he hit his head on the top bunk. "Just say it, for 119 god's sake!"

She shrank from his words.

"They're out," she said. "Ridderwal has let the Postcard Killers go free."

Dessie held her arms out to him, wanting to catch him as he fel into despair at the news. She wanted to hold his face in her hands and reassure him that everything would sort itself out, that this was just a mad, stupid mistake, that Kimmy would get justice and he would be able to move on with his life, and that the rest of his life started right here in this bed with her.

But Jacob leapt up from the bunk, making his way across her and stumbling onto the floor.

He grabbed his jeans, pul ing them on without bothering with his underwear.

"You can't change the decision," Dessie said, forcing herself to sound calm and col ected. "There's nothing you can do about it."

His hair was a mess, stil damp with sweat. His face was almost completely drained of color.

"No," he said, pul ing his black T-shirt over his head. "But I can fol ow them. So that's what I'm going to do, right to the ends of the damn earth, if I'm not there already…"

Dessie sat up in bed now, lifting the covers over her breasts, suddenly very conscious of her nakedness. She felt incredibly vulnerable, too. A little sad.

"They were let out at six this morning, to avoid the media. They could be halfway across the Atlantic by now. They could be anywhere."

He pushed his feet into his shoes without bothering to untie them and tugged his suede jacket on. Then he stopped by the door, hesitating.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean… I'm just sorry!"

The door frame shook as he slammed the door shut behind him.

Jacob is gone, Dessie thought. The policeman is back.

The newsroom was empty, deserted as though a bomb had gone off inside. Forsberg was sitting on his own behind his desk, half asleep, his eyes rimmed with red, watching a TV screen. His jowls seemed to have grown larger overnight.

"Where is everyone?" Dessie asked, sitting down next to him.

The news editor nodded toward the television.

"The Grand Hotel," he said. "Our favorite kil ers have booked into the honeymoon suite, if you can believe that. The whole of the world's press is there, including al our esteemed col eagues."

Dessie stared at him.

"Are you serious?"

"They're giving a press conference at two p.m."

"The Grand?"

Forsberg rubbed his hedgerow of stubble. He hadn't shaved for three days or more.

"The Rudolphs have decided to speak. They want to tel the world how innocent they are."

Dessie leaned back in her chair. This had to be a very bad dream. Soon she'd wake up with Jacob's arms around her and the Postcard Kil ers safely locked back away in Kronoberg Prison.

"This is surreal. What in hel are they up to?" she said. "Those bastards are guilty as hel. Now they're holding press conferences?"

Forsberg gave a long yawn.

"So anyway, how are we doing with our journalist's objectivity these days?"

Dessie stood up.

"Shouldn't you go home and get some sleep?"

The phone on the desk rang. Forsberg grabbed it.

"What is it?"

He gestured that Dessie should stay, then listened careful y for more than a minute.

Dessie shook her head to say that she wasn't there and pul ed her knapsack on.

"Just a moment…"

He put his hand over the mouthpiece.

"It's a Danish journalist. He wants to talk to you specifical y. Says it's important."

"I'm not giving any interviews," she said, fastening her helmet strap under her chin.

"I think you should talk to him. He says he received a postcard in this morning's mail – postmarked yesterday in Copenhagen. He thinks it's from 121 the Postcard Kil ers."

JACOB CAME TOWARD HER in the departure hal of the Central Station and something fluttered in Dessie's chest, something that made her catch her breath and break into a broad, genuine smile. Even here, even now.

But then she saw his eyes and clenched jaw, and the smile froze on her lips.

"Have you got the copies?" he asked in a monotone.

Dumbly she handed over the faxed copies of the Danish postcard, front and back. He put his duffel bag down beside him, clutching the sheets of paper, staring at them.

The card was a picture of the Tivoli pleasure gardens. She knew the place wel.

Apart from the name of the city, the back of the postcard had exactly the same capital letters and layout as Dessie's.

TO BE OR NOT TO BE IN COPENHAGEN THAT IS THE QUESTION WE'LL BE IN TOUCH

"I'l be damned," he said, studying the copies. "It's quicker to get hold of evidence through the media than through useless bloody Interpol. That's unbelievable."

She swal owed hard. So that was why he'd agreed to meet her, because she had access to information that the police hadn't yet gotten hold of.

"What do you think about the handwriting?" she asked, trying to sound neutral. "Is it the same person?"

He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. She thought of last night, couldn't help it. What had she been thinking?

"It's impossible to tel with this lettering. Looks like it. Can I keep this?"

She nodded, unsure if she would be able to control her voice if she tried to say anything.

"You've heard about the Grand Hotel?" she final y managed to say.

"The press conference at two o'clock, yeah."

He heaved his duffel bag onto his shoulder again. 122 She tried to smile.

"So at least you know where they are," she said. "You don't have to go to the ends of the earth after al."

He stopped in the middle of what he was doing and looked at her, and she suddenly wanted the floor to swal ow her up.

How could she be so clingy? She wasn't that way – not ever – not even as a kid, especial y not then.

"I've had a reply from the States," he said. "From my contacts, those emails I sent from your computer."

"That's good," she said.

"I'm on my way to Los Angeles right now," he said, looking at his watch.

"My plane leaves in two hours."

She felt like someone had just poured a bucket of ice cold water over her.

"You're – Los Angeles? But…" She'd been about to say, "But what about me?"

She bit her cheek so hard she could taste blood.

She was acting like an idiot. She wanted to shrivel up, to be anywhere but here.

He looked at his watch again, hesitating. Then he took a step toward her and gave her a clumsy hug. The duffel bag was in the way and she got no contact with his body. How very fitting, she thought. The perfect ending for them.

"See you," he said, turning around and walking quickly toward the express train to Arlanda.