James Patterson - Truth or Die

“No, not at all,” he said. “It’s good.”

“Good,” said Sebastian. “Shall we sit down?”

He led the way over to the hotel’s modernist take on a living room area — one couch opposite two armchairs, a black lacquered table in the middle. There were no place cards, but once Sebastian sat down in one of the armchairs, it was only natural that Dobson would take the couch. Better yet, he sat right in the center. Center stage, if you will.

“Nice room,” said Dobson, looking around.

You should see the other one, dude.

Or, at least, that was what I pictured Owen saying through the wall while watching on his laptop.

The kid really had a thing for adjoining rooms.

From the other armchair, I watched and listened as Dobson laid out in detail the ways in which Sebastian would be able not only to conduct the one-on-one interviews with the president but also to travel with him once he began his reelection campaign.

“Not the press bus, Cole,” said Dobson. “I mean shotgun, right there next to the man. We’re talking the kind of access that would make Bob Woodward shit his pants with jealousy.”

Sebastian smiled and nodded. In fact, that was pretty much all he allowed himself as he deftly used the cover of his proper British upbringing to come off as agreeable as possible. Owen had made it very clear.

Faster than aspirin but slower than eye drops.

“Clay, do you want some more coffee?” I asked. Five minutes in and I’d already poured him one refill.

Dobson shook me off. “No, I’m all set,” he said.

We’ll see about that, I so wanted to say.

Instead, I simply peeked at my watch and shot a glance over at Sebastian. Finally, and once and for all.

It was time to hear the truth.

“So, any questions so far?” Dobson soon asked. It was clear he was only being polite. This was his end of the bargain, the quid to Sebastian’s quo, and he was sure he’d delivered in spades.

And, in fact, he had. Desperate men know no boundaries.

Sebastian sat back in his armchair, folded his legs, and used the few seconds of complete silence that followed to make it very clear that, yes, he actually did have some questions.

“Have you ever told a lie?” he asked.

Dobson’s reaction was as expected, his eyes narrowing to an incredulous squint. “What kind of a question is that?”

“A rather simple one,” said Sebastian.

Dobson looked at me for help with this suddenly crazy British journalist for the New York Times . I was the broker of this deal, after all.

But I was also a former prosecutor.

“Had you ever met Claire Parker?” I asked.

“What?” said Dobson. “Who?”

“Did you not hear me or do you not know the name?”

“I know the... I mean, I know who she is.”

“You mean was , right? You’re aware that she was murdered in Manhattan a little over a week ago, aren’t you?”

I watched as Dobson looked over my shoulder at the door. It was his way out. Escape. Freedom. From what exactly, he wasn’t sure yet. But it couldn’t be good.

That is, for a lesser man.

And in that moment, right there, a lifetime of ego and arrogance — of Dobson always thinking he was the smartest guy in the room — did exactly what we thought it would. It kept his ass seated square on that couch. Complete and utter inertia.

“Yes, it was all over the news,” he said calmly. “Claire Parker, the writer for the Times , was shot to death in the back of a taxi.”

“Do you know why she was murdered?” I asked.

“It was reported as a robbery,” said Dobson.

“Do you think that’s what it was?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

The smug expression, the self-satisfaction... he looked like a kid who’d just figured out a board game without reading the rules.

“I don’t know, you tell me,” I said. “Do you know why she was really murdered?”

Dobson opened his mouth to answer, but it was as if the hinges of his jaw had suddenly jammed. Every muscle in his face and neck snapped to attention as if somewhere in his brain a switch had been flipped. And indeed it had.

“No,” he managed to push past his lips, but as soon as he did, it was as if the word had turned around and punched his lights out, his head jolting back and his legs shaking as if the couch had just become an electric chair.

His eyes darted to the table in front of him, the coffee table. He stared at his cup, the realization sinking in. He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it. But he had no choice. He was getting the ultimate taste of his own medicine, and it was going down hard.

So was he.

“Did you instruct Frank Karcher to have Claire Parker killed?” I asked, and immediately repeated the question, full-throated, over the sound of Dobson desperately trying to fight against the pain. “Did you. Instruct. Frank Karcher. To have Claire Parker killed?”

Even if he wanted to leave now, he couldn’t. His body wouldn’t let him.

But he also had no intention of answering. Forget every word, it was every syllable that had become a struggle — and yet he somehow managed to string two together after sucking in a gasp of air.

“Fuck you!” he bellowed.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the flat-screen against the wall light up. Dobson turned to look, only to realize he was looking at a live feed of himself. Feeling pain was one thing, watching yourself feeling it added a whole new component. Owen was playing for keeps. We all were.

Fuck you back, Dobson. Have you forgotten how your serum works?

Only this wasn’t his serum.

This was the one he’d wished he had from the start. The one that didn’t kill people even if they were being honest. Better yet, it didn’t need to be injected. It could be absorbed into the bloodstream without being compromised by stomach acids.

The only thing Owen couldn’t do was make it tasteless. But strong black coffee was a pretty good masking agent.

I leaned forward, staring into Dobson’s eyes, which had turned red from burst blood vessels. He looked like a demon.

“The only thing that will stop the pain is telling the truth,” I said.

But as I looked at him, his body convulsing so violently it felt as if the entire room were shaking, I realized we both knew that wasn’t true. There was something else that could stop the pain.

Sebastian looked over at me, worried. I could read his face. Is Dobson that deranged? Is he crazy enough to do it?

I shook my head, but it was too late. Dobson had seen Sebastian. And of all things — as his eyes began to leak with red tears, his fists balled so tight I thought they would both snap off at the wrists — he did something that for the first time made me think that, yeah, maybe he was that sick in the head.

He smiled.

I turned away, only to see him again on the television, the smile seemingly wider. He wanted us to know. If I’m going down, I’m taking you all with me.

No. He was bluffing, I was sure of it. Sebastian, on the other hand, wasn’t. He was more than looking at me now. He was pleading.

“Do it,” he said. “Please.”

I put my hand in my pocket, feeling for the cylinder. I knew it was there; I must have checked it twenty times before Dobson arrived. But I had no intention of taking it out, let alone using it.

“Do it!” Sebastian repeated. He was scared to death. Or, more specifically, scared of the murder charge that would be slapped on all of us.

In the cylinder was the antidote. A small syringe with a spring-loaded needle and the ability to negate the effects of the serum in a matter of seconds. “Just in case,” Owen had said.