James Patterson - Postcard killers

Jacob felt adrenaline explode throughout his body. This was it. The end of the tale, at the end of the world.

The gangster looked at his watch, a diamond-encrusted Rolex.

"They could be here any minute."

Time nearly stopped for Jacob.

He checked his cheap plastic watch every minute. 8:14, then 8:15, then 8:16.

The early morning mist was lingering, making the landscape seem eerie, scary-looking.

Robert's sidekick brought them coffee, juice, and ham sandwiches, which they ate in the car. They were both very hungry.

"How close are you two?" Jacob asked, nodding toward the enormous man leaning on his car a hundred yards away. The car sagged from his weight.

Dessie was doing her best to scrape the ham off the bread.

"Robert?" she said. "He's my favorite cousin. His mom was in and out of prison when he was young, so he spent a lot of time with us on the farm. He's two years younger than me, but he was always bigger and stronger than me."

Dessie put the sandwich down on her lap.

"I've always wondered if we're more than cousins," she said.

Jacob stopped chewing.

"What do you mean?"

She took a gulp of orange juice.

"I don't know who my dad is," she said quietly. "My mother always said he was an Italian prince who would come and fetch us both one fine day. I have no idea what she meant."

She gave him a quick embarrassed look.

"I know," she said. "Al a bit like a fairy tale. One of my uncles is probably my father, or maybe even Granddad himself." She shivered and was silent.

Jacob turned to look through the windshield. What could you say to something like that?

Dessie stretched out as much as she could and looked in the rearview mirror.

"Red car," she said.

Jacob adjusted the mirror so he could see for himself. Sure enough, a red car was approaching from behind.

"It's a Ford," he said. "Four people. It's not them. It's probably not them."

They sat in silence, watching the passengers as the Ford went past on its way to the border crossing: two elderly couples, the men in the front, the women in the back.

Dessie turned to him, hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Who was Kimmy's mother?"

Now it was his turn to put his sandwich down.

"Her name's Lucy," he said. "We grew up together in Brooklyn. She was a singer, blues and jazz, real y talented. We were both eighteen when she got pregnant. When Kimmy was three months old, she left us."

"Left you? To do what?"

Jacob shrugged.

"Live another life, I guess. Drugs, money, music… The first few years, she saw Kimmy a couple of times, but that died out. It must be fifteen years since I last saw her."

"Does Lucy know… about Kimmy…?"

Jacob shook his head.

"No. At least, I haven't told her. I don't know where she is. I don't even know if she's stil alive."

"She sounds like an idiot to me."

"We were both young, both idiots."

Silence fel inside the car.

A green VW Passat drove past.

Jacob looked at his watch. 8:54.

A blue Saab sped past them. They could hear the sound of rock and rol coming from the open windows. Two young males. Punk-style haircuts.

Jacob looked at his watch. 8:55. He was conscious that he was doing it obsessively, but he couldn't help it.

Dessie's phone rang. She listened in silence, said not a word, then turned to Jacob.

"They've passed through Salmis and Vuono," she said. "Two vil ages just outside this town. Stil in the red Volvo. They're almost here."

"Robert's men, are they reliable?"

Dessie nodded. "Very."

"I don't want them involved at the border. I'l take it from here."

She passed on the message and hung up.

Nine o'clock came and went.

No red Volvo. No Rudolphs.

The road beyond the rotary was ful of cars now, mostly trailers and trucks. Due to the hunt for the Postcard Kil ers, security at the border crossing had been stepped up and al vehicles were forced to go through the checkpoint, next to a smal wooden building up on the left.

Jacob looked at his watch again.

Half past nine. Jesus. The time was crawling.

Big tourist buses had started to arrive in the lot outside IKEA. They seemed to come from the whole of the Arctic region. Jacob saw license plates from Norway, Finland, and Russia. It was like IKEA was a county fair.

Soon there was a line of cars waiting to get into the parking lot.

"This is the Thursday before Midsummer's Eve," Dessie said. "It's the high point of Sweden's busiest shopping week. It's even bigger than Christmas."

Jacob didn't say anything.

He realized he was grinding his teeth. He needed to stop that. Yes, as soon as they caught the Rudolphs.

A line of shoppers was starting to form outside the entrance to the superstore. These country folks were clearly nuts.

Jacob looked at the time.

Three minutes before ten.

He glanced up into the rearview mirror.

Just a line of cars: blue, red, white, black, al ful of crazy-ass Arctic shoppers.

He pressed the palms of his hands to his forehead.

The doors to the store opened.

People flooded into the hangarlike building.

Jacob felt like he was going to burst out of his skin.

"What the hel is this?" he yel ed suddenly. "Where have they gone?"

Dessie didn't answer.

"They must have taken another road," Jacob said. "They're not coming through Haparanda. That criminal hooligan you cal your cousin was wrong.

Maybe he's in league with them now. Maybe he's fooled us into sitting here so they can get away. They could have bribed him."

"Jacob, calm down! You don't know what you're saying. Stop it."

Jacob turned the key, and the engine coughed into life.

"What are you doing?" Dessie asked.

"I can't wait here any longer," Jacob said. "I'm going completely fucking mad just sit-"

"Hang on," Dessie interrupted. "Just hang on. A red car – there's a red car. I think it's a Volvo."

Jacob looked in the rearview mirror again.

It was a Volvo wagon, an old model, definitely red.

There were two people inside.

A young blond man and a dark-haired woman.

The Rudolphs were here.

The Volvo crept slowly toward the big rotary with al the bushes and trees in the middle.

Jacob pul ed out into the traffic right behind them. His heart was thumping so hard that he could hardly hear anything going on around him.

The pair in the Volvo stopped in the rotary. The line to the border crossing snaked forward ahead of them.

"They've realized they can't get through this way," Dessie said. "Not in that car. So what do they do about it?"

Jacob pul ed handcuffs from the inside pocket of his jacket and stuffed them under his belt behind his back. Then he leaned forward and took the Glock out of its holster strapped to his ankle. Suddenly he was glad he hadn't turned it over to the authorities as requested but had checked it in an airport locker while he traveled to and from Los Angeles. It looked like he'd need it now.

He heard Dessie's breath catch.

"Jacob, what are you doing? You can't use that gun here. You'l go to jail."

Just then the red Volvo swerved out of the traffic line. The driver wrenched the car to the left and squeezed past a trailer and a smal van with Cyril ic lettering scrawled along the side.

Jacob found first gear and pushed his foot al the way to the floor. A moment later he was forced to brake sharply to avoid a truck that was halfway into the rotary.

"Hel! We're losing them!"

"They're going straight on," Dessie cried, leaning her head out of the window. "Now they're turning right! They're in the IKEA parking lot!"