James Patterson: London Bridges

Lots of interesting connections, but nothing very clear yet.

The helicopter pilot turned to me. "We should be in visual contact with Wells as soon as we clear these mountains up ahead. We'll see lights, anyway. But so will they. I don't think we can sneak up on anybody out here in the desert."

I nodded to him. "Just try to land as close as you can to the airport. We'll coordinate with the state troopers. We might draw fire," I added.

"Understood," the pilot said.

I started to discuss our options with Wade and Moriarity. Should we try to land at the airport itself, or nearby in the desert? Had either of them fired their weapons before, or been fired on? I found out that they hadn't. Neither of them. Terrific.

The pilot turned to us again. "Here we go. Airport should be coming up on our right. There."

Suddenly I could see a small airfield with a two-story building and what looked like two airstrips. I spotted cars, maybe half a dozen, but I didn't see a red Bronco yet.

Then I saw a small private plane taxiing and getting ready for takeoff.

Shafer? It didn't seem likely to me, but neither did anything else so far.

"I thought we shut down Wells?" I called to the pilot.

"So did I. Maybe this is our boy. If it is, he's gone. That's a Learjet 55 and it moves pretty damn good."

From that moment on, there was very little we could do but watch. The Learjet shot down one of the runways, then it was airborne, winging away from us and making it look ridiculously easy. I could imagine Geoffrey Shafer on board, looking back at the FBI helicopter, maybe giving us the finger. Or was he giving me the finger? Could he know that I was there?

A few minutes later we were on the ground at Wells. Almost immediately I got the jolting news that the Learjet was off radar.

"What do you mean 'off radar'?" I asked the two techies inside the tiny Wells control room.

The older of the two answered. "What I mean is that the jet seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. It's like it was never here."

But the Weasel had been there- I'd seen him. And I had photographs to prove it.

Geoffrey Shafer drove a dark blue Oldsmobile Cutlass full-bore through the desert. He wasn't on board the jet that had flown out of Wells, Nevada. That would have been too easy. Weasels always have several escape routes planned.

As he drove, Shafer was thinking that the oddly brilliant plan in the desert had worked well, and there had certainly been backup contingencies just in case something didn't work right. He had also learned that Dr. Cross, now with the FBI, had shown up in Nevada.

Is that part of the big picture, too? Somehow, he expected that it was. But why Cross? What does the Wolf have in mind for him?

The Weasel eventually made a stop in Fallon, Nevada, where he was scheduled to make his next contact. He didn't know exactly who he was contacting, or why, or where this whole operation was leading. He just knew his piece-and his explicit orders were to call in from Fallon and get the next set of instructions.

So he followed his orders, registered at the Best Inn Fallon, and went straight to his room. He used a cell phone, which he'd been told to destroy after he made the call. There were no pleasantries exchanged, no unnecessary words. Just the business at hand.

"This is the Wolf," he heard as contact was made, and Shafer wondered if that was so. According to rumor, the real Wolf had impersonators, maybe even body doubles. All of them with their piece, right?

Next he heard disturbing news. "You were seen, Colonel Shafer. You were spotted and photographed near Sunrise Valley. Did you know that?"

At first, Shafer tried to deny it, but he was cut off.

"We're looking at copies of the pictures right now. That's how the Bronco was followed to Wells. Which is why we told you to exchange vehicles outside town and drive to Fallon. Just in case something went wrong."

Shafer didn't know what to say. How could he have been spotted out in the middle of nowhere? Why was Cross there?

The Wolf finally laughed. "Oh, don't worry your pretty head, Colonel. You were supposed to be spotted. The photographer works for us.

"Now proceed to your next contact point in the morning. And have some fun tonight in Fallon. Paint the town, Colonel. I want you to go and kill somebody out in the desert. You choose a victim. Do your stuff. That's an order."

The level of frustration and tension I was feeling was increasing by the hour, and so was the general confusion about the case. I'd never seen so much chaos, so fast, in my entire life.

Almost a full day after the bombing, there was nothing but a hole in the ground in the Nevada desert, and a couple of questionable leads. We had talked to the three hundred or so residents of Sunrise Valley, but none of the survivors had a clue, either. Nothing unusual had happened in the days before the bombing; no stranger had visited. We hadn't found the army vehicles or discovered where they had come from. What had happened in Sunrise Valley still didn't make sense. Neither did Colonel Geoffrey Shafer's being there. But it sure shook us up.

No one had even taken credit for the bombing yet.

After two days, there wasn't too much more I could do out in the desert, so I caught a ride home to Washington. I found Nana, the kids, even Rosie the cat out on the front porch, waiting for me.

Home, sweet home again. Why didn't I just learn a lesson and stay there?

"This is real nice," I said, beaming as I bounded up the steps. "A welcoming committee. I guess everybody missed me, right? How long you been out here waiting for your pops?"

Nana and the kids shook their heads pretty much in unison, and I smelled conspiracy.

Nana said, "Of course we're glad to see you, Alex," and finally cracked a smile. They all did. Conspiracy, for sure.

"Gotcha!" said Jannie, who was ten. She had on a crocheted sun hat with her braids hanging out. "Of course we're your welcoming committee. Of course we missed you, Daddy. Who wouldn't?"

"Got you bad!" Damon taunted from his perch on the rail. He was twelve and looked the part. Sean John T-shirt, straight-leg jeans, Hiptowns.

I pointed a finger at him. "I'll get you, you break my porch rail." Then I smiled. "Gotcha!" I said to Damon.

After that, I had to answer all sorts of questions about little Alex and show around my digital camera with dozens of pictures of our beloved little man.

Everybody was pretty much laughing now, which was better, and it was definitely good to be home again, even if I was still waiting for more news about the bombing in Nevada and about Shafer's involvement.

Nana had held dinner for me, and after a delicious meal of roast chicken with garlic and lemon, squash, mushrooms, and onions, the family congregated in the kitchen over cleanup and bowls of ice cream. Jannie showed off a pen-and-ink of her heroes Venus and Serena Williams, which was sensational; eventually, we watched the Washington Wizards on TV. Finally, everybody started to wander off to bed, but there were hugs and kisses first. Nice, very nice. Much, much better than yesterday and, I was willing to bet, not as good as tomorrow.

About eleven, I finally climbed the steep stairs to my office in the attic. I reviewed my case file on Sunrise Valley for twenty minutes or so in preparation for the next day, then I called Jamilla in San Francisco. I'd talked to her a couple of times over the past two days, but I'd mostly been too busy. I figured she might be home from work by now.

All I got was a voice message, though.

I don't like to leave messages myself, especially since I'd already left a couple from Nevada, but I finally said, "Hi, it's Alex. I'm still trying to sell you on the idea of forgiving me for what happened at the airport in San Francisco. If you want to come East sometime soon, I'm buying the plane ticket. Talk to you soon. I miss you, Jam. Bye."