James Patterson: London Bridges

"What's this about?" I asked Agent Matthews. I already knew it was something bad, which was an ongoing problem with my current job. FBI Director Burns had my schedule and itinerary at all times, even when I was off duty, which effectively meant that I was never off duty.

"As I said, sir, we were told to meet you. Then to put you right on a plane to Nevada. There's an emergency out there. A small town was bombed. Well, the town was blown off the map. The director wants you on the scene, like, an hour ago. It's a terrible disaster."

I was shaking my head, feeling incredible disappointment and frustration as I walked over to where Jamilla stood. I felt as if there was a hole in the center of my chest. "There's been a bombing in Nevada. They say it's on the news. I have to go out there," I told her. "I'll try to get back as soon as I can. I'm sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am."

The look on her face said it all. "I understand," she said. "Of course I understand. You have to go. Come back if you can."

I tried to hug her, but Jamilla backed away, finally giving me a small, sad wave. Then she turned and left without saying another word, and I think I knew that I had just lost her, too.

I was on the move, but the whole scene felt more than frustrating-it was actually surreal. I flew by private jet from San Francisco to a small town in Nevada, and from there caught a ride in an FBI helicopter to what had once been Sunrise Valley.

I was trying not to think about little Alex, trying not to think about Jamilla, but so far it wasn't working. Maybe once I got to the bomb site? Once I was there in the action, in the middle of the shit.

I could tell by the way the local agents deferred to, and fussed around, me that my reputation, or the fact that I worked out of Washington, was making them nervous and edgy. Director Burns had made it clear that I was one of the Bureau's troubleshooters, that I was his troubleshooter. I wouldn't carry tales back to Washington, but the agents in the field offices didn't know that. How could they?

The helicopter ride to the bombing site took only about ten minutes. From the air, I could see emergency lights all around Sunrise Valley, or what had been Sunrise Valley. The town was gone now. There was still smoke, but no fire was visible from the air, possibly because there was nothing left to burn.

It was a little past eight o'clock. What the hell had happened out here? And why would somebody go to the trouble of destroying a hole-in-the-wall town like Sunrise Valley?

I had been briefed as soon as I stepped inside the FBI helicopter. Unfortunately, there wasn't too much information available. At four that afternoon, the residents-except for one male who'd been shot-had been "evacuated" by what appeared to be U.S. Army national guardsmen. The townspeople were then driven forty miles away to a point halfway to the nearest large town, Elko. Their location was called in to the Nevada State Police. By the time the troopers arrived to assist the badly frightened townies, the army trucks and jeeps were gone. And so was the town of Sunrise Valley. Blown off the map.

I mean, there was nothing down there but sand, sage, and scrub.

I could see fire trucks, vans, off-road vehicles, maybe half a dozen helicopters. As our copter began to settle down I spotted techies in chemical protective overgarments.

Jesus, what happened here?

Chemical warfare?

War?

Is that a possibility? In this day and age? Of course it is.

It was probably the scariest thing I'd ever seen in my years as a police officer-total desolation, without apparent rhyme or reason.

As soon as we touched down and I climbed out of the helicopter, I was outfitted in chemical protective overgarments, CPOGs, including a gas mask and other gear. The rubber mask was state-of-the-art, with dual eyepieces and an internal drinking tube for replenishing fluids. I felt like a character in a scary Philip K. Dick story. But it didn't last too long. I took the unwieldy mask off as soon as I saw a couple of army officers roaming around without theirs.

We got a possible break soon after I arrived. A couple of rock climbers had spotted a man using a video camera to film the explosion. He looked suspicious, and one of the climbers had photographed the man with his digital camera. The climbers also had shots of the town's evacuation.

Two of our agents were interviewing the climbers, and I also wanted to talk to them as soon as the agents had finished. Unfortunately, the local police had gotten to the camera first and were holding it until their chief arrived at the scene. He was late, because he'd been away on a hunting trip.

When the chief finally got there, in an old black Dodge Polaris, I was all over him. I started talking before he had even climbed out of his car.

"Chief, your men are holding important evidence. We need to see it," I said, not raising my voice at the sixtyish, potbellied man but making sure he got the point. "This is a federal investigation now. I'm here representing both the FBI and Homeland Security. We've lost valuable time because of your men."

To his credit, the police chief himself was exasperated. He began yelling at his officers. "Bring the evidence over here, you morons. What the hell are you two trying to pull? What were you thinking? Do you think? Bring the evidence."

His men came running, and the taller of the two, who I later learned was the chief's son-in-law, handed over the camera. It was a Canon PowerShot and I knew how to get at the pictures.

So what do we have here? The first shots were well-composed nature photos. No people in any of them. Close-ups and wide-angle shots.

Then came pictures of the actual evacuation. Unbelievable.

Then I finally got my first look at the man who had filmed the explosion.

His back was to the camera. At first he was standing, but in the next few shots he was down on one knee. Probably to get a better angle.

I don't know what had prompted the rock climber to take the initial few shots, but his instincts were pretty good. The mystery man was videotaping the deserted town-then suddenly it went up in flames that rose several hundred feet high. It seemed pretty clear that he had known about the attack before it happened.

The next photograph showed the man turning in the direction of the climbers. He actually began to walk toward them, or so it appeared on film. I wondered if he'd spotted one of them taking his picture. He seemed to be looking their way.

That was when I saw his face, and I couldn't believe what I was looking at. I recognized him. And why not? I'd been chasing him for years. He was wanted for more than a dozen murders here and in Europe. He was a vicious psychopath, one of the worst of his kind still on the loose anywhere in the world.

His name was Geoffrey Shafer, but I knew him better as the Weasel.

What was he doing here?

There were a couple more crystal-clear shots as the hateful Weasel got closer to the photographer.

Just the sight of him sent my brain reeling, and I felt a little sick. My mouth was dry, and I kept licking my lips. What is Shafer doing here? What connection does he have to the bomb that leveled this small town? It was crazy, felt like a dream, completely unreal.

I'd first come across Colonel Geoffrey Shafer in Washington three years ago. He'd murdered more than a dozen people there, though we could never prove it. He would pose as a cabdriver, usually in Southeast, where I lived. The prey was easy to grab, and he knew D.C. police investigations weren't as thorough when the victims were poor and black. Shafer also had a day job-he was an army colonel working inside the British embassy. On the face of it, he couldn't have been more respectable. And yet he was a horrible murderer, one of the worst pattern killers I'd ever come across.