James Patterson: WMC - First to Die

BECKY DE GEORGE in the bloom of her first full day as Michael's wife, walked out of the hotel lobby holding her husband's hand. She breathed in the cool night air, the first fresh air she had inhaled all day. In the brief span of their marriage, she and Michael had made love several times and taken two steamy showers together. They had poked their heads out for an obligatory but, at last, final brunch with the families. They had begged off the trip to Opus One, scurried back upstairs, and popped a last bottle of champagne. Michael had put on a sex video and as they watched the film they played out some unusual and exciting roles. He seemed to have several fantasies about wearing women's clothes. Tomorrow, they'd be off to Mazatlan, for a heavenly week exploring all those sexy spots on his body she had yet to find. Maybe they'd even come out once or twice to see the dolphins. So far, she decided, things were going very well. Tonight, they were headed to the French Laundry, the finest restaurant in Napa. Everyone said it was the place to eat, and they had booked the reservation almost six months in advance. Becky's mouth watered as she dreamed of some fabulous sequence of tastes: foie gras, wild-berry duck, all washed down with an expensive champagne. On the short walk to the car, a black limo pulled up alongside them. The passenger window opened, and a uniformed driver stuck his head out. "Mr. and Mrs. De George They looked at each other, puzzled, then smiled. "That's us." "I'm at your service," the driver announced. "Compliments of the hotel." Becky was ecstatic. "You mean for us?" Once, in her job as a legal secretary, at a big closing, she had ridden in a fabulous stretch; but she had been jammed in the backseat with four preoccupied lawyers. "Booked and paid for the night," the driver said, and winked. The newlyweds exchanged a bright, exclamatory look. "No one mentioned anything about this," said Michael, who seemed pleased with the notion that he was thought of as a VIP. Becky peeked inside. "Oh, Michael." There were lush leather seats and a polished mahogany bar with crystal glasses. The lights were dimmed to a romantic glow. There was even a bottle of chardonnay on ice. She thought of pulling up to the most fashionable restaurant in Napa in this wonderful car. "C'mon, Michael." She laughed, almost pulling him in. "It'll be a trip." "I can be waiting at the restaurant when you come out," the driver said, "and as it happens, you're talking to someone who happens to know the most scenic routes through Napa." She saw Michael's mild hesitation begin to crack. "Don't you want to take your princess in style?" Just as he had when she first smiled his way in the office, just as he had in bed last night, she saw him slowly come around. He was a little cautious sometimes. Accountants often were. But she'd always found ways of loosening him up. "Whatever Becky wants," Michael finally said.

"JUST MARRIED?" Phillip Campbell asked, his heart jumping. The bright lights of oncoming cars shot through him like X rays, exposing innermost desires. "Twenty-six hours, twenty-two minutes, and… forty five seconds," Becky chirped. Campbell's heart pounded loudly. She was perfect. They were perfect together. Even better than he had hoped. The road was blank and seemed directionless, but he knew where he was going. "Help yourself to a drink. That's a Palmeyer in the bucket. Some people think it's the best in the valley." As he drove, the killer's nerves were taut and excited. What is the worst thing anyone has ever done? Can I do it again? More to the point, can I ever stop doing it? He glanced back and saw Becky and Michael pouring the Palmeyer wine. He heard the clink of raised glasses, then something about years of good luck. With a chill in his heart, he watched them kiss. He hated every smug, deluded pore in their bodies. Don't you want to take your princess in style? He fingered the gun resting in his lap. He was changing murder weapons. After a while, Campbell turned the limo up a steep hill off the main road. "Where're we heading, driver?" the husband's voice came from the back. He glanced in the mirror and smiled confidently at the De Georges "I thought I'd take you the scenic way. Best views in the valley. And I'll still have you to the restaurant by eight." "We don't want to be late," the groom warned sheepishly. "These reservations were harder to get than the damn hotel." "Oh, c'mon, honey," Becky chimed in with perfect timing. "Things start to open up just ahead," he told them. "Real pretty. In the meantime, relax. Put on some music. I'll show you the best views. Very romantic." He pushed a button, and a thin band of pulsing lights began to shoot around the roof of the back compartment, a soft, romantic light show. "Oooh," Becky said as the lights came on. "This is so great." "I'll put up the privacy screen for the rest of the trip. You're only newlyweds once. Feel free to do whatever. Just look at it as your night." He left the screen slightly open, so he could still see and hear them as he drove deeper into the hills. They were nuzzling now, sharing kisses. The groom's hand was moving up Becky's thigh. She pushed her pelvis into him. The road became bumpy, and at intermittent points the rough, split concrete gave way to gravelly dirt. They were climbing. On both sides, the slopes were patterned with grids of darkened vines. Becky's teasing laughter gave way to a steady rhythm of deep-throated sighs. Phillip Campbell's breath began to race. Only inches away, he could hear her panting. A warm, velvety sensation began to burn in his thighs, as it had a week ago at the Grand Hyatt. Michael was entering Becky, and she moaned. What is the worst thing! At a clearing, he pulled the car to a stop, turned the headlights off. He took the gun and pulled back the double-clicking action. Then he lowered the privacy screen. In the ambient light, there was Becky, her black cocktail dress pulled up around her waist. "Bravo!" he exclaimed. They looked up, startled. He saw a flicker of fear in the bride's eyes. She tried to cover herself. Only then did the killer recognize that the warm flood burning his thighs and his knees was his own urine. He emptied the gun into Becky and Michael De George

