Authors: C. E. Lawrence
Silent Slaughter (32 page)
C
HAPTER
E
IGHTY
HAPTER
E
IGHTY
A
s he walked home, Lee remembered what the professor had said to him that night in his apartment.
Irrational mathematical constants go on forever. In a sense, you might say they’re immortal.
He didn’t believe in gods or spirits or the afterlife, but if he had ever known a man who had made a pact with the devil, it was Edmund Moran. Of course, he knew black magic was the fantasy of the naïve and superstitious, but the professor’s words haunted him as he climbed the front steps to his building.
s he walked home, Lee remembered what the professor had said to him that night in his apartment.
Irrational mathematical constants go on forever. In a sense, you might say they’re immortal.
He didn’t believe in gods or spirits or the afterlife, but if he had ever known a man who had made a pact with the devil, it was Edmund Moran. Of course, he knew black magic was the fantasy of the naïve and superstitious, but the professor’s words haunted him as he climbed the front steps to his building.
Alone in his apartment, Lee called Gemma. This time she picked up on the second ring.
“Hi, it’s me,” he said, lowering himself into the red leather armchair by the window.
“Are you okay? I just heard on the news—”
“I’m fine. How about you?”
“I’m all right. I just called to say that my mom has had a stroke.”
“Oh, no—I’m sorry to hear it.”
“I’m about to get on a plane to go see her.”
“In Ireland?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh. She knows about Brian?”
“I think that’s what caused her stroke.”
“Does she know how he died?”
“I couldn’t stop her from finding out. With the Internet and everything these days, you can’t really . . .”
“Hide things from people?”
“To put it bluntly, yeah.” She paused for a moment. “I hate to say it, but I’m relieved to be going away for a while.”
I’m not so happy about it,
he thought, but all he said was, “Really?”
he thought, but all he said was, “Really?”
“I’m scared, Lee. I want to find out what happened to Brian, but I—I don’t want to end up like that.”
“I don’t want you to either.”
“Hey, I was thinking,” she said. “Maybe we could—oh, damn, that’s my taxi! I’m sorry—I have to go.”
“Have a safe trip.”
“I’ll miss you.”
“Yeah, me too.”
He hung up, her words echoing in his ears.
Maybe we could . . . what?
What was she about to say?
Maybe we could . . . what?
What was she about to say?
He reached for his crutches, knocked one of them to the ground and leaned forward to pick it up. His head began to swirl as he straightened up in the chair. He suddenly realized that he was bone tired.
But he still had one more call to make before dragging himself off to bed. He lifted the receiver and dialed the familiar number in New Jersey. His mother picked up in one ring. Had she been waiting by the phone?
“Are you all right?” she said, cutting to the chase.
“I’m fine.”
“Thank God.”
He gave her a brief summary of the chase and capture of Edmund Moran, then took a deep breath.
“How’s Kylie?”
“Oh, you know—struggling.”
“Look, Mom, I—”
“You’re busy, I know.”
“Not anymore. I know Christmas isn’t for a few days, but I’ll drive out tomorrow if you want.”
Normally her response to such news would be brisk, dismissive, matter-of-fact, but he could hear the relief in her voice.
“Good,” she said. “We need you.” Not
Kylie needs you
but
We need you.
Was his mother softening at long last?
Kylie needs you
but
We need you.
Was his mother softening at long last?
“Okay,” he said. “See you then.”
“Lee?”
“Yeah?”
“Pick up some Cornish pasties from Peter Myers’s place, will you?”
He smiled. He’d thought she was about to use the
l
word but was oddly relieved when she didn’t. Some things in life should remain constant, he thought as he hung up—the surliness of the waiters as McSorley’s, Peter Myers’s Cornish pasties, and Fiona Campbell.
Let Fiona be Fiona
. It was curiously comforting, reaffirming his belief in human nature.
l
word but was oddly relieved when she didn’t. Some things in life should remain constant, he thought as he hung up—the surliness of the waiters as McSorley’s, Peter Myers’s Cornish pasties, and Fiona Campbell.
Let Fiona be Fiona
. It was curiously comforting, reaffirming his belief in human nature.
He hoisted himself up from the chair, unsteady on the new crutches, and hobbled toward the bedroom. When he reached the door, his phone rang again. He continued into the bedroom but changed his mind when he heard the voice on his answering machine.
“Hi, it’s me—uh, Kathy. I just wanted to find out—”
He threw the crutches to the ground and lunged for the phone. Grabbing it, he sank back into the chair.
“Kathy?”
“Oh, hi—I didn’t think you were—”
“I’m here.”
“I heard on the news—”
“Yeah. We got him.”
