James Patterson - Honeymoon

I hated it when she was right. Like the time Susan told me I was too self-involved to salvage our marriage. Bull’s-eye.

I finally took a seat and drew a deep breath. “Okay, why?”

“Actually, if you think about it, you already know.”

She was right again. Call it denial, or wishful thinking, but I was always aware that Nora’s indictment could present a serious problem for the Good Guys. My behavior would come out during the trial, and the powers that be at the Bureau were none too pleased at the prospect of suffering through the embarrassment. Still, suffer they would, if that were the only problem.

But I knew there was more—much more.

Hell, I’d been involved in it when I went undercover as the Tourist.

The suitcase was part of it. The list of names and accounts inside was part of it.

My dalliance with the suspect paled in comparison to a larger concern. Something far more sensitive and, potentially, more embarrassing. That is, if ever it became public.

Frank Walsh had alluded to it during my disciplinary hearing— the monitoring of money being trafficked in and out of the country. Needless to say, it wasn’t being done through voluntary surveys at the local bank. It was being accomplished with private agreements among Homeland Security, the Bureau, and several multinational banks. The rationale? The only thing more dangerous than a terrorist group is a terrorist group with solid financial backing. The logic was supposed to be simple. Stop their money and you stop them. Or, even better, find their money.

And find them.

The only rules were that there weren’t any. Which is to say that a lot of this was, well, illegal. No one was considered safe or above reproach. Casinos to charities, big corporations to day traders. Anywhere and everywhere in the world. We hacked them all. If money was moving, we were watching. And if money was moving in apparent secrecy, we were really watching. Suddenly, private numbered accounts were anything but.

Hello, Connor Brown.

And hello, Nora.

“So, that’s it, huh?” I said to Susan.

“What else can I tell you? Nora represents the lesser of two evils to them.” She smirked. “I mean, what’s a few dead rich guys compared to keeping the world safe for democracy, or whatever. They’re going to set her free, O’Hara. For all I know, she might be out already.”

Chapter 114

NORA DROVE the red Benz around lower Manhattan—fast—until she was sure no one was following her. Not the press, not the police. Nobody. Then she gunned the Benz up onto the decrepit roller coaster known as the West Side Highway and headed north to Westchester. She needed some time by herself.

Soon she was breezing along in the convertible at close to ninety. God, she was free—and it felt good. This was the best thing that had happened to her. She’d hang out at Connor’s house for a few days, finally sell off all the furniture there, then plan her next move.

Funny, she was thinking, maybe it’s even time for me to settle down. Marry somebody for real, have a kid or two. The idea made her laugh, but she didn’t dismiss it. Stranger things happened—like her getting out of jail.

Before she knew it, the Benz was pulling up in front of Connor’s—the scene of the crime, as it were. How strange, and delicious, this was. She was totally free; she’d gotten away with murder. And her few days in jail, at the famous Riker’s Island near La Guardia Airport, actually made this all the more special. Extraordinary, really.

Nora got out of the car, thought she heard a sound—and it reminded her of Craig, of O’Hara. What had all that been about? She still didn’t know, except that the attraction had been huge and real and very emotional for her.

But she was over Craig now, right?

You’re over him.

Nora let herself inside, and the house was a little musty, and definitely dusty, but not too bad. She’d be there for only a short while anyway. She could deal with a little hardship, right?

She went into the kitchen and swung open the door to the fridge, the Traulsen. Oh God, what a disaster! Rotting vegetables—and cheeses!

She grabbed a bottle of Evian that was sitting in front, then quickly shut the refrigerator door before she gagged.

“Gross me out, would you, please.”

She wiped off the bottle with a clean towel, twisted it open, and drank nearly half.

Now what? Maybe a hot bath? A swim in the pool? A sauna?

Her mouth remained open, but there were no more words.

Just a moan.

Then a scream.

And incredible pain!

Suddenly Nora was holding her stomach. She could barely stand.

My stomach is burning up, she thought as she looked around the kitchen—but no one else was there.

The pain exploded into her throat, and Nora felt as if she couldn’t breathe. She wanted to throw up, but she couldn’t do that, either. Everything was spinning until down she went, helpless to break her own fall.

She might have hit the tile floor face-first, but she didn’t even care. Nothing mattered except this incredible fire eating her from the inside out. Her vision was fuzzy. The worst pain in her entire life was taking over her body, inhabiting her.

Then Nora heard something—footsteps approaching the kitchen.

Someone else was in the house.

Chapter 115

NORA DESPERATELY NEEDED to find out who was there. Who is it? She couldn’t see very well. Everything so blurry. A feeling that her body was disintegrating.

“O’Hara?” she called out. “Is that you? O’Hara?”

Then she could see someone walking into the kitchen. It wasn’t O’Hara. Who, though?

A blond woman. Tall. Something familiar about her. What? Finally she was standing over Nora.

“Who are you?” Nora whispered as terrible heat seared her throat and chest.

The woman reached up—and she took off her head. No—it was her hair, a wig that she’d removed.

“That help, Nora?” she asked. “Recognize me now?”

She had short, sandy blond hair underneath—and then Nora knew who it was. “You!” she gasped.

“Yes, me.”

Elizabeth Brown—Connor’s sister. Lizzie.

“I followed you for a long time, Nora. Just to make sure about what you did. Murderer! I wasn’t even sure if you’d remember me,” she said. “Sometimes I don’t make much of an impression.”

“Help me,” Nora whispered. The terrible burning was in her head now, on her face—everywhere—and it was horrible, the worst pain she could imagine.

“Please help me,” she begged. “Please, Lizzie?”

Nora couldn’t make out Connor’s sister’s face anymore, but she heard her words.

“Not a chance in hell, which is where you’re going, Nora.”

Chapter 116

SOMEONE HAD CALLED in a mysterious message to the Briarcliff Manor police: “I caught Connor Brown’s murderer for you. She’s at his house now. Come and get her.”

The police contacted me in New York City, and I got up to Westchester in record time, about forty minutes of daredevil driving through the city, then the Saw Mill Parkway, and finally treacherous Route 9A.

There were half a dozen local police and state trooper cars parked in the circular driveway at the Brown house. Also an EMS van from the Westchester Medical Center. I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then hurried inside. Man, I was shaking like a leaf.

I had to show my badge to a patrolman in the foyer. “They’re in the kitchen. It’s straight—”

“I know where it is,” I said.

I realized that I wasn’t ready for this as I walked past the living room and formal dining area on the way to the kitchen. Everything in the room was familiar to me, and maybe that made it harder, I don’t really know. I was there but I kind of wasn’t, like watching yourself in a bad, bad dream.