THAT SUNDAY MORNING, I woke for the first time all week with a sense of hopefulness. It's the way I am… or was. It was clear and beautiful outside; the bay was shimmering as if it were thrilled, too. And it was the day of my brunch with Claire. My confession to her. Sunday mornings I had this place I always went to. My favorite place, I had told Raleigh. First I drove downtown, to the Marina Green, in my tights, and jogged in the shadow of the bridge. Mornings like this, I felt infused with everything that was beautiful about living in San Francisco. The brown coast of Marin, the noises of the bay, even Alcatraz, standing guard. I ran my usual three-plus miles south on the harbor, then up the two hundred and twelve stone stairs into Fort Mason Park. Even with Negli's I could still do it. This morning it seemed to be letting me free. I jogged past yelping dogs running loose, lovers on a morning walk, gray-clad, bald-headed Chinese men bickering over mahjongg. Always to the same spot, high on the cliff, looking east over the bay. It was 7:45. No one knew I came here. Or why. Like every Sunday, I came upon a small group practicing their tai chi. They were mostly Chinese, led, as every week, by the same old man in a gray knit cap and sweater vest. I huffed to a stop and joined in, as I had every Sunday for the past ten years, since my mother died. They didn't know me. What I did. Who I was. I didn't know them. The old man gave me the same quick, welcoming nod he always did. There's a passage in Thoreau: "Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it, but while I drink, I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its current slides away, but eternity remains. I would drink deeper, fish in the sky, whose bottom is pebbly with stars." I guess I've read that a hundred times. It's the way I feel up here. Part of the stream. No Negli's. No crimes, no faces twisted in death. No bride and groom murders. I did my Morning Swan, my Dragon, and I felt as light and free as I had before Orenthaler first dropped the news on me. The leader nodded. No one asked me if I was well. Or how the week was. I just welcomed the day, and knew that I was lucky to have it. My favorite place. I got home just before eleven, a half-finished coffee and the Sunday Chronicle in my hands. I figured I'd poke through the Metro section, see if there was anything on the case from my new best friend Cindy Thomas, shower, and be ready to meet Claire at one. It was 11:25 when the phone rang. To my surprise, the voice on the line was Raleigh's. "You dressed?" he asked. "Sort of. Why? I have plans." "Cancel them. I'm picking you up. We're going to Napa." "Napa?" There was no trace of anything light or playful in his voice. "What's up?" "I went into the office this morning just to check. While I was there, someone named Hartwig got transferred from Central Dispatch. He's a lieutenant in Napa. He's got some couple out there who are missing. They're newlyweds on their honeymoon."