Mary, Mary

by James Patterson

  THE REST OF MY DAY in Seattle was less stressful and a lot more fun. I took Little Alex to the aquarium, and it was easy, and gratifying, to throw myself into the time I had with him. He stared wide-eyed at the tropical fish and made a mess of his chicken fingers and ketchup at lunch afterward. For all I cared, we could have spent the day in a bus terminal waiting room.

  I loved watching him be himself, and also grow up. Every year it got better. Ali. Like the great one.

  My mind didn’t get too weighed down again until we were back at the house that night. Christine and I talked for a while on the front porch. I didn’t want to go inside, but I didn’t want to leave yet. And if I wasn’t imagining it, her eyes were a little red. Ever since I’d known her, she’d had mood swings, but they seemed to be getting worse.

  “I guess it’s my turn to ask if you’re all right,” I said. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Alex. Just the usual. Trust me, you don’t want to hear about my stuff.”

  “Well, if you mean romance, then you’re right. But otherwise, go ahead.”

  She laughed. “Romance? No, I’m just a little overextended these days. I do it to myself, always have. I’m working way too hard.”

  I knew she was the new head at a private school nearby. Other than that, I really didn’t have a clue what Christine’s life looked like anymore—much less why she had been crying before I got back to the house with Alex.

  “Besides,” she said, “we agreed last time I would ask about you. How are you doing? I know it’s hard, and I’m sorry for that, for everything that’s happened.”

  I told her in the briefest possible terms about the Mary Smith case, Nana’s recent dizzy spell, and that Jannie and Damon were doing fine. I left Jamilla out of the conversation, and she didn’t ask.

  “I’ve been reading about that terrible murder case in the paper,” Christine said. “I hope you’re being careful. It surprises me that a woman could be a killer.”

  “I’m always careful,” I told her. There was all kinds of irony going on here. Obviously, my job stood for a lot between Christine and me, and none of it was good.

  “This is all so strange, isn’t it?” she said suddenly. “Was it harder than you expected, being here today?”

  I told her that seeing Alex was worth whatever it took, but that honestly, seeing her was hard, too.

  “We’ve certainly had easier times than this, haven’t we?” she asked.

  “Yes, just not as parents.”

  She looked at me, and her dark eyes were so intelligent, as they always had been. “That’s so sad, Alex, when you put it that way.”

  I shrugged, with nothing to say.

  She put a tentative hand on my forearm. “I’m sorry, Alex. Really. I hope I’m not being insensitive. I don’t know what you’re feeling, but I do think I understand the position you’re in. I just—” She mustered up her next thought. “I just wonder sometimes what kind of parents we would have made. Together, I mean.”

  That was it. “Christine, you either are being insensitive or you’re trying to tell me something.”

  She sighed deeply. “I’m doing this all wrong. As usual. I wasn’t going to say anything today, but now I have. So, okay, here it is. I want Alex to have a two-parent life. I want him to know you, and believe it or not, I want you to know him. For everyone’s sake. Even mine.”

  I took a step back, and her hand fell limply away. “I don’t know what to say to that, Christine. I think it’s obvious that I wanted the same thing. You’re the one who decided to move out here to Seattle.”

  “I know,” she said. “That’s what I really wanted to speak with you about. I’m thinking of moving back to Virginia. I’m almost sure that’s what I’m going to do.”

  My mind, finally, was completely blown.

  Chapter 56

  VANCOUVER WAS ONE of the storyteller’s favorite cities—along with London, Berlin, and Copenhagen. He flew up there on Alaska Air and arrived just in time to wait on a long line with about five hundred “visitors” from Korea and China. Vancouver was crawling with Chinese and Koreans, but that was about the only thing he didn’t like about the beautiful Canadian seaport, and it seemed a minor complaint.

  He had some movie business in town that took up most of the day and also put him in a dark mood. By five or so that night he was in a wretched state of mind, and he needed to get the bottled-up anger out somehow.

  Know what I need? To tell somebody what’s going on, to share.

