Jeffery Deaver - Speaking In Tongues

Yet-this was feelings again, not Cartesian logic-yet somehow he believed that they’d get along just fine. The fight today had been as bad as any they’d had fifteen years ago. And yet there’d been a reconciliation. This astonished him. That never would have happened in the past.

He sighed, sipped his wine, looked out at the Dalmatian nosing about in the tall grass. Thinking now of Megan.

But even if husband and wife were to get together again, what would the girl come home to? And more important… who was the person coming home?

Was the girl’s drinking and the water tower incident more than just a onetime fluke? Was that the real Megan McCall, a bitter young woman who slept with men for money? Or was there another person within her? One Tate didn’t know well-or maybe one he hadn’t even yet met?

Tate Collier felt a sudden desperation to know the girl. To know who she was. What excited her, what she hated, what she feared, What foods she liked. What clothes she’d pick and which she’d shun. What bad TV shows she’d want to watch.

What made her laugh. And what weep.

And he was suddenly stung by a terrible thought: that if Megan had died this morning, the victim of a deranged killer or an accident, he’d have been distraught, yes, terribly sad. But now, if that happened or- the most horrifying-if she simply vanished forever, never to be found at all, he’d be destroyed. It would be one of those tragedies that breaks you forever. He remembered something he’d told Bett when they’d been married, a case he was working on-prosecuting an arson murder. The victim had run into a burning building to save her child, who’d survived, though the mother had perished. He’d read the facts, looked up to Bett and said, “You’ll kill for your spouse but you’ll die for your child..

In rhetoric, lawyers use the trick of personification-picking words to make their own clients seem human and sympathetic and their opponents less so. “Mary Jones” instead of “the witness” or “the victim.” Juries find it far easier to be harsh to abstractions. “The defendant.” “The man sitting at that table there.”

It’s a very effective trick and a very dangerous one.

And it’s just how I’ve treated Megan over the years, Tate now thought. He rose, walked into the den and spent a long time looking

for another picture of her. He was terribly disappointed he couldn’t find one. He’d given his only snapshot to Konnie and Beauridge that afternoon.

He sat down in his chair, closed his eyes and tried to create some images now. Images of the girl. Smiling, looking perplexed, exasperated… A few came to mind. He tried harder.

And harder still.

Which was why he hadn’t heard the man come up behind him.

The cold finger of a pistol touched his temple. “Don’t move, Mr. Collier. No, no. I really mean that. For your sake. Don’t move.”

Jimmy, Tate recalled.

His name was Jimmy. And he was the man who’d been far more willing than Tate to engage in some gunplay in Jack Sharpe’s immaculate foyer.

Tate glanced at the phone.

Jimmy shook his head. “No.”

“What do you want?”

“Mr. Sharpe sent me.”

Figured that.

The gun was really very large. The man’s finger wasn’t on the trigger; it was outside of the guard. This didn’t reassure Tate at all.

“I have something for you to look at.”

“Look at?”

“I’m going to give it to you to look at. Then I’m going to take it back. And neither me or Mr. Sharpe’ll ever admit we know what you’re talking about if you ever mention it. You understand?”

Tate didn’t understand a thing. But he said, “Sure. Say, is that loaded?”

Jimmy didn’t respond. From the pocket of his leather jacket he took a videocassette. Set it on the table. Backed up. Nodded toward it. Tate walked over, picked it up. “I should play it?”

Jimmy’s face scrunched up impatiently.

Tate put the cassette in the player and fiddled with the controls until the tape started to play. The scene on the TV showed a building, some bushes. The date and time stamp revealed that it had been made that morning, at nine forty-two. He didn’t recognize where. The tape jumped ahead four minutes; now whoever was making the tape was driving, following another car down a suburban street. Tate recognized the car being followed. It was Megan’s Tempo. Because of the rain he couldn’t make out who was driving.

“Where did you get this?” Tate demanded.

“Watch, don’t talk,” Jimmy muttered. The gun was pointed directly at Tate’s back.

Another jump on the tape. To nine-fifty that morning. Tate recognized the Vienna Metro station. The man taping-of course, one of the private eyes hired by Sharpe, despite his protests to the contrary- must have been afraid of getting too close to his subject. He was about fifty yards away and shooting through the mist and rain. Megan’s car stopped at a row filled with other cars. There was a pause and then motion. After a moment he caught a glimpse of someone. A white man, it seemed, wearing a dark jacket, though he couldn’t be sure. Tate could see no distinguishing features. Then there was more motion. Finally a gray Mercedes pulled out of a space and a moment later Megan’s car eased into where the Merce had been. At 10:01 the Mercedes sped out of the lot.

The tape went fuzzy. Then black.

Tate stared, his heart pounding. Thinking of the vague motion he’d seen-pixels of light on the screen, distorted to start with, more distorted in the rain and fog. But he believed it might have been the man lifting a heavy object from the trunk of Megan’s car and putting it into the Mercedes. An object about the size of a human body.

“That’s all,” Jimmy said. “Could you eject it?” Tate did. “Did he see anything else?” he asked. “Who?” Jimmy asked.

“You know who. The private eye. Can I talk to him? Please?”

Jimmy nodded at the table. “If you could just set the tape there and backup.”

Tate did. He knew he wouldn’t get an answer. This was as far as Sharpe was willing to go. But he asked one more question. “Why did he show this to me? He didn’t have to.”

Jimmy pocketed the cassette, gun still held steadily at Tate. He backed to the door. “Mr. Sharpe asked me just to mention the old adage that one good deed deserves another. He hopes you’ll remember that next Thursday at the argument down in Richmond.”

“Look-”

“He said he didn’t think you’d agree. He just asked me to mention it.”

Jimmy walked to the sliding door, through which he’d apparently entered. He paused. “The answer to your question? I myself would guess it’s because he’s got two daughters of his own. Good night.”

After he’d gone Tate drained his wineglass with a shaking hand and picked up the phone and dialed a number.

When Konnie answered Tate said, “Got a lead.”

“Asking or telling?”

“Telling.”

“Go on.”

“Long story. That case with Sharpe?”

“Right.”

Tate said, “It wasn’t just me he had a PI tailing. It was Megan too.”

“Why? Dig up dirt?”

“That’s my guess. Lawyer’s daughter scores drugs. Sleeps around. Something like that. Any-way, a friend of his just showed me a tape.” Tate described it.

“Hot damn. Get it over here-”

“Forget it. It’s been atomized. But I think it was Megan the perp was moving from one trunk to another. She was probably drugged.” Tate prayed the girl had merely been unconscious.

“Tags?”

“Nope. Sony.”

“Damn, Tate. Why’d you think they put those cute little signs on cars?” After a pause Konnie continued. “Okay. So-you don’t think it’s Sharpe?”