Honeymoon h-1

by James Patterson

  And on the phone.

  “Nine-one-one emergency…”

  The satellites had hooked me up. Help would be on the way in minutes. All I had to do was tell them where the hell I was.

  I spoke to the female operator. “My name is Agent John O’Hara with the FBI and I’m—”

  Being shot at!

  I heard the gun blast and watched wood splinter off the bathroom door. A bullet whizzed by my ear and shattered the tile on the wall behind me. It happened in an instant, but it felt like slow-motion.

  Until the second shot came. The only thing that one felt like was agony. I’d been lucky on the first. Not so, the next. The shot tagged me in the shoulder, ripping straight through and out. My eyes went to the hole in my shirt as blood began to spurt.

  Fuck me, I’m hit.

  The phone dropped from my hand, and for a split second I froze. Were it for a full second I would’ve been dead.

  Instead, instinct took over. I rolled to my left, away from the door, out of the line of fire.

  Nora’s third shot exploded through the door and took apart the tile on the wall where I’d been a second before. It would’ve caught me smack in the chest.

  “How do you like that, O’Hara?!” she yelled. “That’s my insurance policy!”

  I said nothing. To talk was to invite another bullet. I waited for Nora to say something more, but she said nothing.

  The only sound was the muffled, tinlike voice of the 911 operator coming through my phone lying on the floor.

  “Sir? Are you there? What’s happening?”

  Or something to that effect. I couldn’t tell for sure. I didn’t care. The only thing that mattered at that moment wasn’t the phone.

  Slowly I pulled in my left leg and raised the cuff on my pants. I hadn’t packed a toothbrush for the night, but I was packing something else.

  I undid the holster and removed the Beretta 9 mm. If Nora had thoughts of storming in, I’d be ready for her.

  I gripped the gun in both hands and waited.

  Where are you, Nora—love of my life?

  Chapter 99

  EVERYTHING WAS SILENT in the cabin, including my phone. Nine-one-one had my name, and though I hadn’t given my location, the satellites would. Assuming the operator did the right thing. She alerts her supervisor, supervisor alerts the Bureau, Bureau gets the coordinates pulsing from my GPS-equipped phone, and the closest police unit is dispatched. Sounds so simple.

  I just had to make sure I was still breathing when they got here.

  It raised the question Why didn’t I fire back at Nora?

  I knew why. I just didn’t know what to do with the answer.

  I tried to get up off the bathroom floor without making any noise. The excruciating pain in my shoulder didn’t exactly cooperate. I tiptoed to the door and slumped against the wall. One hand held the gun; the other reached for the lock on the knob. I turned it slowly.

  I took a deep breath and blinked several times. I didn’t know if Nora was still on the other side of the door, but I had to find out. My one advantage—the door opened away from me, toward the hallway.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  With everything I had left, I shouldered the door. It flew open.

  I barreled out, low and tight to the ground. Gun drawn. I swung my arms left and right, looking for any movement. I lined up a lamp. Then I nearly took out my own reflection in a mirror down the hall.

  No Nora.

  I stepped sideways down the hall in the direction of the kitchen. “You’re not the only one with a gun,” I called out. “I don’t want to kill you.”

  Nothing from her.

  I came to the living-room doorway. Gave it a fast peek-a-boo look.

  No movement. No Nora.

  The kitchen was a few steps away. I could hear something. A creaking. Footsteps. She was there, waiting for me.

  I opened my mouth to say something. But I didn’t speak a word. The dizziness hit me so fast. I reached for the wall, tried to steady myself. My knees were rubber.

  I could still hear the creaking. Was she coming? I raised my arm and pointed the gun. The barrel was shaking. More creaking. It was getting louder.

  Christ, O’Hara!

  That’s when I put it together. The creaking was actually crackling. What gave it away was an awful smell. Something was burning.

  I edged to the corner of the kitchen doorway. Chanced a quick peek. I saw the pot on the stove, and smoke. The leftover rice had been simmering on the burner. Now it was burning up.

