Invisible

by James Patterson

  Maybe Mary and I—and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but maybe Mary and I—

  No. No, no, no. Slow down, Graham. Tread cautiously. Move slowly.

  We wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.

  [END]

  68

  MY EYES look up from the computer screen. My head lolls back so that I am staring at a blank ceiling. My vision is fuzzy from sleep deprivation and staring into a computer for hours.

  Books knocks on my office door. “There’s still some Chinese food in the conference room,” he says.

  “Sounds good,” I say without conviction.

  “Hey.” He comes over to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. “If you’re not going to sleep, you at least have to eat. You’re skin and bones as it is.”

  Always have been. Five-foot-nine and a hundred twenty pounds since I was a teenager. Long and lanky—athletic would be the kind way of saying it—not demure and shapely like my sister or, for that matter, my mother.

  “Okay, we have them,” says Sophie Talamas, bouncing into the room. “The teams themselves, the legal ticket brokers—we have them all now. Everyone who’s bought a ticket to an NFL game this week in Oakland, Dallas, Washington, or Cleveland.”

  I spin my chair around and nod to her. “Okay, you know what to do,” I say. The research analysts are going to perform their magic, looking through all of these names and running them through our databases.

  “Don’t look so excited,” Sophie says.

  I make a face. I’m not excited.

  “Emmy doesn’t think our subject’s on any of those lists,” says Books.

  “He wouldn’t buy a ticket that way, where he gets in someone’s database,” I say. “He’d pay in cash. My guess is he’s going to scalp a ticket at the game.”

  I cringe at the word scalp, given the method of torture our subject prefers. I got the word from Books, the sports enthusiast. When he first mentioned scalping a ticket, I pictured someone with a serrated knife.

  Sophie rubs her eyes. She’s put in serious hours as well. We all have. “You think tonight’ll be his first kill of the week?”

  I shrug. It’s Wednesday night. The earlier in the week that our subject shows himself to us—pins himself down to some location in the country—the sooner we’ll know which football stadium he’ll visit, and the more effectively we can prepare. So as completely bizarre as it may sound for me to say that I’m hoping he kills someone tonight, it’s the unfortunate truth.

  “Go home,” Books says to me—home being a hotel room. “You can work on the laptop from bed. We’ve got all sorts of people looking for this guy now, Emmy. You’re not a one-person show anymore.”

  I drill a finger onto the desk. “I’m staying right here,” I say. “And if we pinpoint him to a location tonight, I’m going there with you.”

  69

  * * *

  “Graham Session”

  Recording # 16

  September 19, 2012

  * * *

  I want you to listen to this. This is from tonight, from Mary and me. I met her after she got off work.

  Me: Can I ask you something, Mary? Why did you agree to see me tonight?

  Mary: You mean, why did I agree to go out with you after I caught you spying on me in the back of the bar on Monday?

  Me: I might have chosen a more charitable account of events. But—yes. Why? I might have thought you’d find me odd.

  Mary: [Laughing] I do find you odd, Graham.

  Me: Ah. Glad we have that settled.

  Mary: I told you before, I like a little quirkiness in men. It was—I don’t know, it was kind of endearing. Flattering, too. I’m not used to somebody getting nervous over me.

  Me: I find that hard to believe.

  Mary: You think there’s a big market demand out there for a thirty-seven-year-old bartender who’s a recovering alcoholic?

  [Editor’s note: pause of eleven seconds.]

  Mary: Oops, I spooked you. That’s a heck of a way to introduce that piece of information. But yes, I’m an alcoholic. I’ve been sober for over ten years, if that’s any consolation.

  Me: No, I…I think that’s rather extraordinary.

  Mary: Oh, I don’t know about that. I’m just facing down my demons like everyone else.

  Me: But you’re building a new life. You’re taking college courses during the day and working at night. That’s very impressive, I think.

  Mary: That’s nice of you to say.

  Me: Mary, why would you work at a bar if you’re a recovering alcoholic?

  Mary: I know, I know—it doesn’t make a lot of sense, right? Mostly because I needed a job that was nights only so I could go to school during the day, and a friend of mine owns the bar. Maybe I like the challenge, too.

  Me: The challenge?

  Mary: Yeah. Knowing I can stare it in the face and beat it every day. It’s like, every day I look at those bottles of booze and say, “I don’t need you anymore. I beat you.” It’s empowering.

  Me: Facing down your demons.

  Mary: Yeah, exactly. Don’t you have demons, Graham?

  I thought that whole exchange was…remarkable. The way she so easily opened herself up to me? The way she looked me in the eye and said, This is who I am. People don’t do that. They don’t show their true selves. They hide behind layers and layers of self-deception and outward deception. They wear masks. They put up fronts. They lie. They hide.

  What was I supposed to say back to her? I really wanted to reciprocate. I really did. I mean, she lays out the sordid details of her life right there, as easily as she takes a breath, and what do I do in return? Do I say, I have some demons of my own, Mary? No. I change the subject, that’s what I do.

  And it’s not like she didn’t notice. She drops these revelations, and suddenly I want to talk about this-darn-weather-we’re-having. It was obvious. I think she knows. I mean, she doesn’t know know—she couldn’t possibly—but she senses something about me. I know she does.

