Beach Road

by James Patterson

Chapter 111

  Kate

  OUTSIDE THE HOUSE, where it’s twenty degrees cooler, the rain feels like a warm, sweet shower. Tom puts an arm around me and leads me across the yard to my car. As I look down at the muddy tires, Tom pulls me to him hard and says, “I just have to kiss you, Kate.”

  “Works for me.”

  We kiss in the rain, then climb soaked into the car. Tom buckles me in and heads for home, but at Route 27, he turns west instead of east, and if you grew up out here like us, that’s not something you can do by accident no matter how hard it’s raining or how tired you are. When I look over for an explanation, Tom responds with a shit-eating grin.

  “I told you I had a surprise.”

  “Let me guess,” I say, almost too exhausted to care. “A weekend at the Peninsula?”

  “Way better.”

  “Really. You sure you can’t tell me? That way I’ll just be surprised now.”

  “Kate, have we been working our butts off for like decades?” asks Tom, still smiling as he peers through the driving rain.

  “Approximately.”

  “Have we done well by our client?”

  “You could say that.”

  “And do you trust me?”

  “You know I do,” I say, touching Tom’s shoulder and suddenly overcome by such warm feelings, I’m choking up for the umpteenth time today.

  “Then sit back and relax. You’ve earned it, Counselor.”

  Like a good girl, I do as I’m told, and after a while I even manage to doze off. When I open my eyes, Tom’s turned off 495 and is driving down a dark side road past overgrown lots and boarded-up houses. Where are we now? I’m disoriented and lost.

  Then I see the sign for Kennedy Airport.

  “Tom?”

  Tom offers nothing but that same silly smile as he swerves into the lane for international departures and pulls up in front of the Air France terminal.

  “Ever been to Paris, Kate?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither.”

  I’m feeling so many different things, but all I can say is “Who’s taking care of Wingo?”

  “Macklin,” he says. “How do you think I got this?” And he hands me my passport with an e-ticket inside.

  “I’m going to drop off the car,” says Tom as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “I’ll meet you at the gate.” But I can’t move or stop looking at him because it’s as though I’m seeing him for the first time.

  Chapter 112

  Tom

  THE OVERNIGHT AIR France flight touches down at 1:00 p.m. local time, and we hustle through the chaos of Charles de Gaulle Airport. With no luggage to wait for, we’re first in line at immigration and pass effortlessly through customs. I’ve never felt so free and easy in my life.

  Eleven hours ago, I was driving through Queens. Now we’re in the back of a black Fiat speeding past French road signs. We leave the drab motorway for the tree-lined postcard streets of Paris proper. The cab pulls off a grand boulevard, chatters briefly over cobblestones, and stops in front of the small hotel on the Left Bank I booked online this afternoon.

  Our room isn’t ready yet, so we walk two doors down to a coffeeshop. We order lattes and watch the bustling streets.

  “Where are we, Tom?” asks Kate, licking the foam off her lips.

  “Paris.”

  “Just checking.”

  Five minutes after we pay for our coffees, we’re leaning against a stone balustrade and looking out over the muddy Seine. Elegant limestone buildings, none of which is much more than five stories tall or less than five hundred years old, line the far side of the river. The best part, though, is the light in Kate’s eyes.

  We cross le Pont-Neuf and follow the concierge’s directions to the nearest department store. “I could get used to this,” says Kate.

  Inside the Galeries Lafayette, we allot ourselves a thousand euros each and split up to buy stuff. I get two pairs of pants, three shirts, a cashmere sweater, and loafers, all more adult than anything I’ve ever worn. Then again, I’m not the same person I was a year ago or even twenty-four hours ago, so why should I dress the same?

  “No suitcases?” asks the well-dressed woman in a gray pantsuit behind the desk at our hotel.

  “Traveling light,” says Kate, holding her own purchases in one shopping bag.

  An elevator the size of a phone booth takes us to the third floor, where our antiques-filled room overlooks a tiny triangular square called La place de Léon.

  I tip the porter way too much, lock the door, and turn around in time to catch Kate skipping naked into my arms.

