The Pawn (38 page)

I took a slim breath. “Do you ever think about wearing a color other than black?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Pink, maybe.”

“I look better in black.”

“How’s your coffee?”

She drank some. “Horrible.”

Well, at least she had good taste.

I found some puffed rice cereal and poured it into a bowl for her.

“I notice that you’re wearing your mother’s perfume.”

She paused with the coffee cup halfway to her lips. Just then the phone—Ralph’s phone—rang. I glanced at the number on the screen: unknown.

Kincaid walked around the magnificent enclosed courtyard of the Stratford Hotel. It was absolutely breathtaking: hanging gardens, verandas, walkways, fountains. And winding around everything was an indoor whitewater river with a pool at the base of an eight-foot waterfall. Even though the temperature outside was dropping, in here it was still over 60°F. Right now the hotel staff was busy setting up fifty round tables on the east side of the courtyard for the luncheon.

And in less than two hours the tables would be full.

Yes, his family had been infected and would be breathing the airborne bacteria on the guests as they served them, but he wasn’t going to take any chances.

He went back into the kitchen where his family was preparing the meat. As Marcie walked past, he nodded to her. She lowered her gaze and nodded back deferentially.

Humans typically contract both tularemia and Crimean-Congo hemorrhagic fever through ticks, but either can also be contracted through direct contact with the blood of infected livestock. He’d opted for the cattle rather than the ticks. In fact, he’d infected his whole herd. Even now the roasts that the conference attendees would be eating were soaking in the infected blood he’d shipped on Friday.

Governor Taylor arrived at the Stratford Hotel and went up to his suite of rooms. The presidential suite.
Aptly named
, he thought as he slid his key into the lock.

Anita Banner followed the governor closely, wearing her favorite skirt, enjoying the turned heads of all the young men she passed. Soon she’d be able to afford an even better skirt. In fact, a whole new wardrobe. A whole new life.

A life finally free from the groping hands of Sebastian Taylor.

Tessa watched to see if I’d answer the phone.

It rang again. I reached for it.

She ventured a bite of cereal.

I flipped the phone open and then snapped it shut, turning off the ringer when I did.

She’d been following my movements out of the corner of her eye. “Why didn’t you answer that?”

“I was busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Noticing you.”

Suddenly I remembered the words from Christie’s note:
Don’t
run from the risk of loving her . . .
“We need to be here for each other,” I said. I wondered if Christie had left a similar note for Tessa. I’d never asked her.
Make it right, Pat. C’mon.

Tessa was toying with her spoon. “I found it in the dresser.”

“Found what?”

“Mom’s perfume. It’s OK, isn’t it? That I’m wearing it, I mean?” For a moment she almost looked shy. A shy raven.

“Yeah. Of course. I’m glad you’re wearing it. Really.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s cool.”

“Cool?” she said with a slight grimace. “Did you just say
cool
?” “Is that OK? Is it still cool to say cool?”

“I guess,” she said. “It just sorta surprised me . . .”

I picked up the jug of milk and a jet of pain shot through my shoulder. I flinched and set the jug down again.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying. Don’t lie to me.”

“You’re right.” My back was throbbing. “OK, honestly, I hurt my shoulder pretty bad yesterday.”

“Doing what?”

“Someone tried to blow me up.”

“Really?” She sipped her coffee.

“Yeah.”

“Who?”

I stirred some honey into my tea. “I’m not certain, but I’m reasonably sure it was the serial killer.”

“Oh,” she said, and then, “How many people has he killed so far?”

“At least six. Maybe more. Probably more.”

“So, not up to the average of eight victims yet? I mean, for North American serial killers?”

I hesitated. “You know, in some families this kind of conversation would seem a little odd.”

“Not in this one,” she said.

I blew on my tea. “Not quite up to eight yet. As far as we know.”

We ate our cereal.

“So, why do they do it?” she asked after a few minutes.

I gave her my stock answer. “Well, I try not to ask why. You get sidetracked doing that.”

She scoffed. “Yeah, right. That’s a cop-out if I ever heard one. I know you wonder. You have to. You’re too curious about stuff not to.”

