Invisible

by James Patterson

  91

  “STAY BACK!” Books calls out to me, a hand extended, as he stands a few yards from the house. “You aren’t authorized to enter, Emmy. That’s an order!”

  Tactical agents, covered in firefighting gear, move in along with the firefighters, acting as armed escorts, their submachine guns drawn and blast shields raised, ready for anything or anyone. Moments later, high-powered hoses do their work on the flames, blowing out the windows in the process, inky black smoke snorting out of every orifice of the ranch. I keep my distance behind a bulletproof shield, awaiting another blast or gunfire or something else, something unexpected, for Mr. Winston Graham has become the expert of the unexpected.

  Before long, any semblance of fiery orange radiating from the house has disappeared, leaving a drenched, drooping structure still coughing polluted smoke. The fire was precisely planned and well executed, but the fire department was, after all, only a quarter mile away when it started.

  “Clear!” a voice yells into my earpiece. “Main floor is clear!”

  Clear of human beings, they mean, dead or alive. And clear of threats.

  The basement. The fire didn’t reach the basement, I’d bet.

  “Stay…here,” Books says to me through his gas mask, turning to me.

  I take a step back in compliance.

  He disappears into the black smoke engulfing the house, no longer burning but radiating a heat so fierce I can feel it through my shield and helmet.

  Remember your place, I tell myself. Not your place to run in there. You could do more harm than good. You could fall through the floor and they’d end up spending valuable time saving you. Not your place.

  I put on the fire boots that go with the rest of my costume, the helmet and shield and gas mask with oxygen tank, the heavy coat and pants. Why did they give me these things if they didn’t expect me to go in? I wait five minutes and then I head inside.

  It’s almost impossible to see through the smoke, but I know the layout of the house, just as all the agents do, from the floor plans. I suck in clean oxygen off my gas mask while the dirty smog surrounds me. I focus on the floor, partially scalded from the fire, charred bits of newspaper scattered everywhere and floating through the air like remnants of a ticker-tape parade. This floor is unsafe to traverse, but I’m not the first or the tenth person to cross it and I’m not good at patience. I know that if I keep walking straight down the main hallway, past the kitchen and past the bedrooms, the door to the basement will be there.

  I find the door, open, the staircase heading down to the basement free of smoke. I take the steps downward. There are at least ten agents down there, I tell myself. No matter how good he is, he can’t overtake ten of them.

  Right?

  I hit the bottom of the stairs and turn. The main part of the basement is unfinished and dingy, concrete walls and floors, a hot-water heater, water softener, washer and dryer in one corner, and a weight-lifting bench with barbell and free weights in the other corner.

  But then there is a long corridor with doors on each side. Agents pull each one open and rush in, weapons first. Shouts of “FBI!” and “ATF!” and “federal agents!” echo back to me. I remove my gas mask and follow down the corridor as agents clear one room after another.

  “All clear!” shouts one of the agents to Books, who nods and looks around in vain. When he sees me, he lacks the energy to complain. He just shrugs. The entire house, first floor and basement, have been cleared.

  Where are you, Winston Graham?

  I walk back into the main area of the basement, the appliances and the workout area. And then I notice the cabinet in the corner, a gray metal structure almost as tall as me, with twin doors and a padlock that is unlocked and hanging over one of the handles.

  For a man as precise as Winston Graham, that’s practically an invitation.

  “Here,” I say. “Look in here!”

  “Get back, dammit,” Books says, taking my arm and yanking me backward. He gestures with a hurried finger to the cabinet. Agents approach the cabinet on each side. One slips off the padlock. Then, in sync, each agent grabs a handle and yanks open the doors.

  The interior of the cabinet looks like any other. Three shelves, two of them completely empty. There is, in fact, only one thing resting on the center shelf.

  A stack of paper.

  With a purple bow tied around it.

  “What the hell is this?” Books asks, approaching the cabinet and looking at the first page of the stack of paper. “What the hell are ‘Graham Sessions’?”

