James Patterson - Second Honeymoon

Sarah saw it, too.

The Jeep was too low to the ground.

Sarah shined the flashlight on the front tires. Then on the back two. Each was flat to the rims.

I kicked the shit out of the door in frustration while Sarah looked up to the night sky.

“Dammit, not again!” she screamed.

Chapter 92

IT DIDN’T TAKE long for the deal Dan Driesen and the Bureau struck with the New York Times to fall apart. Disintegrate might be a better word.

The paper had agreed to sit on the story of the Honeymoon Murderer so we could set the trap for him. In return, they were to receive an exclusive on what should’ve been his capture. Should’ve been.

Unfortunately, life doesn’t always go as planned.

Now the story was right there on the front page—in the far right column, above the fold—for all the world to see.

“Don’t do it, O’Hara. Don’t beat yourself up,” said Driesen. Sarah and I were in his office at Quantico. Flags were at half-mast. Spirits were even lower. “It’s not your fault.”

Sarah had already told me the same thing—a few times over, in fact. I answered Driesen the same way I answered her.

“It was my idea,” I said. How could it not be my fault?

The only names mentioned in the article were those of the dead. The number stood at ten; the three newlywed couples plus the four agents. As for the paragraph on Agent Carver, it said he was married with two boys. The older one was thirteen, the same age as John Jr.

While I was getting my shoulder stitched up at Shenandoah Memorial Hospital it occurred to me that the very last word Carver ever spoke was help . If only I could have. I knew I’d be haunted by that forever.

Driesen leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. He blinked slowly, his chin dipping toward his chest. I was pretty sure what he was thinking as he looked at me. What the hell am I going to do with this guy?

He and I had only met face-to-face a few days earlier, but he’d read my file. He’d been briefed on me. I was John O’Hara, the agent so overcome with thoughts of avenging my wife’s death that I got myself suspended by the Bureau—only to then become the target of a serial killer stemming from an old case that had nearly gotten me fired because I slept with the suspect.

But wait. Tip of the iceberg, folks. There’s more.

While on suspension I got hired freelance to solve the murder of Warner Breslow’s son and his new bride, only to stumble upon yet another serial killer who ended up killing four agents in a plan I devised that went terribly, horribly, and downright appallingly wrong.

Hell, were it not actually happening to me I never would’ve believed it myself.

The worst part—and this, too, I’m sure Driesen was aware of—was that now, in addition to being obsessed with revenge, I was consumed by guilt. That’s a one-two punch from which a lot of people don’t get up.

Was I one of those people? Was I down for the count? Lost?

That’s what Driesen surely wanted to know.

“Tell me something, John,” he said. Before he could continue, however, the phone on his desk buzzed. His secretary apologized for interrupting, but there was a call she thought he needed to take.

“Who is it?” asked Driesen.

“Detective Brian Harris with the NYPD,” she said.

Driesen’s eyes narrowed. Clearly, he didn’t know who that was. He picked up. “Dan Driesen,” he said.

I watched as he listened. Whoever this Detective Harris was, it didn’t take long for him to prove that, yes, this was a call Driesen wanted to take. In fact, Driesen reached for a pen so fast he nearly knocked over his coffee mug.

I couldn’t see what he was writing, but as he glanced up and nodded with a slight smile I knew one thing for sure.

He was no longer wondering what the hell to do with me.

Chapter 93

SARAH AND I hopped the next Delta shuttle to New York, hailed a cab from LaGuardia to the Ninth Precinct on the Lower East Side, and climbed the stairs two at a time to the second floor to meet Detective Harris. I was still shaking the guy’s hand when I cut to the chase.

“Where is she?” I asked.

“Down the hall,” he said.

“Was she okay with waiting?” asked Sarah.

“No, but it’s not like she had much of a choice,” said Harris. “Once she told me what she told me…”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence; it was simply understood. A given. When a potentially huge break in a case comes walking through the door, you basically lock that door behind her. God forbid she changes her mind.

We followed Harris, a compact man with a shuffling gait, down the hall to a small lounge area furnished with a couple of beat-up couches, a half-empty vending machine, and some old People magazines. Make that really old. The cover of one announced Lost as the new hit television series.

In contrast, Martha Cole, the woman sitting on one of the couches, looked even younger than her twenty-two years of age. Mousy hair, a lean figure, a few freckles dotting the bridge of her nose. It would be a while before she ever ordered a drink without being carded.

At that moment, though, it seemed as if she could really use one. Maybe even two. After Harris introduced us I went to shake her hand, only to see that it was already shaking on its own. The rest of her was, too.

Sarah sat down next to her. “It’s okay, Martha,” she said soothingly. “I know how hard this must be for you, so we’ll try to make it as easy as possible. We just need to ask you some questions.”

Fact was, all we knew at that point was what Harris had told Driesen over the phone. A young woman had walked in off the street clutching a copy of the Times. She asked to speak to a detective, any detective. When asked why, she said she thought she could identify the Honeymoon Murderer.

His name was Robert Macintyre, and he was a former staff sergeant in the U.S. Army. Robbie, she called him.

“I used to be engaged to him,” she explained.

Chapter 94

MARTHA COLE DREW a deep breath, exhaling slowly. She was calming down. I chalked that up to Sarah and gave her a quick, approving nod. Run with it. She’s all yours.

I took a seat on the other couch next to Detective Harris and crossed my legs. Then I crossed my fingers. We were overdue for some good luck.

As promised, Sarah kept it simple. “Martha, when was the last time you saw or spoke to Robert?” she asked.

“About a month ago.”

“And when did the two of you end your engagement?”

Martha hesitated. Her eyes welled up, the emotions kicking in. She was doing her best to fight it.

Finally, she answered. “It wasn’t a mutual decision. I’m the one who broke it off.”

Detective Harris reached into his pocket, then handed Martha a folded handkerchief. Nice to think some guys still carried those around. Very old school.

“Thank you,” said Martha, wiping her eyes. As raw and torn as she was, I couldn’t help but notice her determination. She continued: “When Robbie came back from the war—Afghanistan—it was like he was going through withdrawal. He missed the action, the constant adrenaline.”

Sarah nodded. “Let me guess—you couldn’t compete, right?”

“Exactly. Everything was boring to him, including me,” she said. “I thought I was doing him a favor.”

“You mean by breaking things off?”

She couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. Her guilt was too strong. Her anger even stronger.

“That damn war!” she nearly shouted. “It wasn’t Robbie’s fault, do you hear me? He wasn’t the same person. The guy who came back wasn’t the guy I’d fallen in love with!”