My cup of tea trembled in my fingers. Her words struck home. “Well, I guess maybe I have, but in the end I think the why is easy: killers want the same things out of life everyone wants—fulfillment, accomplishment, a sense of worth, acceptance, power—”

“Love.”

I fumbled for what to say. “Yeah. That too. But they don’t know the right way to get it.”

Neither do you.

“No one does,” she said. “Not all the time, at least.”

I couldn’t tell if she was saying that as a simple observation, or as something more personal. After a moment she added, “So then what makes us different from them?”

I was about to say something trite, clichéd, stupid. But the truth is, there’s only a fine line that separates us from them, and sometimes it wavers back and forth like a snake in the sand. Sometimes we step over it, all of us do. Curiosity, maybe. Desire. Anger. Who knows. But the ones who step over with both feet are still just as human as we are. All of them are: those people in Jonestown, the killers I track. They’re searching for hope, looking for love, trying to figure things out. Just like us. In so many ways they’re just like us. That’s the scariest truth of all.

“Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference,” I said. “I guess a lot of it boils down to the choices we make.” Then I remembered a quote I heard once. “I think it was Goethe who said that all of us have within us the potential to commit any crime.”

“Something like that.” She sipped at her coffee.

“What do you mean?”

“Goethe wrote, ‘There is no crime of which I do not deem myself capable.’ At least that’s the most popular translation.”

I took a long look at her. “How do you know that? How do you know all this stuff?”

“The Internet,” she said, as if that explained everything.

“Oh yeah,” I said. “I’ve heard of that.” I waited to see her reaction.

“And I like to read too. I read a lot.” She took a bite of her cereal. “I read your books.”

“You did? What did you think?”

She shrugged. “They’re OK, I guess. Kinda boring.”

Well, then.

I reached into my pocket. I wasn’t sure if now was a good time, but I couldn’t think of a better one. “Hey. I got you a birthday present. Sorry it’s late.”

She eyed me. “What is it?”

“I’m not telling. It’d take away the surprise.” I set the small rectangular box on the table. She looked at the present but didn’t reach for it. I slid it to her. “You’ll have to open it.”

She picked it up abruptly, tore the gold foil wrapping paper away, flipped open the fuzzy gray box, and then stopped. She didn’t even remove the necklace.

“It’s got your birthstone,” I said.

“Tourmaline.”

“Yeah. They had other colors, but I thought you’d like black the best.”

She set the box back onto the table.

“Do you like it?”

Tessa shoved her cereal bowl to the side and blinked, letting her eyelids rise very slowly. “So that’s what this is all about.”

“What?”

She looked around the room. “This. All this.”

“What are you talking about?”

Her eyes became razors. “Why didn’t you ask me if I wanted to move to Denver?”

“What do you mean?”

“After Mom died. We just picked up and moved. Why didn’t you ask me if I wanted to move?”

“Well, I just thought it might be best for both of us to get some space—”

“For both of us?”

“Yeah.”

“And how did you come to know what would be best for me?” “Tessa, I—”

“We’re supposed to be a family. Families make choices
together
about what’s best for
everyone
, not just for the one in charge.”

Her words seared the air between us. I had no idea what to say. “Listen, I—”

“You took me away from all my friends.” Her lips quivered for a moment, and then the dam broke. “My mom dies, and you make me leave everyone I know and move across the country, and all I ever wanted was a family like Cherise has—a mom and a dad—and when Mom met you, I thought maybe it would happen, just maybe I’d finally have someone to teach me the things dads are supposed to teach their daughters—I don’t know, like about life or guys or whatever and maybe come to my volleyball games and make me do my homework when I don’t want to and tell me I’m pretty sometimes and give me a hard time about my boyfriends and take a picture of me in my prom dress and then stand by my side one day when I get married . . .”

My heart was breaking, wrenching in half, but I felt powerless. “I never knew—”

By then tears were rolling down her cheeks. “You never asked!” Her voice was ripe with pain.