  92

  DAWN HAS broken, the sky above us coloring into day, but still it is relatively dark. We are back down the road now, at the back of a SWAT team truck, using the floor of the cabin area as a desk and spreading out the stack of documents, the random musings of a serial killer, which he has dubbed “Graham Sessions.” They are numbered—twenty-two in all—and dated. They appear to be recorded orally. He probably used one of those high-tech recorders that automatically transcribe his words into a document.

  Each Graham Session is spread out over the truck’s floor. We read them quickly at first. There will be plenty of time for analysis of his word choices and colloquialisms, days that will be spent deconstructing every sentence.

  But right now, we’re looking for any leads on where this monster is hiding. So I pass quickly over the disgusting self-glorification contained in these pages, the revolting passages where we read along as he tortures victims, looking for anything, anything that might give us a clue—

  “Mary,” I say aloud. Someone named Mary is mentioned in recording number twelve, a conversation with her that he recorded in a bar. And then she keeps coming back in subsequent chapters. She becomes the focus, in fact, with each new passage that I read. He has feelings for her. He is opening up to her. He’s becoming tormented over her. He is falling in love with her.

  Mary is a bartender, a part-time student, a recovering alcoholic. But what is her last name? Where does she live? Are we going to have to search all of Pennsylvania for a woman named Mary?

  Then we see him melting down, as he realizes we’re closing in on him. The self-gratification still pops up in spurts, but he’s getting nervous. He’s losing confidence, while trying to convince himself—and us—that he isn’t.

  What will he do about Mary?

  “We have to find her,” I mumble.

  Books raises a radio to his mouth. “How are we with the cadaver dogs?”

  “They’re here,” a voice pops back. “We’re starting with his property and then we’ll move to the wooded area behind the ranch. We have agents combing the woods right now.”

  “Let’s keep reading,” Books says to me. “There’s got to be some clue about her in there.”

  But I’m almost done, and there isn’t much yet. In recording number twenty-one, dated yesterday, Sunday, after he eluded us at Ford Field, Graham is coming unglued. Good. Fine. But it’s his last words on that day that chill me to the bone.

  She knows too much.

  “He’s going to kill her,” I say.

  And then I get to the final recording, dated today, October first.

  93

  * * *

  “Graham Session”

  Recording # 22

  October 1, 2012

  * * *

  I didn’t…I didn’t want this for you, Mary. I didn’t want this for us. You have to believe me. Please, tell me that much—tell me that you believe what I’m saying. I’ve been lying to you. I’ve been lying to myself, convincing myself that I could be different with you, that everything could be different. But please believe me now. Please believe that if I’d met you earlier, things would have been different, I would have changed, I know I would have, I would have changed for you, Mary.

  But now it’s too late, and I can’t let you…no, Mary, I can’t, I’m sorry, I’m sorrier than I’ve ever been in my life. I’ve never been sorry before, actually, never, but I am now, because you’ve opened up thing
s inside me and I wanted to let them out and explore them together with you. I know we could have done that and everything would have been okay. Please understand, Mary—please!—that I have no choice, I have no choice but to do this, because no matter how much you might love me back they’ll turn you and make you tell them things about me and I can’t let them do that to you. If I could leave you here I would but I can’t, I don’t have a choice. You see that, don’t you? I don’t have a choice. It’s outside my control.

  They’re coming for me now, Mary, and they’re going to tell you all kinds of things about me and I can’t let you hear them because they’ll make them sound so much worse than the truth—that’s what they do and I can’t let them. I’d rather you remember me as the person who loves you, because I do love you, Mary, I swear to you that I do love you and I’m capable of love because of you.

  You won’t love me if you hear what they say. You won’t love me if you know the truth. You never would have, I guess. No, I guess not. Nobody would love me! How could they? How could anyone…now hush, Mary. Hush now.

