Lethal Velocity

by Lincoln Child

  Warne pulled Terri to him as they walked. “You added that chase routine to Lady Macbeth when I wasn’t looking, didn’t you? Naughty girl. You’re getting a spanking when we return to the motel.”

  “Promises, promises. Besides, Wingnut wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”

  Warne turned to look at Sarah. “You know,” he said in a louder voice, “I never did hear from Poole.”

  “I did.”

  “You did?”

  “Got a postcard a few months ago. No name, no return address, just a Juárez postmark. He wanted to know if that lifetime pass was still good.”

  Warne laughed, shook his head.

  “You’d better sit in back,” Georgia called out to Terri as they approached the car. “I’m not finished.”

  “Finished what?” Warne asked.

  “Making Terri ride the Scream Machine with us tomorrow.”

  “No way,” Terri said instantly.

  “You’ve got to. It won’t be any fun if you don’t.”

  “I told you, I can’t stand roller coasters.”

  “Come on.”

  Terri hesitated, glanced sidelong at the girl. “You’ll give me back that Brubeck CD you ‘borrowed’ three months ago?”

  “Okay.”

  “And the Art Tatum?”

  Georgia made a face. “Okay.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Sarah laughed, held the door for Georgia. She watched the girl strap herself in, then ducked inside and hugged the girl tightly.

  “Bye, Georgia,” she said.

  “You mean it?” Georgia asked. “About Atlantis, I mean?”

  “Of course. Stop by Guest Services. Your dad has my extension.”

  Now Sarah came around the car, leaned against Warne’s open window. She wore no makeup, and the bright sunlight turned her eyes a pale jade.

  “Good luck with the install,” she said.

  He bent toward her, kissed her cheek. “See you round the Park.”

  She smiled, straightened. Nodded.

  And as he pulled away from the lot—headed for the interstate and Las Vegas—Warne could still see her in the rearview mirror, motionless as a gilded shadow, framed against the low Art Deco lines of Embarkation, arm raised in farewell.

  To my daughter, Veronica

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  MANY PEOPLE HELPED make this book a reality. My cousin, Greg Tear, was involved almost from the beginning, and proved himself both a fount of ideas and a tireless sounding board. Eric Simonoff, my agent at Janklow & Nesbit, did a heroic job of reading (and, bless him, rereading) the manuscript and offering vital criticism. Betsy Mitchell was as always a supportive and shrewd reader, and the novel is much the better for her input and that of her associates. And Matthew Snyder of Creative Artists Agency proved himself once again to be the best gunslinger on the West Coast.

  I’d like to thank my editor at Doubleday, Jason Kaufman, for his enthusiasm and his invaluable assistance with the manuscript. To Special Agent Douglas Margini, for his advice on weapons and law enforcement procedures—and for the “ridealong”—my thanks. To my lifelong friend, Mark Mendel, many thanks for the systems background. And I’d like to give special thanks to my co-conspirator and writing partner, Douglas Preston, for his extensive input and for encouraging me to write this book in the first place. Throughout seven joint novels he has proven himself to be both a loyal partner and a close friend, and I look forward to our next seven collaborations. Doug, take a bow.

  There are others whose contributions, large and small, must be acknowledged: Bob Wincott, Lee Suckno, Pat Allocco, Tony Trischka, Stan Wood, Bob Przybylski. No doubt there are others I’ve neglected to name, and to you I offer my cringing apologies in advance.

  I want to thank the many members of the Preston-Child online bulletin board; your enthusiasm and dedication won’t be forgotten.

  And last, but far from least, I want to thank the three women in my life—my mother, Nancy; my wife, Luchie; and my daughter, Veronica—for making this book possible.

  It goes without saying that Utopia—and its cast, crew, and guests—are entirely imaginary. References to persons, places, and things outside the Park are either fictitious or used fictitiously.