  I exhaled. Then I jumped!

  It was the sound of a door slamming. Outside. Nora getting away?

  I hobbled out the cabin as the engine of the Benz roared. My first step down the old wooden stairs missed. I went flying forward. Landed on my side. Knocked the wind out of me; pain like I couldn’t believe.

  Nora shifted into gear as I scrambled to my feet. For a second she glanced over her shoulder—our eyes met.

  “Nora. Stop!”

  “Yeah, sure, O’Hara. Stop in the name of love?”

  I lifted my arm, but it was shaking. I took aim at the rear of the convertible, what I could see in the moonlight.

  “Nora!” I yelled again.

  She was on the edge of the clearing, about to disappear down the dirt road. I finally squeezed the trigger, squeezed it again once more for good luck.

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter 100

  THAT BURNED WILD RICE on the stove was like potpourri compared with the smelling salts.

  When I jerked my head and opened my eyes, I was staring up from the ground at two local cops. The older one was applying a makeshift pressure bandage to my shoulder while the younger one—twenty-two, if a day—gazed down at me in disbelief. I didn’t have to be a mind reader to know what he was thinking.

  What the hell happened to you, buddy?

  But I had my own question first. “Did you get her?” I asked with a woozy drawl.

  “No,” said the older cop. “Though we’re not exactly sure who we’re looking for. The only thing we have is a name. As far as what she looks like and what she’s driving, we don’t know a thing.”

  Slowly I told them. A full description of Nora, the red Benz convertible, her address in Briarcliff Manor. Or at least Connor Brown’s. Regardless, it was highly unlikely she was headed back there. She wouldn’t dare, would she?

  The younger cop got on his radio and relayed the information. He also checked on the ambulance, my ambulance.

  “They should’ve been here by now,” he said.

  “I’ve never been a high priority,” I quipped.

  Meanwhile, his partner finished applying the bandage. “There, that should hold until the paramedics.”

  I thanked him. I thanked them both. Suddenly it dawned on me that they looked like father and son. I asked, and sure enough, they were. Officers Will and Mitch Cravens, respectively. If there was a better example of the halcyon days of life in a small town, I’d yet to see it.

  I started to get up.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I heard in unison. All I had to do was lie there and relax, they said.

  “I need my phone.”

  “Where is it?” asked Mitch Cravens. “I’ll get it.”

  “It’s somewhere in the bathroom. You need to turn off the stove as well,” I said.

  Mitch nodded at his father. “I’ll be right back.”

  As he headed inside I remembered Nora telling me she owned the cabin, that it was left to her by a former client. “Hey, Will, there’s a chance you even know Nora,” I said. “This is her cabin. It was given to her by a former client who passed away.”

  “Is that what she told you?”

  The way he asked, I knew what was coming next.

  “Did she mention the name of her supposed client?” he asked.

  “No. She did have the keys, though.”

  Will shook his head. “This place belongs to a guy named Dav
e Hale. While he may or may not have been a client of hers, I assure you he’s very much alive.”

  “Is he rich by any chance?”

  He shrugged. “I assume so. I’ve only met him a couple of times. He lives in Manhattan. Why? Do you think he’s in danger?”

  “Prior to tonight, probably,” I said. “I think he’s safe now.”

  Mitch returned from inside the cabin, my phone in hand. “Found it.”

  I took it and flipped it open. I was about to dial Susan when it rang. She beat me to it.

  “Hello?”

  “You fucked with the wrong girl,” came her voice. “You messed up so badly, O’Hara.”

  I figured wrong.

  She didn’t sound hysterical. Instead, she was completely calm. Too calm. And for the first time, I was afraid of Nora Sinclair.

  “Now I’m going to hurt you where you live, O’Hara… for real,” she said. “Can you say Riverside?”

  Click.

  The phone dropped from my hand. I pulled myself up on wobbly legs. The two cops went to grab me.

  “What is it?” asked the son, Mitch.