  You’re my special Mary, my dear, dear Mary Laney and I’ll always love you and always remember you, and that will have to be enough. Please understand, my sweet Mary. Please understand that I’m doing this out of love and I wish it could be different, I wish it could be different, oh, why can’t it be different? Why can’t they just leave me alone and give us a chance to be different and be better?

  There’s nothing left for us now and I can’t let them hurt you or turn you against me. I won’t let them destroy what we had. I won’t.

  Now sleep, my dear, sweet princess. Sleep and carry me with you in your heart, and I’ll always carry you in mine.

  I promise you that one day soon we’ll meet again.

  [END]

  94

  “MARY LANEY, L-A-N-E-Y,” Books calls into his radio.

  I’m sitting on the floor of the SWAT team truck with my laptop open, scrolling the motor vehicle registrations in Pennsylvania, the property tax records.

  “There are four Mary Laneys in the greater Pittsburgh area,” I say.

  “Assuming it’s Pittsburgh.”

  “It has to be close,” I say. “Whatever he did to her, he came back here and included the transcript in his stack of papers before he vanished.”

  “Maybe he killed her right here in his house,” says Books.

  “Don’t say that. Don’t say he killed her.”

  “It sure sounded like that, Em.”

  “Wait,” I say, looking up from the computer screen. “Her age. She said her age in there, right? I think it was thirty-seven?”

  “That…sounds…right.” Books flips through the passages concerning Winston Graham’s beloved Mary. “Yes, thirty-seven. So she was born in nineteen seventy-five, or a late birthday in nineteen seventy-four.”

  I cut over to the Pennsylvania Department of Health for vital records. “If she was born in Pennsylvania, she’ll be…right…here! Here we go: Allentown, Pennsylvania, Mary—oh, shoot. Shoot. This isn’t Mary Laney. This is Marty Laney.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” I say, edgy and agitated. “I can tell the difference between ‘Marty’ and ‘Mary,’ for God’s sake.”

  “Maybe it’s her brother.”

  “Maybe. But let’s keep looking.”

  Back to the property tax records, finding Social Security numbers and cross-referencing them with criminal records databases. She was once an alcoholic, so maybe she got in trouble with the law.

  Nothing. The four Mary Laneys in the greater Pittsburgh area were all law-abiding citizens.

  “Okay, let’s do taxes,” I say. “Department of Revenue…Department of Revenue…”

  Tax records are chock full of information. All I need is date of birth, for starters. She may not have been born in Pennsylvania, but she pays her taxes here.

  Four Mary Laneys, with four dates of birth, pop onto my screen.

  “DOB, six, twenty-two, ninety-four,” I say. “DOB, five, thirteen, eighty-two…DOB five, twenty-seven, sixty-nine…DOB—”

  I bounce off the floor of the truck. “Date of birth, seven, eleven, seventy-five!”

  Books nods. “Is that our Mary?”

  “Hang on, hang on, hang on. Let me check the W-2 for her employer.”

  Please be a bar or restaurant, some place that would hire a bartender.

  “Yes!” I call out. “Her employer is listed as Ernie’s Sports Bar.”

  “That’s our thirty-seven-year-old bartender!” Books grabs his radio. “This is Bookman. I need the helicopters. Mobilize HRT. We have a location.”

  “I’m coming with you,” I tell him, pushing him out of the way and jumping out of the truck before he can answer. “She’s still alive,” I say. “She has to be.”

  95

  STATE ROUTE 85 in Kittanning, Pennsylvania, has been shut down for a half mile in each direction of the home belonging to Mary Laney. There is a vacant lot across the street from the house, giving the helicopters a safe and convenient landing pad. State troopers have already surrounded the house. Fire trucks idle less than a hundred yards away.

