by Brad Meltzer
"There's one thing I dont understand," Julia said.
"Whats that, Mummy?"
Her eyes turned downward. "How I could have raised such an evil son."
Marilyn wanted to comfort her, but she knew there was nothing to say. Instead, she clung tightly to her mother's hand, squeezing it, letting her love flow through her to her parent. It wasn't much. But at the moment, it was all she had to give.
As Robert Rutledge strode confidently into the chilly night, he was being watched by a pair of dark eyes that managed to stay close without ever being noticed. Most of the time, he favored more flamboyant disguises, but for a stalking job, the basic ninja black was best. He was very good at being invisible, when he wanted to be. And at the moment, he wanted to be.
So you think you're invincible, do you? the man known as Stefan thought as he watched Rutledge make his way to his car. Well, so did Sissy, and she's going down for the count. So did Arthur Hightower and Joe Kellogg, come to think of it. And they're both history. And so are you.
He would wait until the right moment. The right moment to tell the O he was still around (as if a lightweight like Sissy could seriously damage him) and the right moment to finish his job. Because he always finished his jobs. It was a matter of pride for him. He didn't care that much about financial markets, or global price-fixing, or the security of the Middle East. But he cared about his job record. Never in his distinguished career had he left a job unfinished.
And Robert Rutledge would be no exception.
Despite the bracing cold, Devin had asked Patrick to walk her home, and he had eagerly accepted. He'd been through a lot in the past forty-eight hours--torture, mutilation, freezing-cold water, even a wild fling with an elderly society matron. But now that the shouting was over, now that they were alone, one thought seemed paramount--he really liked Devin McGee. But what chance did he have with a smart, attractive professional like her? How could she ever be interested in a dull advertising salesman who dabbled in crosswords?
"Thank you for walking me home," Devin said. Her breath formed little clouds in front of her mouth. "Its not far."
"I don't mind," he said quietly.
"I know it's an imposition. But I--I just didn't want to be alone right now."
"Sure. I understand."
"Do you?" Her shoulder brushed against his. Patrick felt a chill run up his spine, and it wasn't due to the temperature. "I mean, you've got this great glamorous job at the paper, selling ads and investigating stories. You're surrounded by people all the time. I'm on my own. Have been for years. Don't even have a receptionist. Some mornings I wake up and I ask, Devin Gail McGee, what have you done to yourself?"
Patrick couldn't believe his ears. This gorgeous lawyer thought his job was glamorous? "You have clients. Other lawyers?
"Oh, sure. People who want something from me. People who are fighting me. It isn't the same. Not like the fast-paced life in the newsroom."
"You know ... I told you I don't normally do news stories--"
"You will. After you break this story, you'll be big time."
Patrick swallowed. Could she be right? "Mostly I just sell ad copy. And do the crossword."
She smiled. "I like to work crosswords, too."
Patrick winced. Obviously, she misunderstood what he meant by "doing" the crossword.
"In fact," Devin continued, "I actually construct crosswords."
Patrick stopped in his tracks. "You construct crosswords?"
"Oh, yeah. Every now and again. Just a spare-time thing, when I don't have any pressing cases. I've got an unfinished crossword grid I've been carrying around in my briefcase for days."
"But--are your puzzles published?"
"Oh, yeah. I've been pretty successful. I've been in the New York Times. Games magazine."
"You have?" Patrick literally gaped. "But--I haven't seen your name on a byline."
"Oh, you wouldn't. I use a pseudonym. I do crosswords under the name Isolde."
Patrick grabbed Devin by the shoulders. "You're Isolde?"
"Yes. Why?"
He shook her, so excited he could barely stand still. "You're Isolde?"
"I think I said that already."
"I'm Tristan!"
It took a moment for his words to register--then her lips turned upward in a huge grin. "You're kidding me."
"No! I'm Tristan! I named myself after you! You're my hero!"
Devin shuffled her feet. "Oh, go on."
