The Pawn (39 page)

But then again, maybe it was Lien-hua calling to say goodbye.

I snatched up the receiver. “Bowers here.”

“I wanted Alice.” The same voice distortion software as before. I waved to Margaret, pointed frantically to her phone. She scowled at me but at last picked it up.

“Well,” I said. “I guess last night
you
were the one who was too slow.”

“How did you know I’d run down Richmond?”

“Fleeing suspects follow standard patterns. You’re not nearly as clever as you think.”

I heard his breathing grow heavier. Good. I was getting on his nerves.

I decided to test him. See how much he really knew. “You killed an officer last night. They’re not going to be satisfied bringing you in alive anymore. Turn yourself in. Save us another funeral.”

“All of us are on our way to a funeral, Dr. Bowers. Don’t you see that yet? It’s just a matter of timing and location. You of all people should know that.”

He doesn’t know the officer lived. He thinks he killed her.

“So that’s it, then?” I needed to get him to stumble. To give something up. “We’re all just pawns waiting to die?”

His voice became acid. “Dr. Bowers, my mother was murdered in cold blood. No reason. No design. She was a prostitute. You know what that means, don’t you? She was expendable. How many hours do you think the cops spent tracking down the killer of a trailer-trash hooker?”

I had no idea if he was telling the truth or not, but I played it like he was. “No one is expendable,” I said. “And I’m sorry about your mother, really—”

“No you aren’t. No one was sorry. No one is sorry.”

“Was she a pawn too then?”

“We’re all pawns.”

“Then who’s playing the game?”

“God is. He’s knocking us off the chessboard one at a time, littering this pathetic little planet with the corpses of his beloved little children. Just passing the span of eternity killing us off to entertain the angels.”

His words chilled me. They could have come from my own lips a dozen times over the last few months.

I thought of Christie.

Remembered her note.
All I can control is what I do with each
moment, with this moment, right now.

“None of us are pawns,” I said. “Not you, not your mother.”

He snickered. “If I kill someone I spend the rest of my life in jail or maybe I get the needle, but if God beats me to it, he gets to stay in heaven and be worshiped by his faithful little minions. You tell me—is that fair?”

“Death wasn’t his idea.” I could almost hear Christie speaking to me, the words of her note finally making sense after all this time. I could hardly believe I was saying this, wondered if I really believed it myself. “But life is. Life has always been his idea.”

“Pain was his idea. It shapes us. Defines us.”

“No, we’re defined by our choices, our priorities, the things we love—”

“Well,” said the killer. “I know what I love.”

“And what’s that?”

A pause. “Bethanie and Alexis weren’t mine.”

I’m tired of playing it his way.
“I know.”

“I’m not sloppy like that.”

Push him. Get him to play a card.
“What then? Did you call me to confess?”

“I know who the other killer is.”

It’s another one of his games. His tricks.
“Yeah, well, I’m off the case. Tell somebody else.”

“You’re the only one I’ll talk to—”

I slammed down the phone.

There. I made my move. Let’s see what the Illusionist does now.

Tessa finished stuffing her clothes into her knapsack and overheard the two cops talking in the living room. “You all right with the kid?” the guy said.

“Of course. What’s up?”

“I’m gonna run out and grab some cigarettes.” It was Officer Stilton again.

“Can’t you wait half an hour? They’re leaving in a few minutes, anyway.”

“Half an hour?” he scoffed. “Obviously you don’t smoke.”

Tessa listened intently.

Officer Muncey sighed. “All right, then. Whatever.”

“I’ll be right back.” He walked out the door.

This would make it even easier. All she had to do was slip past one cop to be on her way to New York City. She watched out the window as the guy climbed into the car and backed down the driveway.

“Bowers,” screamed Margaret from her office. “What did you just do!” She burst through the doorway.

Call back, c’mon, call back . . .

I stared at the phone. “He’ll call back.”

“You hung up on him!”

Call back.
“He has to be in control, he’ll call back.”

She was fuming, ready to explode.

“Let me stay, Margaret.”

The phone began to ring.

“Pick it up, Bowers!”

“Let me go after this guy.”

She reached for the phone.

“He won’t talk to you. You heard him.”

Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

“Answer it!” she yelled.

“Let me go after him. Tell me I’m on the case.”

“No.”

Ring, ring.

“Then I’m leaving.” I turned to go.

“All right! Now ans—”

“Say it.”

“You’re on the case!”

I snatched up the receiver. “Yeah.”

“You do not hang up on me, Dr. Bowers!” Each word was soaked with the killer’s slow, distinct rage.

“I don’t think you know who he is,” I said. “Why would you tell me his name?”

“I don’t like sharing center stage.”

“No. Too obvious. You wouldn’t give him to me. You’d go after him yourself.”
There’s something more going on here . . .

“He’s an old friend, Dr. Bowers. It wouldn’t be right to kill him. Let’s just say I made a promise.”

“Who is he then?” I was testing him, of course. I already knew Kincaid was the man.

“I can’t tell you that. Fact is, he probably convinced someone else to do the dirty work for him anyway; he’s good at that. But I can tell you this: he’ll be at the Stratford Hotel, ten o’clock this morning.”

What? Not Seattle next week?

The luncheon.

Kincaid is going after the governor today!

Then the Illusionist hung up the phone, and the office became a frenzy of activity as people tried to trace the call.
If he really knows
Kincaid, then Kincaid can lead me to him.

Margaret stormed over to me. “Don’t ever do that—”

I grabbed the things off my desk. “I’m going to the Stratford Hotel.”

She seemed to ponder my words, the killer, the body in the trunk of her car, her prospects at Quantico, all in one condensed, career-defining moment, and finally gave me a brisk nod. “All right. I’ll have Ralph and Lien-hua meet you there. Be careful.”

