James Patterson: Postcard killers

"God," she said. "You real y are quick. Did you come up with that question al on your own?"

Andersson's smile stiffened somewhat.

"People don't usual y read anything you write," he said. "It's a bit of a surprise…"

Dessie sighed and made up her mind not to get angry. She reached for a copy of that day's paper. There was nothing about the postcard in it. Andersson walked away without saying anything else.

The paper's management, after serious pressure from the police, had decided not to publish the details. But Andersson had written a sloppy article about the murders around Europe. It contained a large number of loaded words like terrible and unpleasant and massacre but not many facts.

Dessie lowered the paper.

I've been chasing these bastards for six months. No one knows more about them than I do.

Why hadn't she heard from Jacob Kanon today? He had been so keen to talk yesterday evening.

She stretched her back and looked out across the newsroom.

Presumably his not getting in touch again had something to do with her behavior – the fact that she was always so brusque and never let anyone get close to her.

She shook off her feelings as ridiculous, then leafed through the printouts again.

She ran her fingers over the pictures of the victims.

The victims in Rome.

This was her, this was what she looked like before she was murdered.

Smiling, shy, fair curly hair.

Kimberly Kanon.

Jacob Kanon's daughter.

She had her father's bright blue eyes, didn't she?

The wind had dropped by the time they stepped into the bright sunshine outside the house the Germans had rented in the archipelago. Yachts 23 with slack, chalk white sails glided slowly past in the sound below as Sylvia waved to an older man piloting a large yacht.

Mac fil ed his lungs with air and stretched his arms out toward the islands, trees, water, and glittering sunlight.

"This is wonderful," he exclaimed. "I love Sweden! This could be my favorite country so far."

Sylvia smiled and threw him the car keys.

"Can you find the way back out of here?"

Mac laughed loudly. He shoved the backpack onto the backseat of the rental car, pul ed on a new pair of latex gloves, got in behind the wheel, and put the car in gear.

As they turned left onto the gravel track, Sylvia opened the window to let the fresh air into the coupe.

The landscape was sparse, yet simultaneously beautiful and tasteful y minimalist. The green of the deciduous trees was stil tender, almost transparent, the sky clear blue as glass. Shy flowers that had only just emerged from the frozen soil swayed in the turbulence caused by the car as it flashed by.

They passed two cars just before they crossed the bridge leading back onto the mainland. Neither of the drivers seemed to take any particular notice of them.

"Party time tonight," Sylvia said, stroking Mac's neck. "Are you up for it?"

"I want you here, right now," he whispered sexily.

She ran her hand slowly across his crotch, feeling how hard he was.

When they were on the motorway heading north toward Stockholm, Sylvia put on a new pair of gloves. She reached into the backseat for the backpack and started to go through the dead Germans' valuables.

"Look at this," she said, taking out an ultramodern digital camera. "A Nikon D3X. That's pretty neat."

She rummaged through the woman's jewelry.

"A lot of it's rubbish, sentimental, but this emerald ring is okay. I guess."

She held it up to the sunlight and examined the gemstone's sparkle.

"He had a platinum Amex," Mac said, glancing at the things spread out on the floor of the car and in Sylvia's lap.

"So did she," Sylvia said, waving the metal ic card.

Mac grinned.

"And we've got the Omega watch itself, of course," Sylvia said, triumphantly holding up the German woman's recently purchased gift. "And it's even in the original packaging!"

"The cheap Kraut bastard was thinking of buying her a Swatch," Mac said.

They burst out laughing, heads thrown back, as they passed through the commercial center of Stockholm.

"We're back, " Sylvia said in an eerie voice.

Thirty-five minutes later Mac made a turn into the long-term parking lot at Arlanda Airport. Just to be safe, Sylvia wiped down the surfaces she might have touched with her fingers: the buttons that control ed the side windows, the instrument panel, Mac's seat.

Then they left the car among a couple of thousand others, a dark gray Ford Focus that even they lost sight of after walking just a few meters. It would probably be there for weeks before anyone noticed it.

The free bus to the airport's terminal buildings was almost empty. Sylvia sat on one of the seats, Mac standing beside her, wearing the backpack. No one paid any attention to them. Why should they?

They got off at International Terminal 5 and went straight to the departure hal.

Sylvia had managed to get a fair ways ahead before she noticed that Mac wasn't right behind her. Now where was he?

She turned al the way around and saw him standing and looking up at one of the large screens where departures were listed.

She hurried back quickly.

"Darling," she whispered, sidling up to him. "What are you doing?"

Mac's light gray eyes were staring fixedly at the flashing destinations.

"We could take a plane," he said.

Sylvia put her tongue in his ear.

"Come on, baby," she said in a low voice. "We've got lots left to do.

Today is party time!"

"We could go home," Mac said. "We could stop this game of ours now.

Quit while we're ahead. Retire as legends."

She wound her arm around his waist and blew softly on his neck.

"The train leaves in four minutes," she said. "You. Me. We're on it."

He let her lead him off to the escalators, down into the underground, and out onto the platform. Only when the doors had closed and the express train had set off for the center of Stockholm did Sylvia let go of him.

"Legends," she said, "always die young. But not us."

Sunday, June 13

A uniformed security guard stood up in a glass cubicle over to Jacob's left. He pressed a button and said something incomprehensible in a metal ic loudspeaker voice.

"I don't speak Swedish," Jacob said. "Can you tel Dessie Larsson that I'm here?"

"What about?"

"The postcard kil ings," he said, holding up his New York police badge.

"I'm homicide."

The man pul ed his stomach in and yanked up his baggy trousers.

"Take a seat for a moment."

He gestured toward the row of wooden benches over by the door.

The stone floor of the Aftonposten lobby was slippery from the rain outside.

Jacob slid a couple of steps before getting his balance back, along with his dignity. He straightened his shoulders, wondering if perhaps he was not entirely sober yet.

With a groan, he sank onto the nearest bench. It was hard and cold.

He had to pul himself together. Never before, never during al those years raising Kimmy, had he let himself sink this low. The previous day had vanished in a haze of vodka and aquavit. The Swedes also had something they cal ed brannvin, a spirit made from potatoes that was pure dynamite.

Hoping he wasn't about to be sick, he rested his head in his hands.

The kil ers weren't far away. Even though he felt hazy about many things, he could sense their proximity.

They were stil walking the city's streets, hiding in the rain, and had probably already found their next victims – if they hadn't already dealt with them…

Jacob shivered slightly and realized how cold and wet he was. His hands were filthy. There was no shower in his room in the youth hostel where he was staying, and he hadn't bothered trying to find the shared bathroom. The building depressed him. It was an old prison, and his room was a cel from the 1840s, which he was sharing with a Finnish poet. He and the poet had squeezed onto the lower bunk of the bed and drunk their way through the vodka, aquavit, and brannvin, and afterward the poet had gone into the city to dance the tango somewhere.