"Seriously! I think you're the best crossword constructor working today."
"Really?" She tilted her head to one side. "Well, you're no slouch yourself. I loved that themed puzzle you did with the punny names of breakfast cereals. 'Trix of the Trade,' and such."
"Well, that was nothing compared to that diagramless you did where the grid was in the shape of the Empire State Building."
"Did you like that?"
"I thought it was awesome."
"I guess we have more in common than I realized." She smiled, then pressed her hand against his. "Patrick, I don't want to seem presumptuous, but do you suppose two crossword constructors could ever find happiness together?"
"I know they could," he replied quietly.
"How can you know?"
"Your name. It's an anagram."
It is?
"Sure. 'Devin Gail' anagrams to 'Divine Gal.' Which you certainly are.
Devin grinned. "When did you work that out?"
"The second I met you."
She laughed. "We crossword people are a strange bunch."
"I think it's kismet."
She took his gloved hand and resumed walking. "You know, Patrick, I'm not sleepy. And I'm not in the mood to be alone. Would you like to come up to my apartment?"
Patrick gulped. "Sure!"
"Good. I'd like that."
As they strolled the last block to Devin's apartment, a light snow began to fall. The garbage men came out and started rattling down the streets in their noisy trucks. A siren sounded two streets over.
And Tristan and Isolde never noticed any of it.
Thanksgiving Day. A time when families all across the country spend quality time together delighting in one another's company. This Thanksgiving, at the Hightower mansion, an extended family gathered harmoniously. Not only were Julia and Marilyn Hightower present, but also newlyweds Devin and Patrick Roswell.
"Thank you so much for joining us," Julia Hightower said as she sat down at the head of the table. "The room would've seemed so empty without you. And we need to catch up."
"It's our pleasure," Devin replied. She marveled at how healthy Julia looked. Word was she hadn't had a drink since she learned Morgan was dead. And Marilyn looked fabulous as well. "What else would we be doing? Fast food?"
"I think our spread will be better than that," Marilyn said.
"Actually, Patrick is a rather good cook."
"Indeed?"
Patrick blushed. "Well, all I know how to make are cheeseburgers."
"Yes," Devin said, "but they're damn fine cheeseburgers."
"I love cheeseburgers," Marilyn said. "Invite me over sometime."
"You have a standing invite," Devin replied. "You and Trent both."
Now it was Marilyns turn to blush. "You heard about that."
"I did. And I think he's a very lucky man." Just don't let him near a hot tub, she added silently.
"I don't want to make too much of it," Marilyn said, although she clearly did. "But it is nice." She smiled at Patrick. "How's life for the Gazettes cub reporter?"
"Great. After the series I wrote on the murders, Whitechapel will let me cover anything I want. More than I want, really. Devin's practice boomed after all the publicity Julia's case received. For a while there, I barely heard from her, except when she needed a three-letter word with no vowels."
Marilyn rolled her eyes. "You crossword people are just too weird."
Patrick grinned. "Hey, I don't want to be rude, but can I ask a question?"
"Of
course."
"Why is there a fifth place set at the table?"
All eyes turned toward the empty chair with the fine china and goblet set before it.
Julia explained. "I invited Georges, our gardener."
Marilyn looked horrified. "Mummy! You didn't!"
"I'm afraid I did. I know it might be a bit awkward for you, dear-- and for me as well--but he is our only remaining staff person, and I just couldn't see letting him eat downstairs by himself. So I sent him an invitation."
"Where is he? I never knew him to turn down a good meal."
"I don't know." Julia checked her watch. "He is somewhat overdue."
Marilyn gazed out the window. "Come to think of it, where has he been lately? I haven't seen him around. And the yard looks terrible. And--"
She stopped short. Julia and Marilyn exchanged a look.
"You don't suppose."
"Don't be ridiculous."
Devin intervened. "What are you two talking about?" Slowly, Julia rose to her feet and walked into the kitchen. She returned an instant later, her arms akimbo.