  “My family,” I said. “She’s going after my family.”

  Chapter 101

  THEY UNDERSTOOD IMMEDIATELY. Any cops might have, but Officers Will and Mitch Cravens—father and son—understood a little more. There was no waiting around for the ambulance. I’d sooner bleed to death than waste another minute out in the middle of the woods.

  I crumpled into the backseat of their patrol car. Mitch and his young reflexes drove with the sirens blaring as Will radioed ahead to have the police in Riverside rush to the house. Meanwhile, I called there on my phone.

  “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” I muttered while the line rang.

  And rang and rang.

  “Shit! Nobody’s answering!”

  The answering machine finally picked up, and I left a frantic message about going over to the neighbors’ and waiting for the police to arrive.

  My mind raced with horrible, dreadful thoughts. Was Nora already there? And how did she know where there was?

  Will was off the radio. He turned to me. “The Riverside police will be at your house in minutes.” He nodded at my phone. “No luck getting through?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Is there a cell phone?”

  “I’m about to try.”

  I hit my speed dial, only to hear the call go right into voice mail. I left the same message with the same ominous intro. It was like in the movies. It’s John. If you and the boys are in the house, get out right now! If you’re on your way home—don’t go there.

  I leaned back my head and let out a frustrated yell. I suddenly felt dizzy again. I tried to get myself to calm down and not think the worst. It wasn’t possible.

  “Faster, guys!”

  We were already doing over eighty. We’d cut across the border to Connecticut and were making a beeline south for Riverside. I was feeling completely helpless when I had an idea. Call Nora.

  Maybe that’s what she wanted. Maybe—hopefully—her threat was nothing more than that, the only intention being to scare the hell out of me and keep the game going. I’d call her and she’d laugh wickedly. Riverside was just a decoy. She was miles in the opposite direction.

  If only.

  I dialed her number.

  Ten rings in a row.

  No voice mail.

  No Nora.

  The police radio kicked in with a burst of static. We were being patched through to a patrolman in Riverside. He was outside the house. The doors were locked, some lights were on; as far as he could tell, no one was around.

  I looked at my watch. 9:10. They should’ve been there. The boys’ bedtime was nine.

  Will flipped the transmitter onto speaker. “No sign of forced entry?”

  “Negative,” we heard.

  “Have you checked with the neighbors?” asked Mitch as he slowed to take a sharp turn. The front and rear left tires screeched in stereo.

  “She probably would’ve gone to the Picottes directly across the street,” I added. “Mike and Margi Picotte. Friends of ours.”

  “We’re checking there now,” said the patrolman. “How far are you guys from here?”

  “Ten minutes,” said Will.

  “Agent O’Hara, are you there?” asked the patrolman.

  “Right here,” I said.

  “I’d like to dismantle the lock on one of the doors to the house. If that’s okay? Just to make sure no one’s inside.”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “Take an ax to it.”

  “Roger that.”

  His voice cut off with another burst of static. Outside the cruiser, the siren blared into the night. Inside, it was silence. Small-town cops Will and Mitch Cravens and me.

  I caught Mitch’s eye in the rearview mirror. “I know, I know,” he said. “Faster.”

  Chapter 102

  MITCH GUNNED IT and turned ten minutes of driving into five. We arrived in front of my house with a fifty-foot skid. The street was aglow with police patrol lights, the red and blue twirling all around and up into the night. Pockets of neighbors stood and watched from their lawns, wondering what was going on at the O’Hara house.

  At that moment, not much.

  I hurried through the open front door to find four cops talking in the foyer. They’d just completed a room-to-room search.

  “Empty,” one of them told me.

  I went into the kitchen. There were a few dishes in the sink, a roll of Saran Wrap on the counter. They’ve eaten dinner. I checked the phone on the wall by the refrigerator. The message light was blinking, but there was only one message. Mine.

  All the cops, including Will and Mitch, had gathered in the adjoining den. I went over to them.

