James Patterson - Swimsuit

I got into my car and headed out to the freeway. It wasn't funny, but the situation was so weird that I wanted to laugh.

I had a contract for a “guaranteed monster bestseller,” what I'd been looking for and dreaming about for years, only this contract had a very literal termination clause.

Write it or die.

Had any author in modern history had a book deal attached to a death penalty? I was pretty sure this was unique, and it was all mine.

It was sunny, a Saturday in mid-July. I set off on the freeway, checking my rearview mirror every minute or so, looking for a tail, but I never saw one. I stopped for gas, bought coffee, a doughnut, got back on the road.

Fifty miles and an hour later, my cell phone rang.

“Take the One-eleven to Palm Springs,” he said.

I'd put another twenty miles on the odometer when I saw the turnoff for the 111. I took the exit ramp and continued on the highway until it became Palm Canyon Drive.

My phone rang again, and again I got directions from my “partner.”

“When you get to the center of town, turn right on Tahquitz Canyon, then a left on Belardo. Don't hang up the phone.”

I made the turns, sensing that we were near our meeting spot, when Henri said, “You should be seeing it now. The Bristol Hotel.”

We were going to be meeting in a public place.

This was good. It was a relief. I felt a burst of elation.

I pulled up to the hotel, handed my keys to the valet at the entrance of this famous old luxury resort and spa, known for its high-end amenities.

Henri spoke into my ear. “Go to the restaurant out by the pool. The reservation is in my name. Henri Benoit. I hope you're hungry, Ben.”

This was news.

He'd given me a last name. Real or fictitious, I didn't know, but it struck me as an offering of trust.

I headed through the lobby to the restaurant, thinking, Yes. This was going to be very civilized.

Break out the champagne.

The Desert Rose Restaurant was situated under a long blue canopy near the swimming pool. Light bounced off the white stone patio, and I had to shield my eyes from the glare. I told the maitre d' that I was having lunch with Henri Benoit, and he said, “You're the first to arrive.”

I was shown to a table with a perfect view of the pool, the restaurant, and a path that wound around the hotel and led to the parking lot. I had my back to the wall, my briefcase open by my right side.

A waiter came to the table, told me about the various drinks, including the specialty of the house, a cocktail with grenadine and fruit juice. I asked for a bottle of San Pellegrino, and when it came I slugged down a whole glass, refilled it, and waited for Henri to appear.

I looked at my watch, saw that I'd been waiting for only ten minutes. It seemed at least twice that long. With an eye on my surroundings, I called Amanda, told her where I was. Then I used my phone to do an Internet search, looking for any mention of Henri Benoit.

I came up with nothing.

I called Zagami in New York, told him I was waiting for Henri, got a crackly connection. I killed another minute as I filled Len in on the drive into the desert, the beautiful hotel, the state of my mood.

“I'm starting to get excited about this,” I said. “I'm just hoping he signs the contract.”

“Be careful,” said Zagami. “Listen to your instincts. I'm surprised he's late.”

“I'm not. I don't like it, but I'm not surprised.”

I took a bathroom break and then went back to the table with trepidation. I was expecting that while I was gone, Henri would have arrived and would be sitting across from my empty chair.

I wondered whether Henri was donning a new disguise, whether he was undergoing another metamorphosis – but the seat was still empty.

The waiter came toward me again, said that Mr. Benoit had phoned to say he was delayed and that I was to start without him.

So I ordered lunch. The Tuscan bean soup with black kale was fine. I took a few bites of the penne, ate without tasting what I imagined was excellent cuisine. I'd just asked for an espresso when my cell phone rang.

I stared at it for a moment, then, as if my nerves weren't frayed down to the stumps, said, “Hawkins” into the mouthpiece.

“Are you ready, Ben? You've got a little more driving to do.”

Coachella, California, is twenty-eight miles east of Palm Springs and has a population of close to forty thousand. For a couple of days every year in April, that number swells during the annual music festival, a mini-Woodstock, without the mud.

When the concert is over, Coachella reverts to an agricultural flatland in the desert, home to young Latino families and migrant workers, a drive-through for truckers, who use the town as a pit stop.

Henri had told me to look for the Luxury Inn, and it was easy to find. Off by itself on a long stretch of highway, the Lux was a classic U-shaped motel with a pool.

I pulled the car around to the back as directed, looked for the room number I'd been given, 229.

There were two vehicles in the parking lot. One was a late-model Mercedes, black, a rental. I guessed that Henri must've driven it here. The other was a blue Ford pickup hitched to an old house trailer about twenty-six feet long. Silver with blue stripes, air conditioner on top, Nevada plates.

I turned off my engine and reached for my briefcase, opened the car door.

A man appeared on the balcony above me. It was Henri, looking the same as the last time I saw him. His brown hair was combed back, and he was clean-shaven, wore no glasses. In short, he was a good-looking Mr. Potato Head of a guy who could morph into another identity with a mustache or an eye patch or a baseball cap.

He said, “Ben, just leave your briefcase in the car.”

“But the contract -”

“I'll get your briefcase. But right now, get out of your car and please leave your cell phone on the driver's seat. Thanks.”

One part of me was screaming, Get out of here. Jam on the gas and go. But an opposing inner voice was insisting that if I quit now, nothing would have been gained. Henri would still be out there. He could still kill me and Amanda at any time, for no reason other than that I'd disobeyed him.

I took my hand off my briefcase, left it in my car along with my cell phone. Henri jogged down the stairs, told me to put my hands on the hood. Then he expertly frisked me.

“Put your hands behind your back, Ben,” he said. Very casual and friendly.

Except that a gun muzzle was pressed against my spine.

The last time I turned my back to Henri, he'd coldcocked me with a gun butt to the back of my head. I didn't even think it through, just used instinct and training. I sidestepped, was about to whip around and disarm him, but what happened next was a blur of pain.

Henri's arms went around me like a vise, and I went airborne, crashing hard on my shoulders and the back of my head.

It was a hard fall, painfully hard, but I didn't have time to check myself out.

Henri was on top of me, his chest to my back, his legs interwoven with mine. His feet were hooked into me so that our bodies were fused, and his full weight crushed me against the pavement.

I felt the gun muzzle screw into my ear.

Henri said, “Got any more ideas? Come on, Ben. Give me your best shot.”

I was so immobilized by the takedown, it was as if my spinal cord had just been cut. No weekend black belt could have thrown me like that.

Henri said, “I could easily snap your neck. Understand?”

I wheezed “yes,” and he stood, grasped my forearm, and hauled me to my feet.

“Try to get it right this time. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”