  Oh, and this smile she has, I wish you could see it, the way her nose wrinkles up and her eyes squint, it is one of the most sincere and true smiles I’ve ever seen. She is so quick to let happiness in and so firm in keeping out the venom, the poisonous thoughts.

  And her smell. There is this trace of strawberry. I think it’s her shampoo. When I smell it I think of the word fresh, and really, there isn’t a better word to describe Mary.

  Oh, and then the end of the night, after I walked her to her door. I can’t remember ever being so nervous. My hands stuffed in my pockets, my eyes down, shifting weight from one foot to the other. I’m telling you, I must have looked like an awkward schoolboy on his first date.

  And I kissed her! I’m not sure how I moved from point A to point B, but somewhere in there I mustered up my courage and I leaned in and she met me halfway. It was so soft and slow and sweet, our lips pressed gently together, her hand caressing my cheek. I felt a charge of electricity throughout my body. I felt weightless.

  I feel weightless now!

  [END]

  70

  “SHIT.”

  I push myself away from my desk, rolling in my chair halfway across my office. I get to my feet and get a nice dose of vertigo, the walls turning sideways, the floor angling up toward me. I grip my chair to reclaim my equilibrium.

  “Shit,” I repeat, because it seems to capture the moment.

  I’m falling apart. I know that. I’m pulling virtual all-nighters and not eating. I’m not going to be able to sustain this much longer.

  And what do I have to show for it? First, Wednesday night, and now Thursday night, tethered to my computer and phone, waiting all night for the call from one of the locales where we expect our subject to go—Oakland, Dallas, Washington, Cleveland—awaiting any notice of a residential fire that we can link to him.

  And so far, nothing. Sure, a few calls came in, a house fire in Sausalito, a diner in Cleveland that went up in flames—probably a “Greek lightning” fire, an ars
on by a restaurant owner going out of business, looking to collect insurance money—but nothing that comes close to our guy.

  It’s five in the morning now, Friday morning. I haven’t had more than a catnap since Tuesday night. I need to get a few hours of sleep so I can stay up again tonight—Friday night—when he’s sure to attack. Simple math: if he’s going to kill two people this week before Sunday, he’ll have to do the first one Friday night.

  Great. I know for certain that tonight will be the night, and I’ll be falling asleep at my desk.

  Deflated and groggy, my neck and back reaching the status of rigor mortis, my fingers tired from the rapid-fire typing all night, my vision as clear as fog, I leave the FBI building and take the rental car back to my hotel. I get out of my car and slam the door shut. The crisp air of a fall morning provides a moment of relief (outdoors—yes, I remember there is such a thing as outdoors, fresh air).

  A tinge of pain hits me behind my eyes, dark circles clouding the fringes of my vision, as if I’m looking through a tunnel. I have to go to bed, I realize. Maybe just a few hours—

  “That’s her!” I hear a woman yell. My reaction time is slowed but I’m jumpy all the same, and my immediate response—danger—takes longer than normal to dissipate before I realize that the man and woman rushing toward me are not coming to do me harm. Not physical harm, anyway.

  One of them is carrying a recorder in her hand. The other, a handheld camera.

  “Agent Dockery,” says the reporter, a pretty young African-American woman. “Diane Bell, from the Tribune.”

  This is a new one for me, the first time a reporter has ever confronted me like this. The words shoot into my brain—no comment and I’m not an agent—but instead I just say, “Yes?”

  “Agent Dockery, I understand that you’re chasing a serial killer around the country, a man who has killed possibly dozens of people and burned up the evidence to hide his crimes.”

  “I…I…” I shake my head, show the cameraman the palm of my hand, and start walking toward my hotel. “I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.” I say it robotically, something I’ve heard others say, politicians under fire and stone-faced prosecutors. No comment. We can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.

  “So there is an investigation,” she says. “Great. Thank you.”

  I shake my head violently, which doesn’t help my shaky equilibrium. I keep walking, picking up the pace, turning my shoulder to shield myself from her as I near the entrance to the hotel. If I’m not careful, I’m going to fall over on camera.

  “Curtis Valentine,” she says. “Joelle Swanson?”

  I reach the door of the hotel and push it open.

  “Your sister, Marta?”

  I snap my head around to her but don’t say anything. She raises her hand in a calming gesture and approaches me. “I know it all, anyway, Agent,” she says. “Your sister was one of the victims and you’ve been on a crusade. You found this killer when nobody else believed you.”

  My mind is racing. I’m out of my league. I don’t even know the protocol. Special agents are trained to deal with the press. Research analysts? Nobody ever wants to talk to us.

  “Who…told you that?” I manage.

  She drops her head a notch, a tsk-tsk look. Right—reporters don’t reveal their sources. It’s all a one-way street with them.

  “Take my card,” she says, and for some reason I do. “This is an amazing story, Emmy. Don’t you want to tell your side?”

  “No,” I say, and I push my way into the hotel.

  71

  BOOKS RUNS his hand over his face. His eyes are red and unfocused, his face drawn. He’s had more sleep than me, but that’s not saying much. College students cramming for final exams have gotten more sleep than me.