“Good. I’m glad. You’re okay? I heard someone was shot.”
“It was me, but I’m okay.”
“Where did you—”
“My leg. I’m all right.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“That’s just what my mother said.”
“Great minds think alike.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I miss you,” she said.
“Do you?”
“What are you doing over the holidays?”
“I’m heading out to Jersey tomorrow.”
“How would you feel about stopping by Philly on the way back?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Good. I—well, thanks.”
“I’ll call you from my mom’s.”
“Merry Christmas.”
“Same to you.”
After they hung up, he went to the piano and opened
The Well-Tempered Clavier
. Bed could wait. Sometimes music was more important than sleep. And at times like this, only Bach would do.
The Well-Tempered Clavier
. Bed could wait. Sometimes music was more important than sleep. And at times like this, only Bach would do.
As he began to play, he heard the church choir across the street, their voices faint and brave in the gathering darkness. He stopped to listen. The Ukrainian choirmaster shared his taste in music, he thought as the choir sang the opening bars of “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.”
Jesu, joy of man’s desiring,
Holy wisdom, love most bright;
Drawn by Thee, our souls aspiring
Soar to uncreated light.
Holy wisdom, love most bright;
Drawn by Thee, our souls aspiring
Soar to uncreated light.
Lee looked out the window, where a soft snow had begun to fall. It was the longest night of the year, as Barry had said. But even darkness had its place, he thought as he watched the flakes whirling and spinning in the glow of the street lamps. Darkness and light, doing their eternal dance, as they had ever since the universe began, until the last star burned out, its brilliance and glory only a memory in the cold and sightless void.
Sometimes we embrace the darkness,
he thought,
becoming one with it, and sometimes we gather in churches and sing to one another, meeting the night with the sound of our combined voices.
Why this was he might never know, but that it was part of the greater Mystery, he was certain.
Sometimes we embrace the darkness,
he thought,
becoming one with it, and sometimes we gather in churches and sing to one another, meeting the night with the sound of our combined voices.
Why this was he might never know, but that it was part of the greater Mystery, he was certain.
Across the street, Bach’s brilliance rang out into the stillness of the night as the snowflakes danced in the halo of the street lamps. Lee sat at the window and listened until he fell asleep, dreaming of created and uncreated light.
Once again, thanks first and foremost to my editor, Michaela Hamilton, a true polymath—musician, cheerleader, athlete and role model. Thanks to my friend and colleague Marvin Kaye for introducing me to her, and for his continued support in all my literary endeavors.
Special thanks to my dear friend Gisela Rose for her superb editing skills and invaluable perspective, and to my awesome niece Kylie Isaack for her work as “resident math genius”—you rock! Thanks also to my agent, Paige Wheeler for her professional advice, good cheer and support, and to Liza Dawson for always being there when I need a friendly ear.
Thanks to Andrea Simmons, my Web Sensei, Promotional Maven, and all-around supporter, and to Gary Aumiller for all his advice and help. Thanks to Wes Ostertag for his very helpful input and suggestions in the area of mathematics, and to Melissa Tien for her keen eye and editorial advice. Thanks too to my good friend Ahmad Ali, whose support and good energy has always lifted my spirits.
Special thanks once again to Robert (“Beaubear”) Murphy and the folks at the Long Eddy Hotel, Sullivan County’s best kept secret. Thanks to Anthony Moore for helping me with computer health and safety, and to my sisters Katie and Suzie, and to cousin Carey for being in my life.
Thanks to my mother, Margaret Simmons, for her continued support and editorial advice, and to all the brave men and women who risk their lives every day to catch the bad guys. I just write about this stuff—you are the real thing.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
C. E. Lawrence is the byline of a New York–based suspense writer whose previous books have been praised as “lively” (
Publishers Weekly
); “constantly absorbing,” (Starred
Kirkus Review
) and for “superbly crafted prose” (
Boston Herald
). Born in Nurnberg, Germany, to American parents, Lawrence is a former member of the legendary improvisational company First Amendment, as well as Chicago City Limits. Lawrence’s published works includes award-winning plays and musicals that have been produced around the world, eight novels, six novellas, and numerous short stories and poems.
Publishers Weekly
); “constantly absorbing,” (Starred
Kirkus Review
) and for “superbly crafted prose” (
Boston Herald
). Born in Nurnberg, Germany, to American parents, Lawrence is a former member of the legendary improvisational company First Amendment, as well as Chicago City Limits. Lawrence’s published works includes award-winning plays and musicals that have been produced around the world, eight novels, six novellas, and numerous short stories and poems.
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2012 C. E. Lawrence
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-3050-7
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