  Chapter 113

  Kate

  TRY NOT TO hate us, but here’s our Parisian routine. Tom gets up at eight, buys the International Herald Tribune, and heads to the café. I come down an hour later and help him finish off what’s left of the croissants and Jumble. Then Tom closes his eyes, cracks open our guide, and lets fate pick the day’s destination.

  Monday it was the Musée national Picasso in a neighborhood of cozy winding streets called the Marais. Tuesday we climbed the steep streets to the top of Montmartre. This morning we’re walking to an eighteenth-century hotel converted into a museum for the French sculptor Rodin.

  We see the powerful black-granite figure of the writer Balzac and, mounted on a podium, the famous, hulking The Thinker, who looks awfully buff for an intellectual.

  And behind them both, in a corner, is the epic The Gates of Hell, on which Rodin spent the last thirty-seven years of his life. It consists of two massive black doors crawling with more than two hundred writhing figures, each living out his excruciating eternal punishment, and for some reason, Tom can’t take his eyes off it.

  He’s so transfixed, I leave him to stroll the garden’s stone pathways, which are lined with as many varieties of rosebushes as, I suppose, hell has sinners. There’s an empty bench in the sun, and I’m watching a young mother breastfeed her infant when Tom finds me.

  “So how many of the deadly ones have you committed, Tom?”

  “All of them.”

  “Busy boy.”

  We have a sandwich and a glass of wine in the garden café, then wander into the surrounding neighborhoods, many of whose stately homes have been converted to foreign embassies, with armed sentries posted out front. As beautiful and new as everything is, the wine and ripped, writhing sinners at the Gates have gone to my head, and I drag Tom back to our little room.

  Actually, I can barely wait that long. As Tom fumbles with the key, I stick my tongue in his ear and tell him how hot I am, and as soon as we’re inside the door, I pull him into the bathroom and undress him in front of the long mirror. I get on my knees between his legs and begin to suck his perfect cock.

  “Is this a sin, Tom?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Really? Am I doing it wrong then?”

  “No, you’re not doing anything wrong. You’re doing everything just right.”

  “Don’t look at me, Tom. Look at us in the mirror.”

  A couple hours later in our bed, Tom moans in a different way, then mumbles, “No blood, no blood.”

  I shake him, gently at first, then harder, and his terrified eyes blink open.

  “You’re having a nightmare, Tom.”

  “What did I say?”

  “You were talking about blood, Tom.”

  “Whose blood? What blood?”

  “You didn’t say.”

  “Did I say anything else?” asks Tom, his eyes still full of panic.

  “No,” I tell him, and he smiles so sweetly that I need him inside me again.

  Chapter 114

  Tom

  I DON’T DARE fall asleep again, but Kate does.

  By the time she wakes, we’ve missed our reservation for dinner, so we head out into the night to see what we can find. As we pass various brightly lit windows, Kate seems unusually quiet, and I can’t stop thinking about my nightmare and what I might have said in my sleep.


  We leave crowded St. Germaine for the quieter, darker streets along the Seine. The whole time Kate is clinging to my arm and not saying a word.

  If something truly incriminating—about Sean or the others—had slipped out of my big mouth, she wouldn’t have fucked me again like that, would she? But if I didn’t say anything, why is she acting so squirrelly and tense?

  We’re both starving, but Kate rejects one promising-looking restaurant after another.

  “Too touristy.”

  “Too trendy.”

  “Too empty.”

  She’s not herself. Whether I want to or not, I can’t ignore the mind-numbing possibility that I’ve given myself away.

  And if I have, how can I clean up my mess in a city I barely know?

  We finally stop at a simple bistro packed with natives. The swarthy maître d’ leads us to a red banquette in back, but even here Kate won’t look me in the eye. Then, staring at her hands on her lap, and in a cracking voice, she says, “Tom, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  Not here. Not in front of everyone—where there’s nothing I can do.

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to say too,” I say. “But my head feels like it’s going to explode in here. Too noisy. Can we go someplace quieter, where it will be easier to talk?”