  Maybe not tell everything, but some of it—at least an idea of how incredible this whole thing was, this totally strange period of his life, this wilding, as he’d come to call it, this story.

  There was this foxy red-haired producer he knew who was in Vancouver to shoot a TV movie. Maybe he should connect with her. Tracey Willett had her own wilding period in Hollywood, starting when she was eighteen and continuing into her late twenties. She’d had a kid since and had apparently cooled her jets some.

  But she kept in touch with him, and that had to mean something. He’d always been able to talk to Tracey, and about almost anything.

  So he called her, and sure enough, she said she’d love to have dinner and drinks with him. About an hour later, Tracey called back from the movie set. The movie shoot was running late. Not her fault, he knew. Probably some hack director’s fault. Some disorganized, arrogant, glorified art director two or three years out of film school.

  So he didn’t get to see Tracey until past eleven, when she came over to his room at the Marriott. She gave him a big hug and a sloppy kiss, and she looked pretty good for having worked all day. “I missed you, sweetcakes. I missed you so much. Where have you been? You look great by the way. So thin, good thin, though. The lean-and-hungry look, right? It suits you.”

  He didn’t know whether Tracey was still into blow, or booze, or whatever, so he had a little of everything on hand, and that’s what they did—just about everything. He knew right away she wanted to fool around, because she told him she was horny for one of the stunt men on the movie and because of the way she sat on the couch, legs set apart, looking him up and down with those bedroom eyes of hers, hungry eyes, just as he remembered. Finally, Tracey pulled up her top and said, “Well?”

  So he took her to bed, where she complimented his new lean body again. Tracey did a little more coke; then she took off her blouse to let him admire her tits some more. He remembered the drill with Tracey—you had to talk about how sexy she was and touch her everywhere for about twenty minutes, then at least thirty minutes of very energetic humping because Tracey couldn’t have an orgasm to save her life, and was always getting so close, but never quite there, so keep going, harder, faster, harder, faster, oh baby, baby, baby. And when he came inside her, she seemed to like it, and she held him close as if they were a couple again, even though they had never really been a couple.

  Once the sexual preliminaries were out of the way, it was his turn to really get off. They were out on his terrace overlooking the city, and Tracey had her head on his shoulder. Very romantic and cute, in a pathetic sort of way, like going on a date with Meg Ryan, or Daryl Hannah maybe.

  “I want to tell you a little about what I’ve been up to,” he finally said. Until then, everything had been about her.

  “I want to hear all about it, sweetie. Only I can’t leave the kid too late back at my hotel. The nanny threatens to quit.”

  Now that he remembered, Tracey was kind of a selfish bitch most of the time.

  “Does anybody know about the two of us tonight?” he asked.

  “No. Duh. So what are you up to? Something big, of course. You’re due.”

  “Yeah, it’s kind of a mystery thing. It’s big, all right. Really different though. Nothing anything like it before. I’m writing the story myself. The story of stories.”

  “Wow, that’s great. You’re writing it yourself, huh?”

  “Yeah. You know those murders in L.A.? Mary Smith?”

  She knew a litt
le but not everything, since she’d been up in Vancouver for four weeks, so he quickly filled her in.

  “You bought the rights? Wow! That’s great. And what, you want me to produce?”

  He shook his head in disbelief.

  “From who, Tracey? Who would I buy the rights from?”

  “Oh, right. Well, so what’s the deal then?”

  “So I can talk to you? Really talk?”

  “Of course you can talk to me. Tell me your big idea, your story. I love thrillers.”

  This is it. Go or no-go? What is it going to be?

  “I planned those murders, Tracey. I’m Mary.” Wow. It was out. Just like that. I’m Mary. Holy shit!

  She looked at him real funny, funny peculiar, and suddenly he knew this had been a very bad idea, and old Tracey wasn’t the crazy one—he was. He’d just blown his whole deal. And for what? To let off a little steam with an old girlfriend? To vent? Confess?

  She was staring at him as if he had two heads, at least that many. “Come again? What are you saying?”

  He laughed, faked it the best he could, anyway.