“I’m so sorry, Tessa, I—”

She grabbed the necklace box and threw it at my chest. The tourmaline necklace clattered to the floor. “You can keep your stupid necklace,
Patrick
!” She rose from the table. “You can’t buy my love!”

Tessa swept out of the room, and I sat there, stunned, suspended in time. A cold silence swallowed the room.

Go to her. Tell her you’re sorry. Do something!

I stood up and started for her room. Stopped with one foot in the hallway.

Wait. You need to give her some space. Right now that’s what
she needs . . . remember? Reach out to her slowly . . . That way she
knows you’re not going to hurt her.

Maybe I could drive over to the federal building, retrieve the rest of my things, and then come back to straighten things out. I didn’t want to push her, pressure her. I wanted to respect her, show her I really did care.

I slipped into the master bedroom, grabbed my wallet, and then plugged Ralph’s cell phone in so that when he picked it up later it would be charged. As I passed Officers Muncey and Stilton on my way through the dining room, Patricia Muncey asked what was up. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I mumbled, preferring not to explain what was really up.

The black cat nearly tripped me as it jumped out of the way when I threw open the front door. Once outside, I had to turn my collar up against the freezing rain that had begun to splinter through the dark morning clouds.

I climbed into the car and headed to the federal building. All around me the day seemed soaked with the foretaste of death.

73

Tessa collapsed onto the bed, sobbing. Her heart screamed out, ached for love, but no one heard. No one at all.

She hated Patrick and she loved him at the same time. Both! She wanted to hug him and she wanted to slap him. It didn’t make any sense, but it was true. It didn’t matter though. Nothing mattered.

She pulled out the razor blade.

She couldn’t stand this anymore. Nothing had changed. She flew all the way out here, and nothing was any different. Patrick wasn’t her dad. Of course he wasn’t. No one was. What was she really hoping for, anyway?

She heard a car engine outside her window and looked up from the bed just in time to see Patrick backing down the driveway.

Going off to work again. Running away. Leaving her alone.

There’d always be another killer out there somewhere. That’s what really mattered to him, anyway. That’s what he loved. Not her.

If only she wasn’t in his life, they could both be happy.

In that instant she knew what she had to do: go back to New York. Hitchhike to the City. Maybe she could move in with Cherise or one of her other friends. She was old enough to get a job, to live on her own. All she had to do was slip out and get away before he came back. It’s what he really wanted, anyway. It’s what they both really wanted.

After all, it wasn’t his fault he’d fallen in love with a woman who had a stupid teenage daughter. What was he supposed to do? Suddenly know how to take care of a teenager? Suddenly care about the daughter too, just ’cause he loved her mom?

Tessa wiped at her tears and looked around the room.

She could solve everything by leaving. That’s what she needed to do.

She slid the blade into the back pocket of her jeans and flopped her suitcase open. She couldn’t bring the whole thing, way too obvious. Just the knapsack. That’s all she would need. She yanked it out of the closet and began to stuff her clothes inside it.

74

Ten minutes after leaving the house, I walked up to my desk in the federal building. The office chatter drifted into silence as I walked in. No surprise there. I gave a slight nod to the people staring at me and maneuvered between the tables to my makeshift work station. I didn’t see Ralph, Lien-hua, or Sheriff Wallace, just Margaret watching me from behind the glass door of her office.

I ignored her.

I stared at my desk. Not a whole lot here. A couple notepads, a framed picture of my wedding, the mic patch I’d been using and must have forgotten to turn in. As I was grabbing my files, papers, notes, I noticed a manila folder—today’s briefing. There was really no good reason for me to look at it now except that Margaret wouldn’t want me to.

I flipped the folder open.

The Hazmat team in New Mexico had sent in the tissue samples, and the lab found a bacterial agent, just as I’d feared they might. Pathogen type: unknown.

Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid made sure the preparations for the meal were going well and then slipped quietly away from the family. He had a special role to fulfill in today’s narrative. There was someone he needed to meet.

The phone on my desk rang. I looked around. No one else nearby. I should just let it ring. After all, I didn’t work here anymore.