Jeffery Deaver - The Twelfth Card

Do it by the book and the numbness would go away. The feeling would return.

Was it working, he wondered, the regimen he’d set up for himself to get the feeling back in his soul? The whistling, reciting the things he felt he should recite, grape and cherry, cussing, laughing? Maybe a little, he believed. He remembered watching the woman in white that morning, back and forth, back and forth. He could honestly say that he’d enjoyed watching her at work. A small pleasure, but it was a feeling nonetheless. Pretty good.

Wait: “Pretty fucking good,” he whispered.

There, a cuss word.

Maybe he should try the sex thing again (usually once a month, in the morning, he could manage, but truth was he just didn’t want to – if the mood’s not there, even Viagra won’t do you much good). He now debated. Yes, that’s what he’d do – give it a couple of days and try with Jeanne. The thought made him uneasy. But maybe he’d give it a shot. That’d be a good test. Yeah, he’d try it and see if he was getting better.

Grape, cherry, milk …

Thompson now stopped at a pay phone in front of a Greek deli. He dialed the voice-mail box number again and punched in the code. He listened to a new message, which told him that there’d nearly been a chance to kill Geneva Settle at the school but too many police had been guarding her. The message continued, giving her address, on 118th Street, and reporting that at least one unmarked police car and a squad car were parked nearby, changing positions occasionally. The number of officers guarding her seemed to vary from one to three.

Thompson memorized the address and erased the message then continued on his complicated walk to a six-story apartment building that was considerably more dilapidated than Jeanne’s bungalow. He went around to the back and opened the door. He climbed the stairs to the apartment that was his main safe house. He stepped inside, locked the door then disarmed the system he’d set up to stop intruders.

This place was a little nicer than the one on Elizabeth Street. It was covered in blond paneling carefully tacked up and featured brown shag carpet that smelled just like what brown shag would smell. There were a half dozen pieces of furniture. The place reminded Thompson of the rec room he and his father had built weekends in the Amarillo bungalow, which had replaced the tornado-shredded trailer.

From a large utility cabinet he carefully removed several jars and carried them to the desk, whistling the theme from Pocohantas. The girls had just loved that movie. He opened the toolbox, put on thick rubber gloves and a face mask and goggles and assembled the device that tomorrow would kill Geneva Settle – and anyone near her.

Wssst …

The tune became something else: no longer Disney. Bob Dylan’s “Forever Young.”

When he finished the device he examined it carefully and was satisfied. He put everything away and then walked into the bathroom, stripped off the gloves and washed his hands three times. The whistling faded as he began mentally reciting the mantra for today.

Grape, cherry and milk…Grape, cherry and milk.

He never stopped getting ready for the day when the numbness would go away.

“How you doing there, miss?”

“Okay, Detective.”

Mr. Bell stood in the doorway of her room and looked over her bed, which was covered with schoolbooks and papers.

“My, I must say you do work hard.”

Geneva shrugged.

“I’m going home to my boys now.”

“You have sons?”

“That I do. Two of ’em. Maybe you’ll meet them someday. If you’d like.”

“Sure,” she said. Thinking: That’ll never happen. “Are they at home with your wife?”

“They’re at their grandfolks right now. I was married but she passed on.”

These words flicked Geneva’s heart. She could see pure pain behind them – in the way, oddly enough, that his expression didn’t change as he spoke them. It was like he practiced saying this to people and not crying. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, that was some years ago.”

She nodded. “Where’s Officer Pulaski?”

“He’s gone home. He’s got a daughter. And his wife’s expecting.”

“Boy or girl?” Geneva asked.

“I honestly couldn’t tell you. He’ll be back tomorrow early. We can ask him then. Your uncle’s in the next room and Miss Lynch’ll be staying here tonight.”

“Barbe?”

“Yes’m.”

“She’s nice. She was telling me about some of the dogs she owns. And about some of the new TV shows.” Geneva nodded down at her books. “I don’t have much time for TV.”

Detective Bell laughed. “My boys could use a bit of your influence, miss. I will sure as rain get y’all together. Now, you shout out for Barbe, any reason you want.” He hesitated. “Even you have a bad dream. I know it’s tough sometimes, your parents not home.”

“I do fine being alone,” she said.

“I don’t doubt it. Still, holler if you need to. That’s what we’re here for.” He walked to the window, peeked out through the curtains, made sure the window was locked and let the drapes fall back. “‘Night, miss. Don’t you worry. We’ll catch ourselves this fellow. Only a matter of time. There’s nobody better than Mr. Rhyme and the people he’s got working with him.”

“‘Night.” Glad he was leaving. Maybe he meant well but Geneva hated to be treated like a child as much as she hated to be reminded of this terrible situation. She cleared her books off the bed and stacked them neatly by the door so that if she had to leave fast she could find them in the dark and take them with her. She did this every night.

She now reached into her purse and found the dried violet that that illusionist woman, Kara, had given her. She looked at it for a long moment then put it carefully into the book that was on the top of the stack and closed the cover.

A fast trip to the bathroom, where she cleaned the pearl-colored basin after washing up and brushing her teeth. She laughed to herself, thinking of the unholy mess that was Keesh’s john. In the hallway Barbe Lynch said good night to her. Back in the bedroom, Geneva locked the door, then hesitated and, feeling foolish, propped the desk chair under the knob. She undressed and pulled on shorts and a faded T-shirt and got back into bed. She shut the light out and lay on her back, anxious and frenzied, for twenty minutes, thinking of her mother, then her father, then Keesh.

Kevin Cheaney’s image made an entrance; she shoved it angrily away.

Then her thoughts ended up on her ancestor, Charles Singleton.

Running, running, running…

The leap into the Hudson.

Thinking of his secret. What was so important that he’d risk everything to keep it hidden?

Thinking of the love he had for his wife, his son.

But the terrible man from the library that morning kept barging into her mind. Oh, she talked big in front of the police. But of course she was scared. The ski mask, the thonk as the club hit the mannequin, the slap of his feet after her. And now the other one too, the black man at the school yard with the gun.

Those memories killed sleep quickly.

She opened her eyes and lay awake, restless, thinking of another sleepless night, years ago: Seven-year-old Geneva had crawled out of bed and wandered into the living room of their apartment. There she’d turned on the TV and watched some stupid sitcom for ten minutes before her father stepped into the living room.

“What’re you doing there, watching that?” He’d blinked at the light.

“I can’t sleep.”

“Read a book. Better for you.”

“I don’t feel like reading.”

“All right. I will.” He’d walked to the shelves. “You’ll like this one. One of the best books ever.”