James Patterson - Honeymoon

“I lost her.”

“What?!” snapped Susan.

“I said—”

“I heard you. How could you lose her?”

“I had an accident.”

Her register immediately shifted to concern. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“In that case, how the hell could you lose her? ”

“The woman drives like a maniac.”

“What, and you don’t?”

“I’m serious. You should’ve seen her.”

“I’m serious, too,” she barked. “You should’ve never lost her.”

I was pleading with myself to stay calm. However, Susan wasn’t exactly making it easy. As tempting as it was to grab her anger and throw it right back, I realized I’d be better off just taking it on the chin.

“You’re right,” I told her. “I screwed up.”

She calmed down a bit. “Do you think maybe she spotted you?”

“No. It wasn’t like she was trying to lose me. She just drives fast.”

“How much luggage did she have?”

“A small roller. She carried it on.”

“Okay, then. Cut your losses and come on back to New York. Wherever she’s going, it’s safe to assume she’ll be returning to Connor Brown’s house soon enough.”

I decided that it was a good idea to change the subject. “Did we get the okay on the dig?” I asked.

“Yes, the dig is a go. The paperwork should come soon,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”

I said good-bye, and that should have been it. But this was Susan I was talking to. In case I wasn’t absolutely clear about her disappointment, she gave me one more shot.

“Have a safe flight home,” she said. “Oh, and try not to screw up anything else today.”

I listened as she hung up and then I shook my head slowly. I started to pace, trying to burn off the anger. It wouldn’t burn off. The more I paced, the worse I felt. The tension began working its way through my body, and before I knew it, it all collected in my fist.

Smash!

And like that, my rented minivan had one less window.

Chapter 43

NORA TOOK ANOTHER LOOK in the rearview mirror. Something had happened back there, maybe an accident.

If that’s what it was, she assured herself that it was merely a coincidence and had nothing to do with the weird feeling in her stomach. The one she had had after leaving the Hertz lot. The “I’m not alone” feeling.

Now, as she arrived in the heart of Back Bay, it seemed to disappear.

The traffic on Commonwealth Avenue fell somewhere between a slow crawl and a parking lot. There was some protest march over on Newbury, and every other street was paying the price. Nora lucked out and found a spot after circling only three times.

She’d put his wedding ring on while riding the shuttle bus at the airport. After her customary look in the car’s vanity mirror, she was ready to go. The suitcase came out; the convertible top went up. It’s showtime, babe.

As usual, Jeffrey was working when she let herself in. She’d come to realize there were only three things that took him away from his writing. Food, sleep, and sex, not necessarily in that order.

Instead of calling his name, Nora quietly walked toward the back of the brownstone. Between his deep concentration and the background music, there wasn’t a chance he’d hear her.

She opened the door beyond the butler’s pantry and stepped out onto the private patio. With its tall fleur-de-lis trellises covered in ivy and other strategic plantings, the cozy area offered seclusion.

It took her only a minute to get ready. Reclining on a cushioned wicker chaise, she reached for her cell phone and dialed.

Seconds later she could hear the phone ringing inside.

Jeffrey finally picked up.

“Honey, it’s me,” she said.

“Oh, don’t even tell me you’re not coming.”

She laughed. “Not yet I’m not.”

“Wait a minute, where are you?”

“Take a peek out back.”

She looked up as Jeffrey appeared in the window of his library. His strong jaw dropped, then he started to laugh, which she could clearly hear over the phone.

“Oh… my…,” he said.

Nora was naked on the chaise lounge, except for her sling-backs. She purred into the phone. “See anything you like?”

“As a matter of fact, I see a lot that I like. I don’t see anything I don’t like.”

“Good. Don’t hurt yourself running down the stairs.”

“Who said anything about using the stairs?”

Jeffrey opened the window, climbed out, and shinnied down the copper-plated downspout. Very athletic, actually. All to the delight of Nora.

Whatever the world record was for a man shedding his clothes, it was promptly broken. Then Jeffrey slowly crawled up to her on the chaise lounge. He dug his hands deep into the seat cushion and wrapped his muscular arms around her back. He was a sexy man once you tore him away from his computer.

Nora closed her eyes. She kept them shut the entire time they made love. She wanted to feel something for Jeffrey. Anything. But she felt nothing.

C’mon, Nora. You know what has to be done. You’ve been here before.

The voice inside her head didn’t sound like an old friend now. More like an unwelcome stranger, someone she almost didn’t know. She tried to ignore it. It was no use. That just made it louder. More insistent. More controlling.

Jeffrey climaxed, then rolled off her, out of breath. “What a terrific surprise. You’re the best.”

Ask him if he’s hungry, Nora.

She wanted to cry out against the little voice inside. But that would just be a waste of time. There was only one way to make it stop.

And she knew it.

“Where are you going?” Jeffrey asked.

Nora had risen from the chaise without a word. She was already heading inside the house. “The kitchen,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m going to see what I can make you for dinner. I want to cook for you.”

Chapter 44

OH, BROTHER—what to do, what to do? This is a disaster so far.

The Tourist sat alone in the small, dingy room with another Heineken. He’d already had four. Or was it five? At this point, keeping count didn’t strike him as being very important. Neither did the Yankees game droning on his TV. Or eating the sausage-and-onion pizza getting cold on the table in front of him.

On the table were newspaper clippings about the shoot-out in New York. There were easily a dozen articles about the “Sidewalk Showdown.”

The story had legs, which didn’t exactly surprise the Tourist. He’d left behind a host of unanswered questions. A lot of ink was being devoted to conjecture and speculation; some of it credible, most of it wacky. The short note that came with the clippings summed it up. The circus is in town. Keep your head down, Tourist. Will be in touch.

He smiled and re-read the conflicting eyewitness accounts. How was it, wrote a columnist from the Daily News, that the same event could be seen so differently by people who were no more than twenty feet away?

“How indeed?” the Tourist said out loud. He sat back in his chair and put his feet up on the table. He had every confidence that his identity would remain a secret. He’d taken the necessary precautions, covered his tracks. He might as well have been a ghost.

There was only one thing bothering him now, and it bothered him a lot.

What was the list he’d copied off the flash drive all about? All those offshore accounts.

One point four.

Billion.

What about it?

Was it worth some poor schmuck’s life outside Grand Central?

Apparently so.

Was it worth somebody else’s life?

Like his?

Definitely not.

Was it part of a bigger picture that might make sense eventually?