  The Hostage Rescue Team members spill out of one of the other helicopters and briefly huddle. This is, on its face, a rescue mission, but we can’t take any chances with Winston Graham. He has managed to avoid us on more than one occasion when we had him pinned down. He has outmaneuvered us constantly. Yes, his last Graham Session made it sound like he was leaving her—I promise you that one day soon we’ll meet again, were his last words to her—but I wouldn’t put it past him to be inside that house waiting for us.

  Books jogs over to the HRT members and confers with them while I stand across Route 85 from the house. It is a simple two-story home, some kind of shingle siding painted sky blue with white trim and a pitched roof. It is perched on a small hill with a stone path leading to the front porch.

  While Pennsylvania state troopers look on with their rifles poised, two members of the HRT cross the street with a ladder and post it at the side of the house. When the time comes, they will climb it to reach the landing hanging over the front porch, allowing them to enter the second-story windows at the same time they storm the first floor.

  But nobody is climbing yet. I look at my watch. It’s past seven in the morning now.

  “Send in Kevin,” says Books.

  “This is taking too long,” I say. “She could be dying in there.”

  Books nods but says nothing.

  “Books, she could be—”

  “I don’t have time for this, Emmy.”

  “Mary doesn’t have time.”

  “Listen to me: who knows what he has planned for us in there? His own house burst into flames when we got close to it. I’m not sending agents into a suicide mission. We check for bombs first, then if it’s clear—”

  “And what if that’s the window of time that she dies, Books? We could save a life and we’re sitting out here following protocol—”

  “It’s not just protocol. It’s the right thing to do. You want a bunch of agents to die because I didn’t take simple precautions? Their lives are my responsibility.”

  “She’s our best chance to catch Graham.”

  Books spins toward me. “Emmy, if you don’t shut up, I’m going to put you in handcuffs. I’m not sending in men with absolutely no idea what’s inside waiting for us. Not after all the surprises he’s had for us so far. Would you want to be the first person to go through that door?”

  He turns and walks away from me, speaking into the radio.

  She’s in there dying, calling out for help, praying for a miracle, that someone will find her and rescue her. You prayed for that, too, didn’t you, Marta? You prayed that someone would save you, but nobody came. I didn’t come. I wasn’t there for you.

  I race across Route 85 toward the house.

  “Emmy, what are you doing? Stop! Emmy, stop!”

  I run up the path of stones le
ading to the house.

  “All agents, stand your ground!” says Books through my earpiece. “Emmy, this is a direct order: do not enter that house!”

  I whip out the earpiece and run up the three steps to the front porch, to the front door, a simple wooden door with an old-fashioned knocker.

  I’m coming, honey. I’m coming to help you.

  I brace myself for impact as I turn the knob.

  96

  I ENTER the house, steeling myself for a moment, but nothing comes. No explosion. No pop or blast.

  My eyes immediately move to the floor, a hardwood foyer and a hallway. And blood smears leading down the hallway, disappearing around the corner.

  “Mary Laney!” I call out, as I follow the path of blood, keeping to one side of the hallway to avoid stepping in the blood and contaminating the scene. “FBI!”

  I reach the end of the hallway, by a small half-bathroom. The blood trail leads into a family room with old shag carpeting and dated furniture. The trail ends at a door.

  The basement.

  I open the door. “Mary Laney!” I call into the dark basement.

  I reach along the wall and find a light switch. I flick it on but nothing happens. Nothing but consuming darkness beneath me. I pull out my iPhone and use my flashlight app and aim downward, a thin beam of light showing me the way. There are a dozen wooden stairs and a staircase railing. At the bottom, there is nothing but a landing that I can see.

  “Mary Laney!” I call out.

  I take the stairs down as quickly as I can, knowing that they could be booby-trapped or set up to undermine my footing or trip me, but having no other choice.

  I’m coming, Marta, I’m here and I’m going to help you, just give me that chance, just hang on, please don’t die, please come back to me.

  I sweep my small scope of light back and forth, listening for any sounds. “Mary,” I say again, my voice trembling now as I reach the last step, then the basement floor.