  Apologizing to the maître d’, we step back onto the curb and walk toward the Jardin de Luxembourg.

  But even at 11:00 p.m., it’s jammed with tourists. Every twenty yards or so there’s another street musician strumming a Beatles song, or a juggler tossing burning sticks, and the benches that are empty are too visible from the pathways.

  Finally, I spot an empty bench in the shadow of some tall trees. After a quick check to make sure we can’t be seen, I pull her onto my lap. Still not quite believing that it’s come to this, I look into Kate’s eyes and put one hand at the bottom of her thin neck.

  “Tom?”

  “What is it, Kate?”

  My heart is pounding so loud I can barely hear my words, and I look quickly over her shoulder to make sure no one is coming from the main path.

  All night Kate could barely look at me. Now her eyes are like lasers, and she won’t take them off me, as if she’s studying my eyes to read my reaction to what she’s about to say.

  “What, Kate? What’s the matter?” I ask, and bring my other hand to her throat.

  “I want to have a baby, Tom,” she says. “I want to have your baby.”

  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, but Kate, desperate for an answer, stares at me like a deer caught in headlights.

  “Only one?” I whisper, kissing the tears on her cheek and lowering my trembling hands to her waist. “I was hoping for three or four.”

  Chapter 115

  Tom

  HOURS AFTER OUR first baby-making session, I lie calmly on my side and watch Kate sleep, the desperation of a few hours ago just about swept away by euphoria. I used to hate to think about the future. I’d boxed myself into such a tight corner I didn’t have much of one. Now I’m sitting prettier than the asshole who graduates first in his class at Harvard Law School.

  Kate and I just won the biggest murder trial in the last ten years. We could live or work anywhere in the world, be partners at any law firm in the country, make a couple million a year between us without breaking a sweat. Or maybe, if we’re not quite ready to jump back into the harness, we just hang in Paris for a while. Stretch our trip from a week to a couple of months. Rent an apartment in the Marais. Soak up the culture. Learn about wine.

  A happy woman is such a lovely sight, and Kate looks so content, even in her sleep. If she’s determined to start a family, why not do it? I’m not getting any younger. Maybe she can go to work, and I’ll be the stay-at-home dad, teach the little ginks the fundamentals before it’s too late, have them dribbling with both hands by the time they’re in preschool.

  The alarm clock on the nightstand clicks, and the digital readout flips over to 6:03. I carefully slide out of bed, and with that old Joni Mitchell tune—“I was a free man in Paris”—lodged in my head, and willing the ancient floorboards not to creak, I tiptoe to the bathroom.

  I take a long, hot shower and shave. Slip on my new slacks and unwrap a shirt just back from the hotel laundry. Free and easy.

  Of all the things I love about Paris, I love the mornings the most. I can’t wait to step onto the wet streets and buy my Tribune. I can already taste the flaky croissants and rich, muddy coffee.

  At the door, I take one last look at Kate, lost in her unfathomable maternal dreams, and as I very gently close the door behind me, the cold steel barrel of a revolver presses into the back of my neck and the hammer is cocked back and catches in my ear.

  Before I hear Raiborne’s voice say “Thanks for bringing me to Paris, Dunleavy,” I smell his cheap aftershave. Then he kicks my loafers out from under me and throws me facedown onto the floor, pulls my wrists behind my back, and cuffs me. You could be a tough guy too if you had six gendarmes with guns drawn behind you.

  I still haven’t said a word because I don’t want to wake up Kate. I want her sweet dream to live a little longer. Fucked up as it may sound, I was starting to believe in it too, and if Raiborne or someone else hadn’t caught up with me, I might have gone through with it. It’s all just acting, right? If I could act like a good enough lawyer to save Dante’s ass, acting like a father and husband would have been a piece of cake.

  But Raiborne doesn’t care about that.

  “Your nephew knows you better than you think, tough guy.”

  “He was wearing a vest, wasn’t he?” I whisper, still trying not to make any noise.

  “How’d you know?”

