Sail (26 page)
PETER SIGHED SO DEEPLY that he felt light-headed. Or was that just the lingering sting of Devoux’s punches?
Who cares?
All that mattered was that Bailey had the gun now.
Think fast,
he told himself. It wasn’t as if they could call the police. He needed a plan in a hurry.
But Devoux already had one. “What are you going to do, sweetheart, shoot me?” he asked, taking a step toward Bailey.
“Yes, that’s exactly what she’ll do,” said Peter.
“No she won’t.” Devoux took another step. He was only about six feet away from her, and that was too close.
“Bailey, if he comes any closer, you shoot him.
Just pull that trigger.
”
“She won’t do it,” said Devoux. “She’s not a killer, like you. Are you, Bailey?”
“Don’t take another step, do you hear me!” barked Peter.
But that’s exactly what Devoux did.
“Do it!” yelled Peter. “SHOOT THE BASTARD NOW!”
Bailey squeezed the trigger hard, her hand as steady as she could manage.
Pffft!
came the sound of the bullet through the silencer. It was so quiet Peter almost didn’t hear it.
But he felt it.
What the . . . ?
Peter looked down at the small hole in his stomach, the bright blood oozing down over his striped blue boxers. He staggered backward, his legs feeling like rubber. He was trying to keep himself standing.
He was trying to figure out what had just happened.
Had it really happened?
“Bailey?” he said, gasping for air.
She shook her head, and then she started to . . .
smile?
“You know, for a good-looking guy, Peter, you sure were a lousy lay.”
Devoux slipped his hand inside her robe and reached around her. “Don’t give me that shit,” he said, grabbing her ass and pulling her close. “I know you enjoyed it with him. Don’t beat him up when he’s down like that.”
Peter watched incredulously as the two of them kissed. It was no peck on the cheek, either. More like tongue-on-tongue tonsil hockey.
Oh God, no. Devoux and Bailey?
Then Peter collapsed to the floor, clutching his stomach, which was starting to ache. The blood was spurting through his fingers. He could barely breathe, and his vision was collapsing at the edges.
Devoux pulled back from Bailey and turned to look at Peter with a wink.
“The things we do for money, huh, Counselor?” said Devoux, all of the irony intended.
“But I—I kept you out of jail. We had a deal.”
“Stupid lawyer. You didn’t do it for me. It was just another payday for you, just like this is for me. You’re a loose end, Peter. Besides, you deserve to die—you were going to kill all those kids. And your loving wife.”
With that, he returned to the computer and completed the transfer of the $16 million. “Ya know, I’ve never felt better about a job, not once. This is the perfect ending.”
All Peter could do was watch and think about dying. His life was draining out of him; he was turning weaker by the second. Soon his body would go into shock.
His mind was already there, wasn’t it?
How could this be happening?
Devoux fucking him over—that he could almost understand. But a girl like Bailey? A law student? She
was
a law student, right?
“Who . . . who are you?” asked Peter, every word a struggle now.
Devoux folded shut the computer. He stood, walked over to Bailey, and took the gun from her hand.
“She’s my Plan B,” he said. “Every good magician has an assistant, no?”
There was no wink this time, not even a half-smile. Instead he took two steps toward Peter, raising the gun.
“Go to hell!” snarled Peter.
“You first,” said Devoux.
He squeezed off two more shots.
Pffft! Pffft!
The first exploded through the center of Peter’s forehead, the second went straight through his cold heart.
Pure precision.
Kneeling down, Devoux grabbed Peter’s wrist and felt for a pulse. Not because he thought the lawyer might somehow manage to survive three bullet wounds, but because he wanted to feel him die. Or already dead.
“Hey, nice watch,” said Devoux, eyeing Peter’s Rolex. He promptly slipped it off the lawyer’s wrist and put it in his pocket.
Finders keepers, right?
“C’mon, baby, we’ve got a plane to catch,” said Bailey.
Devoux stood and blew her a kiss. “I’m afraid you’re only half right, sweetheart.”
Pffft! Pffft!
And then there were no loose ends at all.
LESS THAN THIRTY-SIX HOURS LATER, Devoux was strolling along the Champs-Elysées, and everything was sweetness and light, couldn’t have been better. The late afternoon sun was beginning to dip from the sky, its light engulfing the Arc de Triomphe with a majestic orange glow. God, he loved Paris.
He breathed it all in, closing his eyes finally. The crisp October air was laced with the smell of fresh bread and coffee from the outdoor cafés. It was positively intoxicating and as familiar as an old friend.
