Michael Connelly - The Poet

He held his hand up. Carter had come back on the line. Backus listened for a few moments and nodded his head.

"Right on Mulholland and then the first left. Easy enough. What's your ETA?"

He hung up after telling Carter we'd get there ahead of him and adding that he needed the agent's best work on this.

As Backus drove away from the hotel I made a secret salute to the Marlboro Man. We went east on Sunset to Laurel Canyon Boulevard and then up the winding cut through the mountains.

"How's this going to work?" I asked him. "How are you going to get Rachel up to this place we're going?"

"You'll leave a message for Rachel on her voice mail at Quantico. You'll tell her you're at a friend's house-somebody you used to know from the paper who moved out here-and leave the number. Then when I talk to Rachel I'll tell her I called her back from Florida because you've been making calls and strange accusations about her but nobody knows where you are. I'll tell her I think you've popped too many pain pills but that we need to bring you in."

I was feeling increasingly uncomfortable about the prospect of being used as bait and having to face Rachel. I did not know how I'd be able to bring it off.

"Eventually," Backus continued, "Rachel will get the message. But she won't call you. Instead, she'll trace the number to the house and she'll go to you, Jack. Alone. For one of two things."

"What?" I asked, though I already had a pretty good idea.

"To either try to set you straight… or to kill you. She'll think you're the only one who knows. She'll need to convince you that you are wrong about these wild-ass ideas. Or she'll need to put you in the ground. My guess is that it will be the ground."

I nodded. It was my guess, too.

"But we'll be there. Inside with you, close."

It wasn't comforting.

"I don't know…"

"Not to worry, Jack," Backus said, reaching over and giving me a playful punch on the shoulder. "You'll be all right and this time we're going to do it right. What you do have to worry about is getting her to talk. Get her on the tape, Jack. Get her admitting to just one part of the Poet's story and we've got her for the rest. Get her on tape."

"I'll try."

"You'll be fine."

At Mulholland Drive, Backus turned right as Carter had instructed and we followed the road as it snaked along the mountain crest, offering a view through the darkening haze of the Valley below. We serpentined for nearly a mile until we saw Wrightwood Drive and turned left and descended into a neighborhood of small houses built on steel pylons, their weight hanging out over the mountain's edge, precarious testaments to engineering and the desires of developers to leave their mark on every crest in the city.

"Do you believe people live in these things?" Backus asked.

"Hate to be in one during an earthquake."

Backus drove slowly, checking the address numbers painted on the curb. I let him do that while I watched between the houses for glimpses of the Valley below. It was approaching dusk and many of the lights were coming on down there. Backus finally stopped the car in front of a house on a bend in the road.

"This is it."

It was a small, wood-frame structure. From the front the pylons that supported it could not be seen and it seemed to be floating above the deep drop-off to the Valley. We both looked at it for a long moment without making a move to get out.

"What if she knows about the house?"

"Rachel? She won't, Jack. I only know because of Clearmountain. It came up during a bit of gossip. Some of the guys from the FO use the place on occasion, if you know what I mean. When they're with someone they can't bring home."

I looked over at him and he winked at me.

"Let's check it out," he said. "Don't forget your stuff."

There was a lockbox on the front door. Backus knew the combination and opened it, retrieved the key from the tiny compartment and opened the door.

He entered the house and flicked on the light in an entrance alcove. I followed him in and closed the door. The house was only modestly furnished but I ignored this because my attention was immediately drawn to the rear wall of the living room. The wall was made entirely of thick glass panels offering a spectacular view of the entire Valley sprawling below the house. I crossed the room and gazed out. At the far rim of the Valley I saw the rise of another mountain chain. I stepped close enough to the glass so that I could see my own breath against it and looked down into the dark arroyo directly below. A sense of unease at being at such a precipice licked at me and I stepped back as Backus turned on a lamp behind me.

It was then that I saw the cracks. Three of the five glass panels had fractures spidering through them. I turned to the left and saw the disjointed image of myself and Backus in a mirrored wall that had also been fractured by the earthquake.

"What else happened? Is it safe to be in here?"

"It's safe, Jack. But safety is a relative thing. The next big one could come along and change everything… As far as other damage, there is a floor below us. Was a floor, I should say. Clearmountain said that is where the damage was. Buckled walls, broken water pipes."

I put my computer bag and pillowcase down on the floor and turned back to the rear window. My eyes were drawn to the view and I bravely stepped to the glass again. I heard a sharp creaking sound from the direction of the alcove where we had come in. I looked at Backus with alarm.

"Don't worry, they had the pylons checked by an engineer before they even started the sting. The house isn't going anywhere. It just looks like it is and sounds like it is and that's what they wanted for the sting."

I nodded again but not with a lot of confidence. I looked back at him through the glass.

"The only thing going somewhere is you, Jack."

I glanced at him in the mirror, not sure what he meant. And there, quadrupled in the broken reflection, I saw the gun in his hand.

"What is this?" I asked.

"This is the end of the line."

In a rush it came to me. I'd taken a wrong turn and blamed the wrong one. In that moment I also came to the realization that it was the flaw in my own interior that had led me the wrong way. My inability to believe and accept. I had taken Rachel's emotions and looked for the flaw in them instead of the truth.

"You," I said. "You are the Poet."

He didn't answer. Instead he gave a small smile and a nod. I knew then that Rachel's plane hadn't been recalled and that Agent Carter was not coming with a tech and two good agents. I could see the true plan perfectly, right down to the finger Backus must have kept on the phone while he faked the call in my hotel room. I was alone now with the Poet.

"Bob, why? Why you?"

I was so shocked I was still calling him by his first name like a friend would.

"It's a story as old as any of them," he replied. "Too old and forgotten to tell you. You don't need to know it now, anyway. Sit down on the chair, Jack."

He signaled with the gun toward the stuffed chair opposite the couch. Then he aimed the gun back at me. I didn't move.

"The calls," I said. "You made the calls from Thorson's room?"

I said it more to be saying something as a stall for time, though in my gut I knew that time was meaningless to me now. No one knew I was there. No one would be coming. Backus laughed in a forced, scoffing manner at my question.

"The luck of chance," he said. "That night I checked in for all of us-Carter, Thorson, me. Then I apparently mixed the keys up. I made those calls from my own room, but the bill had Thorson's name on it. I didn't know that, of course, until I took the bills from your room Monday night while you were with Rachel."

I thought about what Rachel had said about making your own luck. I guessed it applied to serial killers as well.