James Patterson - Second Honeymoon

“I want you to take a look at something,” I said to Breslow, opening the envelope.

It was the report from Ethan and Abigail’s autopsy.

Chapter 22

“AS YOU CAN see from the toxicology section, there were traces of the nerve agent cyclosarin found in both Ethan and Abigail,” I said. “Once they were trapped in that sauna, the murderer wasn’t taking any chances. He poisoned them.”

Breslow looked up from the autopsy report, his eyes narrowing to a squint. “In other words, that’s why you’re here and not there. We’re not looking for someone in Turks and Caicos, are we?”

I shook my head. “Cyclosarin isn’t exactly found over the counter.”

“Where is it found?” he asked.

“That depends on who you talk to in the intelligence world and whether they’re on the record or not. The only country that for sure has produced cyclosarin in significant quantities is Iraq. After that, high on the suspect list would be—”

“China,” said Breslow, beating me to the punch. He knew where I was heading with this.

Cheng Mie Pharmaceutical was rumored to have worked closely with the Chinese government on developing chemical weapons. Li Kunlun, the chairman, had even been an officer in the Chinese armed forces.

“So he blames me for his son’s suicide and kills mine in return?” asked Breslow, suspicious. “That’s not really the Chinese way.”

“Neither is wearing bunny ears and a diaper,” I said.

Breslow conceded the point with a slight nod. “What now?” he asked. “It’s not like you can question him.”

“Even if I could I wouldn’t yet,” I said. “Not without some link connecting means and motive.”

“Like Chinese passports coming into the island?”

“For starters,” I said.

“Do you want me to make a call to the U.S. embassy in Beijing? Perhaps they could help.”

“Who do you know there?” I asked.

“Everybody,” he answered.

Gee, why was I not surprised?

Still, I’d just as soon not be the suspended FBI agent who upended relations between the U.S. and China. At least not yet.

“No. Let’s not play that card until we know more,” I said.

I wrapped things up, telling Breslow I’d keep him informed. Then he walked me out. As he shook my hand in the foyer, I could tell there was something on his mind, perhaps a question left unanswered.

Sure enough. “I’m curious why you didn’t ask me,” he said.

“Ask you what?”

“Whether or not I was the one who hired those Italian prostitutes and gave them a video recorder.”

“It’s none of my business,” I said.

“It is if it led to my son’s murder.”

I stared at Breslow, wondering what he was doing. Confessing? Still sizing me up? Or was it something else?

Not that it really mattered. The reason I didn’t ask him was because I already knew the answer. It was straight out of those Encyclopedia Brown mystery books I used to love to read when I was a kid. Something he’d done had tipped his hand.

You’re not quite as cagey as you think, Warner Breslow.

Chapter 23

I COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time I pulled up to my house knowing that no one else would be there. Between Marshall and Judy, John Jr. and Max, there was always somebody who’d answer when I’d walk through the door and shout out, “Hello? Anyone home?”

I hadn’t given much thought to being alone before they all left. Now I was by myself, and it was kind of weird. A little sad, even. A little eerie, too.

I got the mail before heading inside, flipping through it as I grabbed myself a Heineken Light from the fridge. The boys had barely had time to unpack their bags up at camp, so there was no chance of getting a letter from them. Instead, it was just a couple of bills, some junk mail, and—

What’s this?

Sandwiched between the latest issue of Sports Illustrated and an L.L.Bean catalog was a small package, one of those padded manila envelopes. My address had been handwritten in black marker, and the envelope was sealed tight with a lot—and I mean a lot—of clear tape. We’re talking the whole roll.

Whatever was inside wasn’t getting out on its own.

I was looking so much at the tape that I didn’t notice something right away. The postmark was from Park City, Utah, but there was no return address. Not in the upper left corner, not on the back, not anywhere.

Oh, great. Cue the paranoid thoughts …

You could forgive an FBI agent for being a little…um…spooked when it came to mysterious packages in the mail. The Unabomber, anyone? Those anthrax-infected letters sent after 9/11? In fact, since then, any mail delivered to me or any other agent at my office without a return address had to be X-rayed.

But this wasn’t my office. This was my home, and I didn’t exactly have an X-ray machine tucked away next to the old Black & Decker tool set down in the basement.

Here goes nothing.

After giving the package a quick shake, as though I were a kid on Christmas morning, I grabbed a pair of scissors and cut open one of the ends. So far so good. There was no suspicious powder, and it certainly wasn’t a bomb.

Instead, it was a Bible.

Really? A Bible?

My first thought was that some religious charity had decided to step things up with its fund-raising.

But there was no letter attached. No solicitation. Just a holy Bible.

No, wait. Make that a stolen holy Bible.

Flipping it open, I saw PROPERTY OF THE FRONTIER HOTEL, PARK CITY, UT stamped on the inside cover.

Frontier Hotel? I’d never heard of it, let alone been there. I was pretty sure I didn’t even know anyone from Park City. I once skied at Deer Valley years and years ago, but that was it, my only visit.

I took the last sip of beer and was about to shrug it off and move on to more pressing matters—like grabbing a second beer, for instance—when I noticed that one of the pages was dog-eared.

I turned to it.

The next thing I knew, I was practically turning my house upside down.

Chapter 24

IT WASN’T ANYTHING I read.

It was something I couldn’t read.

What had been dog-eared was a section in the Old Testament, the Song of Moses, from the book of Deuteronomy. A passage was missing—literally cut out from the middle of the page—right between Deuteronomy 32:34 and 32:36.

What was 32:35?

Maybe if I’d paid more attention in Sunday school, when I was an altar boy at Saint Augustine’s Church, I’d know. But I was the kid in the back of the room, staring at the clock and counting the minutes until they served the cookies and lemonade.

So off I went. A tornado from room to room.

I knew there was a King James Bible somewhere in the house. A beautiful one, too. Leather-bound, gilt-edge paper. It had belonged to Susan. John Jr. read from it at her funeral. I still remember how brave he was, holding back the tears so he could finish his passage.

“Mom wouldn’t want me to cry,” he told me afterward.

That’s where I looked first, his room. The bookcase next to his desk was too obvious. I mean, what thirteen-year-old kid puts something where it belongs, right? After scanning the shelves, I checked the closet. Then the small table by his bed. Then under his bed.

Max’s room? I went down the hall and did the same routine, checking everywhere. I felt like one of those parents in those after-school specials, rifling through his kid’s room searching for his stash of weed. Of course, Max was only ten. There wasn’t even a stashed-away Playboy to be found.

Or a Bible.

I kept looking, determined as hell to find it. This was strange, after all. Someone was trying to tell me something, and whoever it was had gotten cute about it.