“America is my country but Paris is my hometown,” said Gertrude Stein, famously.
He knew exactly what the old broad meant.
With the money he’d made off Peter Carlyle, he could afford an extended European vacation—to put it mildly—and that’s precisely what he had in mind. Besides, too much killing wasn’t good for the soul.
Suddenly the voice of a passerby made him stop.
“Est-ce que vous avez l’heure, s’il vous plaît?” she asked.
Yes, as a matter of fact, he knew exactly what time it was.
Always.
As Devoux pulled back the sleeve on his Prada waxed cotton duster, he barely glanced at the woman who had stopped him. Instead his eyes were trained on his newly acquired platinum Rolex.
I’ll give you this, Carlyle, you at least had taste. You knew how to spend a buck.
Devoux finally looked up, about to tell this stranger in his best French that the time was twenty minutes after five.
That’s when his mouth froze.
This was no stranger.
“Don’t move an inch!” said Agent Ellen Pierce, taking two steps back, with her Glock .-40-caliber drawn. “I swear to God I’ll shoot you right here and now!”
Of all things, Devoux smiled. “I should’ve killed you when I had the chance,” he said.
“Yeah, life’s just full of regrets, huh?” came back Ellen. “And little surprises. Now put your hands behind your head and drop down to your knees. Do it now.”
By now passersby were gasping in horror at the sight of Ellen’s gun. They were drawing back in hordes, hiding behind trees and cars.
Meanwhile, Devoux wasn’t budging.
“I said,
put your hands behind your head and drop to your knees!
” ordered Ellen.
Instead Devoux took a step toward her.
Ellen jabbed her Glock straight at his chest. “LAST WARNING!” she yelled. “TAKE ONE MORE STEP AND YOU’RE DEAD!”
It wasn’t just one step that Devoux took. Behind a death-wish laugh, he suddenly lunged for Ellen, his arms extended for her gun.
BLAM!
Ellen pumped a shot into his chest. The crowd of onlookers screamed with fear. Several of them began to run away.
Devoux staggered backward, his legs buckling. But they didn’t quite fold.
He should have been flat on his back, dead as disco. Instead the son of a bitch was still standing!
Worse, he was coming for her again! He had a switchblade knife from somewhere.
BLAM! BLAM!
This time the Mystery Man went down, and he stayed there for good.
Ellen knelt on the pavement and pulled back the left sleeve on his coat. It was amazing what flashing a badge at a hospital nurse could get you.
Namely, Peter Carlyle’s watch for a few hours, just enough time to outfit it with a transmitter.
“If at first you don’t succeed,” Ellen said to herself, “try, try again.”
She could hear police sirens in the background. The next few hours would be filled with super-irritating questions from and reports by the French gendarmerie. Then she would probably get suspended by Ian again. Whatever the cost, Ellen knew it was worth it.
When all was said and done, she had indeed “caught a bad guy.” A very bad guy, for sure. After that day he tried to kill her in the Bahamas, she’d made a promise to herself. No matter what, she’d get the Mystery Man.
“Don’t ever try and kill me, you bastard,” she said to the dead man before her.
A Promise is a Promise
OF COURSE, everyone’s first thought was that I pulled the trigger on Peter and his supposed girlfriend. I don’t know whether I should be insulted or flattered.
It didn’t take long for the NYPD to rule me out as a suspect, though. Notwithstanding the fact that I was giving a lecture on heart disease at the 92nd Street Y while the murders took place, the detectives on the scene could tell this was no crime of passion. It was too clean, too neat; the shots were too precise. Whoever did this had killed before, they said. Probably numerous times.
It took two days for the bodies of Peter and the girl to be discovered. It probably would’ve taken longer if a neighbor had not complained to the super about some alarm clock in the apartment. It had been buzzing nonstop.
When I heard the news, I pretty much felt the same way I did when I first heard the verdict in the courtroom. Numb. No real surprise. I quickly stopped feeling anything for Peter Carlyle. He became dead to me. Now he’s dead to everybody.
I guess the only thing I’m still thinking about is the girl. The police told me they found a Nevada driver’s license in a bedroom drawer. Her name was Lucy Holt and she’d been arrested twice for prostitution in Las Vegas—not the street corner variety, though. Apparently she was a very high-priced call girl, the kind that fetched top dollar. So what was she doing in New York, living in such a modest apartment? And what was she to Peter?
No one knows, including the apartment’s owner, who was illegally subletting it. All he knew was that he was getting paid in cash. Undoubtedly by Peter.
