James Patterson - Second Honeymoon

“When are you due to deliver the autopsy report?” I asked.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “Unless, of course, there’s a reason I shouldn’t be delivering it.”

I had to hand it to the guy; he wasn’t giving up easily. He was basically offering to delay the report in exchange for my telling him how I knew he should look for cyclosarin.

The fact that he had TMZ on the TV in his office when I was there made complete sense now. Dr. Papenziekas liked to be in the know. Of course, I couldn’t really blame him; he spent his days dissecting dead people. Anything to liven things up, right?

“That’s okay,” I said. “You can release that autopsy report when—”

“Jesus Christ!” he blurted out.

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you anywhere near a television?”

Clearly, he had one front and center.

“Yeah, why?” I asked.

“Turn to CNN, because…um…well…” He was stumbling over his words, as if trying to figure out how to explain it. “It’s…um…”

I pushed him. “What? What is it?”

Finally, he spit it out.

“It’s you! ” he said.

Chapter 67

I GRABBED THE remote, immediately flipping over to CNN. Even before my thumb could hit the Mute button again to get the sound back, I was…well, speechless.

It was me, all right. That is, it was my name—in big, bold letters near the top of the screen. But the real kicker was the two words following it. I wanted to rub my eyes and check the focus. What the hell is going on?

JOHN O’HARA SERIAL KILLER

The sound returned as the studio anchor was throwing it over to a correspondent outside the White House. At the same time, I could hear another sound—my name, no less—as I realized I still had Dr. Papenziekas on the phone.

Not for long.

“Agent O’Hara, are you there?” he was asking. “Agent O’Hara?”

“I’m here, I’m here.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’m about to find out,” I said. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

And, like that, I hung up. Abrupt, yeah, but I’d just read my name on the same line with the words serial killer on the TV. Hell, I wasn’t even sure yet what that meant, only that it couldn’t be good.

I focused back on the correspondent outside the White House, some guy with helmet hair and horse teeth, just in time to hear him mention the “press secretary’s earlier statement.” Jump cut: we were inside the White House briefing room.

Finally, the details came. I sat there listening to Amanda Kyle, the president’s press secretary, explain that “for reasons yet unknown” someone was going around killing guys named John O’Hara. Four so far in four different states.

She stressed there was no indication that the killer’s motive had anything to do with the president’s brother-in-law, but the cynic in me thought otherwise. Of course, I wouldn’t be the only one. She was simply anticipating the onslaught when she opened the floor for questions. It came.

The room erupted into a Darwinian shouting match until the loudest and most persistent voice prevailed.

“Has security been increased for the president’s brother-in-law?”

Amanda Kyle wasn’t the press secretary for nothing. She knew exactly where she wanted to take the conversation.

“John O’Hara, the president’s brother-in-law, has been afforded Secret Service protection since before the inauguration,” she began before pivoting. “But why I’m here today—why the president thought it was so important we make this threat public—is because we obviously can’t afford to give that same protection to everyone in this country named John O’Hara. The last thing we want is to cause a panic, but at the same time we have a responsibility, a duty, to let people know.”

The room erupted again, but there might as well have been a “mission accomplished” banner hanging behind her. One that was actually true this time. She’d cleverly deflected the spotlight away from the president’s brother-in-law.

Next question.

“Where have the killings taken place so far?”

Kyle calmly checked off the towns and cities. Winnemucca…Park City… Flagstaff…Candle Lake.

Wait a minute, I thought. Park City?

I bolted off the stool in the kitchen, heading straight for the den. That’s where I’d left it, the Bible that had arrived in the mail. Sender unknown.

I opened the cover, staring again at the stamp in red ink as I walked back into the kitchen. PROPERTY OF THE FRONTIER HOTEL, PARK CITY, UT.

I put the Bible down on the granite countertop, flipping to the page where the passage had been cut out—Deuteronomy 32:35, the Song of Moses. I had it marked with a yellow sticky note on which I’d written the missing words.

To me belongeth vengeance, and recompence;

their foot shall slide in due time:

for the day of their calamity is at hand,

and the things that shall come upon them make haste.

I’d barely finished reading the last line when I heard a voice over my shoulder. Someone was in my house, right in my kitchen. Someone I was sure I didn’t know this time.

“Are you John O’Hara?” the stranger asked.

Chapter 68

I FROZE, MY body holding perfectly still for a few seconds. Those seconds felt like a lifetime. Or was it that I felt like my lifetime only had a few seconds left?

If I had been anywhere away from home, I would already have been doing the world’s fastest deep knee bend to reach for my shin holster.

But that baby, and, more important, the 9mm Beretta it was holding, was sitting somewhere in my bedroom upstairs, along with my wallet, pocket change, and a half-eaten roll of Pep O Mint Life Savers.

Now what?

It was the next best thing. Lunging to my right, I grabbed the closest handle from the block of Wüsthof knives next to the stove and spun around with my arm cocked, ready to throw.

Again, I froze.

Good thing, too. Otherwise she probably wouldn’t have done the same—and she was the one with the gun.

“FBI!” she shouted, collapsing into the crouch position they teach you your first year. Smaller target, more vital organs shielded. Only when she saw that she had the upper hand did she reach for her badge. Even from twenty feet away I knew it was legit.

“Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me!” I said, lowering the knife. I exhaled so heavily I could’ve blown up a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade balloon.

Her exhale was just as big. A Rocky to my Bullwinkle. “My God, I could’ve shot you!” she said, lowering her gun.

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

I nodded at the TV. The CNN anchor was back on the screen, as were the same four words: “John O’Hara serial killer.”

The second she saw it she rolled her eyes. They were green, I couldn’t help noticing, and about as attractive as the rest of her. Interesting, though. With her hair pulled back and minimal makeup, I could tell she was trying her best not to advertise her looks. Just the opposite, actually.

“I’m John O’Hara,” I said, acknowledging what we both saw on the screen. “And you are?”

“Special Agent Brubaker,” she said. “Sarah.” She holstered her Glock 23. “You thought I was—”

“About to make me the fifth victim, yeah,” I said. “Wait, how did you get—”

We were officially finishing each other’s sentences. “I rang the doorbell but no one answered. I came around back, the patio door was open…you didn’t hear the doorbell?”

“No one can—it’s broken,” I said. “Gee, maybe I should get that fixed, huh?”

She started to laugh, but it wasn’t on account of my sarcasm.

“What?” I asked. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said, looking at the counter in front of me.