  “We never comment on the existence or nonexistence of an investigation,” Books says to me gently, like a parent to a child.

  I dig a knuckle into my eye. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You confirmed that there was an investigation.”

  “She knew names. Including Marta’s. She already knew there was a damn investigation.”

  Books’s eyes meet mine, but he doesn’t push it. He’s made his point. No matter how much that reporter already knew, she didn’t have FBI confirmation of an investigation until I gave it to her.

  I throw up my hands in surrender. “I screwed up.”

  Books doesn’t quarrel with that assessment.

  “How did they get the story?” I ask, but it’s a rhetorical question. The reporter will never tell, and it doesn’t matter, anyway.

  “My guess, one of the local cops working the Joelle Swanson or Curtis Valentine cases.” Books shakes his head. “These guys are always looking for favors. ‘I give you this tip, remember to make me look good next time there’s a story involving one of my cases,’ that kind of thing. Or maybe it was one of the victims’ families. Frankly, I’m surprised it took this long to leak out.”

  “Well, the timing sucks.” I throw a pen across the room. “Here, he thinks he’s gotten away with everything. He’s going about his business, wherever he is this week, killing these people with the clever cover-up, thinking he has everyone fooled, and he’s going to walk into a football stadium this Sunday and we’re going to nail him. And now? Now he’s going to know we’re coming!”

  Books’s cell phone rings. He looks at me with an apologetic smirk. “The Dick,” he says. He punches the button for speakerphone and answers.

  “This is Books,” he says. “I have Emmy with me.”

  “Ah, yes—well done, Emmy! On the eve of the greatest lead we have in this case, you tell the Chicago Tribune all about our investigation.”

  Books rolls his eyes, mostly for my benefit. The Dick is probably enjoying having the upper hand again, being able to call me out on a screwup, however much he exaggerates it.

  “I just got off the phone with the editors,” Dickinson tells us. “They weren’t very forthcoming with what they knew. They have some victims’ names, they know that Emmy has a personal involvement in this investigation—”

  Books and I exchange looks. A nice jab from Dickinson. I’m sure the Dick would like nothing more than to fire me for this. If I didn’t have that episode in his office hanging over his head, he’d surely do just that.

  “—and it sounds like they might have an autopsy report. They know there are multiple locations throughout the country where our subject has killed, but they don’t seem to have it all in a tidy package. And they didn’t say anything about our most recent information, like the video footage of the subject from the bar, or any connection to professional football games.”

  I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. They know that Curtis Valentine and Joelle Swanson—and my sister—are being classified as murders, not accidental fires. That’s the whole ball of wax for him. He doesn’t want us looking for a murderer, period, much less him. Once he sees this article, he’ll know we’re onto his methods. So much for sneaking up on him.”

  The Dick says, “Then you’ll thank me for getting the editors at the Tribune to hold off on the story until Monday.”

  “Oh, that’s great,” says Books. “That’s great!” He puts out his hand and calms the air between us. “So there’s hope for us yet.”

  “What did you have to give them?” I ask.

  “First access, if and when the case breaks.”

  Books gives a who-cares shrug.

  “So you have this weekend, this one chance to isolate the subject in whatever football stadium he visits,” says Dickinson. “Do us all a favor and try not to fuck up anything else between now and then.”

  72

  * * *

  “Graham Session”

  Recording # 17

  September 22, 2012

  * * *

  Mary, Mary, quite contrary,

  How does my love for you grow?

  With sweet little smiles and feminine wiles,

  And your ponytail t
ied in a bow.

  I think we can all agree that needs a little work. Mother Goose, I am not.

  But in a good mood, I am. Oh, listen to me, I’m starting to sound like Yoda from Star Wars. As opposed to Yoda the Supreme Court justice, or Yoda the union carpenter. There’s only one Yoda! I don’t need to qualify it. “Silly I am!”

  Oh, God, I do feel silly. I’m giddy, changing my clothes twice before tonight’s date, fixing my hair, brushing my teeth twice. I even did some push-ups so that if she touches my arm or puts her hands on me, she’ll feel some hard muscle. Is that normal, to primp like that? What do I care? If this is abnormal, then I’ll take abnormal!

  Okay, take a deep breath. I don’t want to spook her. I don’t want to push her away by seeming too eager. You can be too eager, can’t you? I mean, maybe she just enjoys my company but isn’t ready for some big commitment.

  God, look at all my instruments. The forceps are a mess. The chisel will need to be replaced soon. I think I’m going to switch from the ten-millimeter to the eight when I get a new one. Harder to sharpen and probably harder to clean, but greater precision, too. It’s all about precision. And the bone curettes have seen better days, too. What’s happening to me? Once upon a time, I’d clean the instruments meticulously the moment I returned home. This is what you’re doing to me, Mary. You’re distracting me.

  But I don’t mind being distracted!

  Am I ready for a commitment? Oh, see, I’m doing it again—I’m making this too big, too fast. She’s a nice girl, Graham, a very sweet woman. Maybe there’s something there long-term, but you don’t have to make that decision right now, or tonight. Take it slow. Isn’t that what people say—take it slow?