I even called Agent Pierce over at her DEA office, hoping maybe she had some thoughts. She wasn’t there, though. Her assistant mentioned that she was taking a couple of vacation days, something about a trip to Paris. Good for her. After the verdict she had looked pretty ballistic.
Anyway, the police investigation continues, but as far as I’m concerned this whole ordeal is over.
And that means one thing, and one thing only: a promise I made to a few kids, who happen to be mine.
“I’LL HAVE THE STEAK FOR ONE, medium rare,” says Mark to the waiter at Flames Steakhouse near our country house in Chappaqua, one of our favorite places to eat.
“I’ll have the same,” says Ernie.
“What about the soufflés?” asks Carrie after ordering a filet mignon. “I distinctly recall your promising soufflés, Mom.”
“Of course,” I say. A promise is a promise.
I order the chicken parm, my personal favorite here. Then I look around the table, happy to have my family together. Before last summer, you couldn’t pay Mark and Carrie to come down from school for the weekend. But this was
their
idea, and I know it wasn’t just for the steaks.
The waiter leaves and Mark raises his Diet Coke. “Here’s to Uncle Jake,” he says.
The rest of us raise our glasses.
“To Uncle Jake,” I repeat with Carrie.
“To Uncle Jake,” says Ernie.
As we all clink glasses, Ernie catches my eye and shoots me a wink. He asked that we keep our secret just that.
Our
secret. I have no problem with it. Carrie and Mark don’t need to know, at least not now. I suspect one day when he’s older—maybe even after I die—he’ll tell them.
“So I’ve got only one question,” I say as we settle back into our comfortable chairs.
The kids all look at me.
“What are we going to do next summer?” I ask. “Any ideas for a good family vacation? Anybody up for a sail?”
JAMES PATTERSON
published his first thriller in 1976 and since then has become one of the best-known and best-selling writers of all time, with more than 140 million copies of his books sold worldwide. He is the author of the two most popular detective series of the past decade, featuring Alex Cross and the Women’s Murder Club, and he has written numerous other number-one bestsellers. He has won an Edgar Award—the mystery world’s highest honor—and his novels
Kiss the Girls
and
Along Came a Spider
were made into feature films starring Morgan Freeman. His charity, the James Patterson PageTurner Awards, has given hundreds of thousands of dollars to individuals and groups that promote the excitement of books and reading. He lives in Florida.
HOWARD ROUGHAN
is the author of
The Up and Comer, The Promise of a Lie,
and most recently the coauthor, with James Patterson, of
You’ve Been Warned.
He lives in Connecticut with his wife and son.
THE NOVELS OF JAMES PATTERSON
Featuring Alex Cross
Double Cross
Cross
Mary, Mary
London Bridges
The Big Bad Wolf
Four Blind Mice
Violets Are Blue
Roses Are Red
Pop Goes the Weasel
Cat & Mouse
Jack & Jill
Kiss the Girls
Along Came a Spider
The Women’s Murder Club
7th Heaven
(with Maxine Paetro)
The 6th Target
(with Maxine Paetro)
The 5th Horseman
(with Maxine Paetro)
4th of July
(with Maxine Paetro)
3rd Degree
(with Andrew Gross)
2nd Chance
(with Andrew Gross)
1st to Die
The James Patterson Pageturners
The Dangerous Days of Daniel X
(with Michael Ledwidge)
The Final Warning: A Maximum Ride Novel
Maximum Ride: Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports
Maximum Ride: School’s Out—Forever
Maximum Ride: The Angel Experiment
Other Books
Sail
(with Howard Roughan)
Sundays at Tiffany’s
You’ve Been Warned
(with Howard Roughan)
The Quickie
(with Michael Ledwidge
)
Step on a Crack
(with Michael Ledwidge)
Judge & Jury
(with Andrew Gross)
Beach Road
(with Peter de Jonge)
Lifeguard
(with Andrew Gross)
Honeymoon
(with Howard Roughan)
santaKid
Sam’s Letters to Jennifer
The Lake House
The Jester
(with Andrew Gross)
The Beach House
(with Peter de Jonge)
Suzanne’s Diary for Nicholas
Cradle and All
When the Wind Blows
Miracle on the 17th Green
(with Peter de Jonge)
Hide & Seek
The Midnight Club
Black Friday
(originally published as
Black Market
)
See How They Run
(originally published as
The Jericho Commandment
)
Season of the Machete
The Thomas Berryman Number
For more information about James Patterson and his books, visit
www.jamespatterson.com.