  “We need a plan,” I said. “I don’t have one, either. I’m not at my best right now.”

  A small dark-haired officer named Nicolo took the lead. He was very organized and said there was already an all-points bulletin out for Nora’s red Mercedes in the entire Tri-State area. Airport security had been notified. He was in the middle of telling me he wanted to use the house as a “command center” when I realized something.

  The red Mercedes… a car… the garage. I hadn’t looked to see if the minivan was missing.

  I had taken two steps when over my shoulder the room let out a collective sigh of relief. I turned to look at what they were seeing.

  There, standing in the kitchen’s entrance, were Max and John Jr., followed by their mother. They all had ice cream cones. Baskin-Robbins from in town.

  Their jaws had already dropped at the sight of the police. When they saw me, and how beat-up I looked, those same jaws just about hit the floor.

  I rushed over to hug everybody. I was so caught up in the moment that I didn’t even hear the phone ring.

  Mitch Cravens did. He walked over and was about to pick it up when his father stopped him. Will Cravens put his index finger to his mouth for quiet. Then he hit the speakerphone.

  “Good, I have an audience,” came her voice.

  Every head in the room whipped around. Nora did indeed have an audience. Complete, undivided attention, especially mine.

  But I wasn’t the one she was calling this time.

  “I know you’re there, Mrs. O’Hara,” she said in that same calm tone. “I just wanted to let you know something. I’ve been fucking your husband. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  Nora hung up.

  The room was deathly silent as I looked my wife in the eye. Actually, my ex-wife for the past two years.

  She shook her head. “And you wonder why we got a divorce, you prick!”

  Part Five

  ESCAPE

  Chapter 103

  THIS WAS IT. Simple as that. The end.

  “Hey, I didn’t recognize you without your trusty backpack, Fitzgerald,” said the Tourist.

  “Very funny, O’Hara. I didn’t get to thank you for saving my bacon at Grand Central. So, th
anks. I think I could have handled him, but maybe not.”

  The Tourist was meeting the Girl with the Backpack at a table in the food court at La Guardia Airport. The blackmailer, the seller, was due any minute. If things went right.

  “This is crazy, huh? You think he’ll show? The seller?” she asked.

  O’Hara sipped his supersize Coke from McDonald’s. “Only if he wants his money, which I’ll bet he does. Two million good reasons to show up.”

  Fitzgerald frowned and shook her head. “Let’s say the seller does show. How do we know he’ll give up everything he has? His copies. Not try to stiff us?”

  “You mean like we did to him outside Grand Central? To his late representative, I should say.”

  “Hey, he’s the bad guy, remember, O’Hara?”

  “I think I’ve got that part down. He’s the bad guy, he’s the bad guy.”

  Just then, O’Hara got word in his earpiece. “He’s coming. We know who it is. He came himself this time.”

  Fitzgerald didn’t get it yet. “So why did he come here? Didn’t he know this could be a trap?”

  O’Hara leaned in close to her. “Ask him yourself. I’ll bet he has a good answer.”

  A guy in his early thirties, blue business suit, aviator sunglasses, briefcase, sat down at the table. He got right to it. “So, you have my money this time?”

  O’Hara shook his head. “Nope. No money. Don’t get up, though. We’re all over the food court. Taking your picture for USA Today and Time magazine. The Sing Sing News.”

  “You’re making a big mistake, my friend. You’re fucked,” said the guy in the suit. He started to get up.

  But O’Hara pulled him down again.

  “Obviously, we don’t think so. Now, listen to me, because here’s the deal. You don’t get any money for the file you stole and then tried to sell back to us. But you do get to walk away from all this. Of course, you leave the briefcase and the copies you made. We know who you are, Agent Viseltear. If you come at us again, or if any of this ever gets out, we take you down. And I mean down. That’s the deal. Not too bad, huh?”

  O’Hara stared long and hard at the guy in the suit, Viseltear, who was an analyst at Quantico and a thief. “You follow all of this? You get it?”