James Patterson - Second Honeymoon

She hung up and stepped over to the corner of the hallway leading back to the bar. She peeked around the edge, catching a quick glimpse of Jared right where she’d left him. That’s a good boy. Have you ordered those shots yet?

Sarah knew damn well the name of the movie with the volleyball called Wilson. Cast Away. Another Tom Hanks film, no less.

Question was, how did a guy who worked for Wilson Sporting Goods not know it? That was like the mayor of Philadelphia not being able to name that boxing movie starring Sylvester Stallone.

If anything, if you worked for the company, you’d probably be sick of talking about Cast Away and that damn volleyball.

Sarah took another peek around the corner, only to have her view blocked by a burly older man with a gray beard coming down the hallway.

She quickly pulled back, watching as he waddled by her on the way to the men’s room. He smelled of tequila and Old Spice cologne, heavy on both.

There was another thing bugging Sarah, something else about Jared. He asked where she was from but not what she did for a living—even after discussing his own job. Maybe it was an oversight.

Or maybe it was because he already knew the answer to the question.

Sarah’s cell, set to vibrate, shook in her hand. Eric was calling back already. What a guy.

“So much for our free tennis rackets,” he said. “No Jared Sullivan with Wilson Sporting Goods.”

“What about for the city?”

“Two Jared Sullivans in Chicago, five for the state. The two in Chicago are forty-six and fifty-eight.”

“Too old,” said Sarah. “Anyone in their late twenties?”

“One from Peoria; he’s twenty-nine. He’s also tall, six foot four. What’s your guy?”

“Sitting down, unfortunately.” She peeked around the corner again to see if she could better size him up. “Oh, shit!”

“What?”

“I’ll call you back!”

Got to run. Literally.

Chapter 58

SARAH JAMMED THE phone in her pocket and nearly slammed into the tequila-and-Old-Spice fat man, who was coming out of the men’s room. He mumbled something at her—“Watch it!” maybe—or maybe it was just a belch.

Either way, it was distant noise. Sarah was sprinting, a blur, and already halfway down the hallway to the bar, the same bar that was now without Jared Sullivan, or whoever he was.

For a few frantic seconds, she stopped in front of the empty seats where they’d been sitting. The only remnants of their being there were the two bottles of Bud. His was finished, hers was half full. Or more like half empty.

Sarah spun around, her eyes searching every corner of Canteena’s. But he was nowhere. At least not inside.

Damn! Damn! Dammit!

Lickety-split, she headed for the front entrance, the sawdust on the floor kicking up everywhere in her wake. Pushing through the heavy wooden slab of a door, she practically sprang outside, the hot night air immediately slamming against her face.

To her left were two women smoking. They looked like mother and daughter.

“Did you see a guy walk out a minute ago?” Sarah asked, half out of breath. “Good-looking? Sort of like Matthew McConaughey?”

“We just stepped out here, honey,” said the older woman, holding up her cigarette to show it had just been lit.

“But if he really looks like Matthew McConaughey, I’ll help you look for him,” said the younger one with a chuckle.

Sarah forced a smile, if only not to be a bitch, but her eyes had already moved on to the parking lot that wrapped around the building. It was three-quarters pickup trucks and 100 percent jam-packed, not a space to be had.

Off she ran, clockwise. Just as she and the officers had gone around the lake.

There was a chance he was parked in the back, maybe even still heading toward his car.

She ran through the lot, circling the building. She circled it again. She was in the back, standing near a couple of overstuffed Dumpsters, the only light coming from the mostly full moon overhead.

It was the sound she heard first.

The roar of an engine behind her, so loud it was as if she were standing in the middle of a runway at Dulles International Airport. The second she spun around, she was blinded by a pair of headlights. The lights were getting bigger. Very quickly, too. The car was heading straight at her.

No time for overthinking this. She dove. Part leap. Part cartwheel. Straight between the two Dumpsters to her right, the asphalt practically knocking the wind out of her as she landed.

Make and model! License plate! Get something!

But by the time she could look up and focus, his car was turning the corner, gone. It was so dark out that she couldn’t even tell what color the car was. She got nothing.

No, wait—not quite. She still had her own car.

Sarah pushed herself up, sprinting in the direction of her rental car. She could still catch him, she thought. Hell, yeah, let’s see what this Camaro can do!

“Shit!” she screamed the second she laid eyes on it.

Jared Sullivan knew who she was, all right. He knew what car she was driving, too.

Sarah stopped at the right rear tire, flat to the rim. Ditto for the left rear one. “Shit!” she yelled again. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

The bastard had slashed all four tires, and as if to rub it in he left his folding knife resting on the hood of the car.

Only it wasn’t his knife.

Sarah picked it up with the bottom of her shirt, then took out her phone for some light. There were initials inscribed on the ivory handle. J.O.

John O’Hara .

It was his fishing knife. And it was no longer missing. Sarah had found another piece of the puzzle.

Chapter 59

SARAH CALLED DAN Driesen the next morning to brief him. She didn’t want to make the call, but she had to. It was like going to the dentist. To have a tooth pulled. Without Novocain.

“Hell, Sarah, you’re supposed to be chasing him, not the other way around,” he said in a tone that was bordering on ticked off but nonetheless contained a hint of genuine concern. “He could’ve killed you.”

“That’s just it. He could’ve killed me, but he didn’t,” she said, standing by the window of her third-floor room at the Embassy Suites. Nothing but cacti and highway as far as the eye could see. “He was probably hiding at the lake and saw me with the local police. From that moment on he could’ve killed me at any time, and he chose not to.”

“So now you’re saying he didn’t try to run you over with his car?”

“Think about it. If he really wanted to, why did he flip on his headlights?”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? He knows who you are, and that’s not good.”

“Maybe I can turn it to my advantage. I’m thinking about that possibility now.”

“Really?” Driesen asked, incredulous. “How?”

“I haven’t figured that part out yet, but I will. Before he changes his mind and comes back to get me.”

“In the meantime, you have no idea where he is or where he’s heading. Unless, of course, you’re going to tell me you’ve cracked those clues he’s been leaving behind.”

“Hey, I got here from Ulysses , didn’t I?”

“Yes, courtesy of a lucky break, don’t you think? Any thoughts on where You’ve Got Mail is going to put him next?” he asked sarcastically. “Should we be trying to find a John O’Hara who works for the post office?”

The really crazy thing was, Sarah had already considered that.

She hated to admit it, but Driesen’s point was valid. The John O’Hara Killer still had the upper hand on her. And, yes, maybe even more so now.

“There’s still a lot I can do out here, though,” she said. “I haven’t even begun to work the town. Maybe he interacted with other people.”