  “Because he’s a little bitch,” I say, but really I know the reason—because there was no blood. No blood!

  “Three days after he crawls out of his grave, he turns himself in. Doesn’t even try to cop a plea. Just wants to share everything he knows about his uncle Tommy—which happens to be a whole lot.”

  Why won’t he shut up? Doesn’t he know Kate’s sleeping? For all we know, she’s already sleeping for two. But it’s too late.

  The door opens and Kate steps into the hallway in a T-shirt. Her bare feet are six inches from my face, but it might as well be six miles—because I know I’ll never touch her again.

  Epilogue

  After the Fall

  Chapter 116

  Tom

  THE HEAVY BOOTS of the day guard echo off the oppressive cinder-block walls that are all around me. A minute later there’s a rattle of keys and a clanging of bolts, and when the footsteps resume I hop off the twenty-four-inch-wide metal cot. When the guard turns the last corner to my cell, I’m already standing by the door.

  In the seven months I’ve been locked up in Riverhead—I’m on the same floor where Dante did his time—I haven’t had a visitor, and the only letters I’ve received are from Detective Connie P. Raiborne, Brooklyn Homicide. If Connie wants to pick my criminal brain, I say, pick away.

  Since his letters are all I get in the way of human interaction, I do my best to keep him interested, even if I have to make shit up, which, if you haven’t noticed, I’m very good at.

  The guard leads me to a fenced-in courtyard for my federally mandated twenty minutes of outdoor exercise a week, unlocking my wrists through a slit in the barbed wire once I’m safely inside.

  Across the way, the brothers run up and down the one court they got here, their black skin glistening with sweat even in the anemic December sun.

  I still have more than enough game to school those fellas, but no one’s going to let me play hoops in this joint. All I’ve got of freedom is the pock of the bouncing ball and the sun on the back of my neck. As I do my best to enjoy those, there’s a commotion at the far end of the cage, and some inmates are shoved inside.

  I’m in solitary, isolated from all the other inmates, since I fucked up that guy in the shower, messed him up so bad they’re still feeding him
through a tube. So right away I know what’s happening and so does the whole courtyard, because the basketball stops bouncing and the place goes stone silent. For these sick bastards, this is better than HBO.

  I almost feel the same way. I’m scared as hell, but excited-scared. No one ever learns the whole truth about himself, but in a place like this, you find out what you miss, and more than Kate’s skin or smile or the daydream she kept alive, I miss the action, the rush of shaking the dice and letting them roll, and right now they’re bouncing across the caged cement of this prison courtyard.

  I stand up and, making a point of taking my time about it, move to the corner near the fence. That way no one can get behind me, and only one of them can get at me at a time.

  They sent three people to do the job. There’s a pasty-looking white guy with a full sleeve of green tats on both arms, plus two thickly built black guys.

  But I never take my eyes off the white guy, because I know the one in the middle is holding the blade.

  They’re halfway across the lot now and closing fast, but I don’t move a muscle, not even in my face. I let them get close, and then everything changes in an instant. I bring my right foot up hard into the kneecap of the brother on the right. There’s a crunch and a scream of pain, and now, despite the four-leaf clover carved on his biceps, Irish boy is not feeling nearly as lucky, is he?

  But he’s up next, and he’s got no choice. He pulls his right hand from behind his thigh and lunges at me with the knife.

  Like a slow punch, I see it coming all the way. I’ve got all the time I need to turn and grab his wrist and throw him up against the second brother. Now I’m beating the shit out of Shamrock at the same time I’m using his body to shield me from the brother. When he goes limp, I snatch the homemade blade out of his hand, and with the courtyard mob stomping their feet like this is a prizefight, I turn it on the one guy left standing, who, big as he is, freezes, suddenly in no hurry to get closer.

  They already got me for three homicides, one more isn’t going to make any difference, but something makes me hesitate—maybe the fact that there’s a little bit of Raiborne in his eyes—and that’s when a fourth guy, the one I never saw because he’s standing outside the cage, sticks his arms in through the mesh. He slices my throat from behind.