  “It’s a joke, Trace. We’re high; I made a joke. Hey, let me give you a ride home. You’ve got the kid at your hotel, the nanny and whatever. I hear you. And you’re a good mommy, right?”

  Chapter 57

  THEY DIDN’T TALK MUCH IN THE CAR, so he knew how big a mistake he’d made, and now he wondered if he’d made other mistakes along the way. Maybe important ones that would get him caught. Like way back in New York City. The movie-theater shootings.

  He finally spoke. “I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, you know.”

  She muttered, “Sure. I hear you.”

  Man, she was making him paranoid, and a little nuts, actually. They’d been friends for a long time, though. “So how old is the kid now?”

  “Uhmmm, four and a half. He’s great. Stefan.”

  She was really scaring him. Now what? What the hell should he do? This wasn’t a “Mary Smith” scene. Tracey wasn’t even in his story. This was bad news.

  Suddenly he pulled his rented Volvo over to the side of the road. Now what?

  “What’s the matter?” she asked. “What?”

  “You’d better get out right here, Trace. I’m not kidding you. Get out! Walk the rest of the way!”

  “Walk? Are you crazy. What are you talking about?”

  “Get out of the car! Right now. Get out before I throw you out!”

  That got her moving. She threw open the passenger’s door and stumbled outside, cursing him like a truck driver. It was cold out there, and she had both arms wrapped around her. Then she started to cry. “You’re crazy. You know that? I thought we were friends.”

  She started to run away on the dark residential side street somewhere between the Marriott and her hotel.

  The Storyteller got out of the car and found himself following close behind. “Tracey, wait! Hey. Tracey.”

  He caught up to her easily. “Hey, hey. I’m sorry for scaring you, baby. I’m really sorry. Hey, you okay?” And then he shot her in the throat, and once she was down on the sidewalk, he shot her again in the head.

  And this time it wasn’t good, didn’t feel good at all.

  This time it felt kind of bad, scared the hell out of him.

  Because the story was taking over, the story was writing itself, and the story didn’t seem to care who got hurt.

  Chapter 58

  AS I FLEW FROM SEATTLE back to Los Angeles the next day, it struck me again how darkly appropriate the Mary Smith case was as a backdrop to my entire life. I was also starting to feel like some kind of record-setter for complicated or failed relationships. The only closure I had reached with Christine was that we would speak more soon. It excited me to think about having Little Alex—Ali—closer by, but I wasn’t about to get attached to the idea. Christine had proved herself too changeable in the past for me to trust that anything she said might happen for sure.

  As it turned out, I got sucked back into the murder case even before I made it through the terminal at LAX.

  A television news report caught my ear, and I stopped to watch the next development unfold.

  I couldn’t look away as a talking head reported, “At a press conference this morning, lead detective on the Hollywood Stalker case, Jeanne Galletta, denied the existence of any so-called kill list.”

  Hollywood Stalker was a media moniker that had emerged lately for Mary Smith. As for a “kill list,” I had no idea what the TV reporter was talking about.

  “LAPD is urging area residents to remain calm and go about their business. Many people, however, aren’t buying it.

  “One citizens’ group appeared at the local precinct, demanding to see the ‘kill list,’ which police claim doesn’t even exist. Either way, and whoever you choose to believe, one thing is clear: The Stalker has this community”—she inserted a reporterly pause—“very much on edge. Lorraine Solie, reporting live from Beverly Hills.”

  Kill list? What the hell was this? Had the LAPD found out something and then not shared it with us? It wouldn’t be the only time.

  The first person I was able to reach at the FBI field office was David Fujishiro, another special agent assigned to the murder case.

  “It’s way, way out in left field,” he told me. “There’s this supposed list with twenty-one names, starting with Patrice Bennett, Antonia Schifman, and Marti Lowenstein-Bell. The idea is that it’s Mary Smith’s agenda.”

  “And everyone in L.A. wants to know if they’re on it?” I asked. “One of the twenty-one?”