  BY LINCOLN CHILD

  The Forgotten Room

  The Third Gate

  Terminal Freeze

  Deep Storm

  Death Match

  Lethal Velocity (previously published as Utopia)

  WITH DOUGLAS PRESTON

  The Pendergast novels

  Crimson Shore

  Blue Labyrinth

  White Fire

  Two Graves

  Cold Vengeance

  Fever Dream

  Cemetery Dance

  The Wheel of Darkness

  The Book of the Dead

  Dance of Death

  Brimstone

  Still Life with Crows

  The Cabinet of Curiosities

  Reliquary

  Relic

  The Gideon Crew novels

  The Lost Island

  Gideon’s Corpse

  Gideon’s Sword

  The Ice Limit

  Thunderhead

  Riptide

  Mount Dragon

  Read on for an excerpt from

  THE FORGOTTEN ROOM

  by Lincoln Child

  Available from Doubleday

  OLAFSON’S OFFICE WAS much as Logan remembered it. Dark, Edwardian-era wood panels, polished brass fixtures, and the anachronistic scribbly paintings hanging on the walls—Olafson favored abstract expressionism. Along one wall, tall, thickly-framed casement windows afforded a view of the well-tended landscape: greenery that swept down toward the rocky cliffs overlooking an angry ocean. The lower sashes of the leaded windows were slightly raised, and Logan was aware of both the distant crash of waves and the briny odor of the sea.

  The director motioned Logan toward a chair, then took a seat beside him. “I appreciate your coming so quickly.”

  “You said the matter was urgent.”

  “And so I think it is. But I’d be hard pressed to tell you precisely why. That’s…” Olafson hesitated a moment. “That’s where you come in. I wanted to secure your services before another assignment came up.”

  The room fell silent for a long moment as the two men looked at each other. “Before I say anything more,” Olafson continued at last, “I need to know that you can put aside any prejudice, any ill will, that might have been caused by—ah—past differences.”

  This prompted another silence. From his armchair, Logan regarded the director of Lux. He’d been sitting in this same seat the last time he spoke to Olafson, a decade earlier. It had been about this time of year, as well. And the director had worn the same expression on his face: at once both anxious and eager. Fragments of Olafson’s short speech came back to him now, filtered through a veil of time and memory: Certain members are rather concerned…perceived lack of academic rigor…the good of the nation’s oldest and most prestigious policy institute must come first…

  Logan shifted in his chair. “It won’t be a problem.”

  The Director nodded. “And I can be assured of your complete discretion? Much of what I’m going to tell you is secret, even from the faculty, fellows and staff.”

  “That’s part of my job. You shouldn’t even have to ask.”

  “Ah, but I had to, you see. Thank you.” Olafson glanced briefly out at the sea before returning his attention to Logan. “Do you remember Dr. Strachey?”

  Logan thought a moment. “Willard Strachey?”

  Olafson nodded.

  “He was a computer scientist, right?”

  “That’s right. Strachey was recently at the center of a…very tragic event that took place here at Lux.”

  Logan recalled the atmosphere he’d sensed during his brief wait in the reception area. “Tell me about it.”

  The director glanced seaward again before answering. “Strachey hadn’t
been himself for the last week or two.”

  “Can you be more specific?” Logan asked.

  “Restless. Apparently not sleeping, or sleeping very little. Irritable—which if you have any recollection of him, you’ll know was completely out of character. And he…” Olafson hesitated again. “He’d begun talking to himself.”

  “Indeed?”

  “So I’ve been told. Under his breath, but extensively, sometimes even animatedly. Then, just four days ago, he experienced a sudden breakdown.”

  “Go on,” Logan said.

  “He became violent, began assaulting his assistant.” Olafson swallowed. “As you know, we have only a skeletal security force here, we really aren’t equipped to handle any…well, scenes of that sort. We restrained him as best we could, locked him in the visitor’s library on the first floor. And then we called 911.”

  Logan waited for the director to continue. But instead, Olafson stood up, walked to one wall, and pulled away a decorative curtain, revealing a projection screen. Then he opened a drawer in the same wall, took out a digital projector, and plugged it in, aiming it at the screen.

  “It would be easier—for you, and certainly for me—if you just saw for yourself,” he said. Then he moved toward the door, flicked off the lights, and turned the projector on.