"All right," she said firmly, "who's got the freezer key this time?"
Afterword
This book exists for two reasons--because Phillip Margolin is such a nice guy, and because Brita Cantrell makes the world s best margarita. Brita is also nice, and Phillip may make a swell margarita for all I know, but that isn't really relevant.
A few years ago, I edited a collection of legal-themed short stories that was published under the title Legal Briefs. Putting that book together was tough and time-consuming, but it was a labor of love. Having the opportunity to work with so many of the most talented writers of our time could only be a delight for a long-term bookworm like me. I was proud of the book that resulted, but I was especially pleased after its publication, when the aforementioned Mr. Margolin sent me a note that read: That was fun. We should do it again sometime.
Phillip had good reason to enjoy the anthology; his contribution was chosen for the Best American Mystery Stories of 1999. Still, the idea resonated with me. Do it again? An interesting idea, but I didn't want to repeat myself with another short story collection. Was there some other kind of joint project?
About that time, my wife and I were invited to dinner by our good friends Daman and Brita Cantrell, an invitation irresistible because, among other reasons, Brita makes the previously described potent potable. At the time, Brita was the state director of The Nature Conservancy, and during dinner she mentioned some of the wonderful projects they wanted to tackle, untouched lands they wanted to preserve--but couldn't, because they didn't have the funds.
Those who have read my novel Dark Justice will know that environmental causes are close to my heart. Surely, I thought, there must be some way to raise those funds. . . .
And all at once, in a wonderful moment of serendipity, the two ideas merged into one. And this book is the result.
Was it hard to get all these major authors to donate their time and talent to a project on which they would make nary a penny? No. In my experience, writers are among the most generous groups in our populace. As a result, I was in the happy position of being able to pick exactly who I wanted to join me, ten of the most talented writers working today.
When I first approached the authors, I thought we might all get together on a conference call and hash out the story. As it turned out, no one wanted to do that. Just send me the chapters that came before, they all said. It'll be more fun if I get it cold.
They were right. In the end, there were no rules, restrictions, guidelines, or caveats. Each author was limited only by his or her imagination--and the need to make the next chapter sensible in light of what had gone before. Basically, they could do anything they wanted--and did. I wrote the first chapter, trying to create some characters and situations with untapped possibilities, then shipped it to the next author in line--who wrote chapter 2, and sent it to the next author. And so forth. That's how Natural Suspect came to be.
Was I surprised by the final product? You betcha. I won't name names, but what some of these authors did to my characters was strange and savage, if not altogether perverse. Compare where the book is at the end of chapter 1 to where it is at the end of, say, chapter 7, and you'll see what I mean. Killer clowns? Giant rabbits? But the strangest thing is--every expansion and innovation made the book better. And think about those chapter-end cliff-hangers. Some of these authors, obviously, were taking delight in giving the next writer on the list a challenging situation. Which made the book better still.
I was somewhat prejudiced, of course, but when it was all finished, I thought it read remarkably well--with consistent characters and a well-developed plot. As a test, before I sent the manuscript to my publisher, I asked three of my friends to read it, without explaining the books provenance. All three liked it, but more to the point--not one of them suspected it had been written by multiple authors.
Some readers may wish to know more about The Nature Conservancy and their important role in preserving our natural heritage, or may wish to make tax-deductible contributions. You can do both at: The Nature Conservancy, 2727 East 21st Street, Suite 102, Tulsa, Oklahoma 74114. Or call 1(918)585-1117. Or you can visit their Web site: http://www. Tnc. Org/
. Tell them Natural Suspect sent you.
Thanks for being a part of this fun project. I hope you enjoyed the book. If you'd like to share your thoughts about it, e-mail me at: wb@williambernhardt. Com
. Or you can visit my Web site: www. williambernhardt. Com, where you will find links to the Web pages of many of the other authors in this book.
--William Bernhardt