  “Right. And it gets even better than that. The rumor is that anyone on the list can buy their way off by sending a hundred thousand dollars to a post office box in Orange County that doesn’t seem to exist. We’ve checked it all out, not that anyone believes us. People are actually threatening legal action against the LAPD.”

  “But there’s no truth to the rumor, David? You’re sure?”

  “Not that we know of. But hey, what the hell do we know? We’re only the FBI.”

  “This case is getting its own social life,” I said. “Has anybody spoken to Detective Galletta about the list?”

  “I don’t know, but—what?” There was a pause on the line. “Hang on, Alex.”

  “David? What’s happening?”

  I could hear voices in the background, but nothing distinct. Agent Fujishiro came back on and told me to wait another second. “Something’s up,” he added.

  “Wait!” I yelled, but it was no good. He was gone again.

  More voices came, then a general rumbling, rising in pitch. What the hell was happening?

  Then I heard Fujishiro saying “Yeah, I’ve got him right here on the phone.”

  “Alex? Fred Van Allsburg needs to talk to you right now. Hold the line.”

  I was never glad to hear from Van Allsburg, but his voice had a no-bullshit tension to it.

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out right now. All we know at the moment is that Arnold Griner at the Times just got another e-mail. Can you get over to the L.A. Times office right away?”

  “Not if there’s a new murder scene, I can’t. I need to see it now.”

  “I’m not going to negotiate this, Alex. We’ll get word to you as soon as we know what’s what. Meanwhile—”

  I couldn’t help myself—I cut him off. “Sir? Hello? Can you hear me?”

  I hung up in the middle of Van Allsburg shouting that he could hear me fine.

  Then I called Agent Page and told him to put me on hold until we knew if Mary Smith had a new victim.

  Chapter 59

  SUZIE CARTOULIS WASN’T PAYING much attention to the real world as she backed out of the driveway that morning. Her thoughts were on an unfinished pool cabana in the backyard of the house in Pacific Palisades, and the blankety-blank contractor who wasn’t returning any of her phone calls, who never returned her calls, only her husband’s. Two
more days like this and she was going to fire the guy’s ass. Right after she set it on fire.

  Another car, idling just past a neighbor’s cedar hedge, came into sight at the last second. Suzie braked hard to avoid hitting the jerk who was parked there. Her heart thudded. That certainly would have been an auspicious way to start her day, a fender bender ten feet from her driveway.

  She gave a quick wave into the rearview mirror.

  “Sorry!” My bad.

  Then she put her silver Mercedes wagon in drive and started down the cul-de-sac toward Sunset. The other car pulled out as well and began to follow, but Suzie Cartoulis didn’t notice.

  Her focus had shifted to the nine-year-old boy in the backseat. “Are you all right, Zach? I didn’t mean to stop so suddenly like that.”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.”

  “All right. Just checking, sweetie. How about a little music? What do you want to hear?”

  She tried not to be overbearing, but it was hard sometimes. Zachary was such a sensitive boy, and he didn’t react well to being ignored, either. Maybe if he had a little brother or sister, but that wasn’t going to happen any time soon. Not now that Suzie had become the ten-o’clock anchor. She had finally gotten into the inner sanctum of recognizable faces in L.A.—no small feat for a former weathergirl from Tucson, thank you very much—and she wasn’t going to let another pregnancy slow her down right now. Especially since New York was apparently very interested in her as well.

  As if on cue, the phone rang.

  Caller ID showed her husband’s cell number, and she juggled the headset up to her ear.

  “Hi. Where are you, honey?” She spoke through a frown she was glad Gio wasn’t there to see.

  “Miami. I think we’re wrapping up. I have to shoot up to Palm Beach in a minute. Of course, there’s another hurricane on the horizon, so I want to vamoose out of here. We just need a few signatures, but it looks like the contract’s a go.”

  “Great,” she said with hollow enthusiasm. She was supposed to know what project he was talking about, but they all blended together. Something about a shopping mall in southern Florida. Was that right? Was Vero Beach in south Florida? The Treasure Coast? This was their game; he spoke about his work as if she cared, and she pretended to.