  At first, the screen was black. Then a series of numbers scrolled quickly up its face. And then an image appeared, black and white, slightly grainy at this level of magnification: the video feed from a security camera. A date and time stamp ran continuously along the lower edge of the frame. Logan recognized the room: it was, as Olafson had said, the Lux visitor’s library: an ornate space with elaborate sconces and a coffered ceiling. Three of the walls were lined floor to ceiling with books; the fourth wall contained several very tall windows of the same heavy sash construction as those in Olafson’s office. Armchairs, ottomans, and banquettes were arranged around the gracious space. It was not a working library—that was elsewhere in the mansion, and much more fully stocked—but was instead meant to impress guests and potential clients.

  From the bird’s-eye perspective of the security camera, Logan could make out a single man. He was pacing back and forth over the expensive carpeting, clearly afflicted by extreme agitation. He plucked at his clothes, pulled his hair. Logan recognized him as a decade-older version of Dr. Strachey, perhaps sixty or sixty-five years of age. Now and then the scientist stopped and bent forward, clapping his hands over his ears as if to block out some unbearable sound.

  “We put him in there,” Olafson said, “so that he wouldn’t harm himself or anyone else until help could arrive.”

  As Logan watched, Strachey went up to the door and yanked at it violently, crying out as he did so.

  “What’s he saying?” Logan asked.

  “I don’t know,” Olafson replied. “Raving, I’m afraid. The audio quality is poor—only a few of our security cameras even have integrated microphones.”

  Now Strachey’s agitation increased. He pounded the walls, yanked books from their shelves and threw them across the room. Again and again he would stop and cover his ears, shaking his head like a dog shaking a rat. He approached the windows and beat at them with his fists, but the leaded glass was too thick to be easily broken. He began to stagger, flailing, almost as if blind, running into walls, turning over tables. He stumbled in the direction of the camera and, for a brief moment his voice became clearer. Then he turned away again, panting raggedly, looking around. And then, suddenly, he grew calm.

  From the corner of his eye, Logan saw Olafson turn away. “I must warn you, Jeremy—I’m afraid this part is terribly disturbing.”

  Under the gaze of the camera, Logan watched Strachey move toward the wall of windows. He walked slowly at first, then more quickly and confidently. Coming up to the closest window, he tried to raise it. The heavy, old-fashioned sash rose only a few inches.

  Strachey went to the next window, tugged at it with sharp, violent motions. It, too, went up just an inch or two. The old-fashioned, metal-trimmed window sashes were very heavy to begin with, Logan knew, and they probably hadn’t been cleaned and oiled in decades.

  Now Strachey approached a third window; tugged again. This one rose more easily than the others had. Logan watched as Strachey pushed the sash up farther, first using both hands, then applying a shoulder. Logan could hear the grunts of effort. Finally, Strachey managed to raise the window sash to its maximum height: almost five feet above the lower sill.

  There was no screen in the casement; the library was on the first floor of the building; the yawning window frame gave Strachey easy access to liberty. In another minute, he’d be through the open window and gone. What, Logan wondered, was the tragedy in one scientist gone rogue?

  Except that Strachey did not go through the window. Instead, he bent low before it, reaching in toward the right edge, fiddling with something in the groove of the casement. It was, Logan realized, the window’s sash chain. He peered in at the screen, mystified. With one hand, Strachey now held the sash chain; with the other hand, he was performing some kind of twisting motion on an object that his body blocked from view.

  Then the hand pulled away. In it was an iron sash weight, about ten inches long and obviously heavy. Strachey had detached the sash weight from the window chain. He let the weight drop to the floor. His other hand still held tight to the sash chain. Only Strachey’s grasp on the chain now kept the window from crashing downward.

  Suddenly, a terrible dread flooded over Logan.

  Still holding tight to the chain, Strachey knelt in front of the window and rested his neck against the sill. There was a moment of stasis in which Logan, frozen in his seat, heard the man draw in several ragged breaths.

  And then Strachey let go of the chain.

  With a sharp screech like the whistle of a train, the heavy metal sash came hurtling down in its casing. There was a terrible crack of bone, audible even over the rattling of the window; Strachey’s body jerked as if touched by a live wire. Logan looked quickly away, but not before seeing the head go tumbling down into the flower beds outside the library, and the heavy flood of blood, running dead black in the pitiless eye of the security camera.

  What’s next on

  your reading list?

  Discover your next

  great read!

  * * *

  Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.

  Sign up now.