“I will be. And thanks.”

She turned and walked away, and that was that.

Before I left, I called Officer Muncey to tell her I wouldn’t be back right away and to make sure Tessa was OK. “Don’t worry. She’s fine. She’s in her room. I think she’s packing.”

“OK.”

I hung up and patted my SIG P229.

Bring this guy in, Pat.

Next stop, the Stratford Hotel.

75

Lien-hua beat me to the Stratford Hotel and met me at the door. “Just got a call from the Tennessee Highway Patrol,” she said as we stepped inside. “Someone saw two guys fighting on a runway at a regional airport not far from here. Security found Kincaid’s plane. It had over a dozen meal trays.”

“So he’s got some helpers.” I thought for a moment. And then it hit me. “They infected their livestock; you think they might have infected themselves?”

“I hope not,” she said.

I hated to even think about the consequences if they had.

Ralph burst in. “Let’s go.” He pushed his way to the front of the line by the registration counter. “We need to see the president of the hotel, now!”

Nell Prescott, president and CEO of Stratford Enterprises, welcomed us into her office and listened to us intently. After hearing our hurried explanation, she immediately led us to the hotel’s security center. A bank of video monitors stared down from the walls of the confined, dimly lit quarters.

A tightly muscled bulldog of a man bustled up to us. “What’s going—”

“Mr. Williamson,” said Nell Prescott. “These people are from the FBI. We have a situation.”

His whole body seemed to snap to attention. “What kind of situation?”

Tessa waited until Officer Stilton had driven away, then she grabbed her knapsack and opened the bedroom door.

She could hear Officer Muncey watching TV in the living room.

Tessa crept down the hallway toward the front door. She eased forward, reached for the doorknob, and then heard the cop’s voice right beside her: “And where do you think you’re going, young lady?”

Tessa whipped around and saw Officer Muncey standing beside her. “I’m just going to do some homework at the table.
OK
?”

Officer Muncey gestured with a nod. “Kitchen is over there.”

“I know!”

Tessa stomped into the kitchen and threw her bag onto the table. She didn’t see the necklace Patrick had tried to give her anywhere around. Well, good for him. He must have taken it with him. Who cares.

Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid scanned the lobby. He didn’t like that they were cutting things this close, but it was part of the deal he’d made with Sevren to assure that his former roommate wouldn’t pass his name along to the authorities.

Just then, he heard a man whisper his name.

He spun around and recognized his contact from Trembley’s description. Kincaid accepted the package and handed over the envelope of cash. The man hurried away.

As he watched him leave, Kincaid noticed a scurry of activity behind the check-in counter. Two security guards were talking into their earpieces, staring suspiciously around the lobby.

So, they knew already. He hadn’t expected this until after the meal at least.

But it didn’t matter. They were too late. People were already sitting down to eat. Still, he needed to tell his family that the plans had changed. They’d need to be ready for his signal.

And he needed to find the governor.

After we briefed Mr. Williamson on the basic facts of the case, he shook his head. “We already swept the whole place. Believe me. The ballroom, the lobby, the gardens, everything. We even brought in the dogs. It’s secure.”

Lien-hua shook her head. “It wouldn’t be an explosive device, maybe something chemical or biological. Closer to what happened at Jonestown.”

“Jonestown?” Williamson gasped.

I didn’t have the time or energy to explain everything to this guy. “What about air vents, air-conditioning ducts, things like that?”

“I told you,” said Williamson flatly. “It’s secure. Do you have a suspect?”

“Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid,” I said. “Wait. That’s it.” I flipped open my laptop, pulled up the picture of Kincaid that Lien-hua had found yesterday while researching him. Then I opened the face recognition program and asked Williamson, “Where can I hook into your video feeds?”

Officer Muncey sat down at the table next to Tessa’s knapsack.

“What are you doing?” asked Tessa.

“Seeing if you need any help. What subject are you studying?”

“Algebra.” Tessa tossed her hair to the side. “Oh yeah. I need my calculator. It’s in my room.” She hurried past the officer and went to her bedroom, grabbed a calculator, and then dialed Cherise’s number on her cell phone.
Please pick up. Please pick up. I know
you’re there. Please.

Voicemail.

“Cherise! I need you to call me back in like one minute. Please. I know you’re there. It’s important.”

Tessa slipped the phone into her pocket and hurried back to the kitchen only to find Officer Muncey unclasping the buckles on her knapsack. “Hey,” yelled Tessa. “What are you doing?”

Officer Muncey met her with a cold gaze. “Did you find your calculator?”

“Put down my knapsack!”

The computer screen flashed with faces, names, comparisons, and then . . .

Nothing.

“He’s here,” I mumbled. But I wasn’t sure, couldn’t really be sure.

“He could be a guest, maybe?” said Williamson. “In his room?” “Pull up your guest list.”

He typed in Kincaid’s name, then shook his head. “No one staying here under that name.”

“He would almost certainly use an alias,” said Lien-hua.

“Any ideas?” asked Williamson.

“Jones,” I said. “Try Jim Jones.”

Williamson typed, shook his head. “No. Wait—”

“What?”

“Someone named James Warren Jones is working with the catering.”

“That’s it,” I said. “The food. They’re going to contaminate the food. Don’t let anyone near the food!”

“Too late,” someone whispered.

We all gazed up at the video monitors. The room became stone-still.

On the screens surrounding us, the servers were spreading out like fingers on a hand, delivering poisoned food to the elite media leaders of the world.

76

Tessa’s cell phone rang. “Just a minute,” she told the cop. “And don’t touch my stuff!” She slipped to the other room and answered. “Hello? Cherise?”

“What is going on, girlfriend? I haven’t heard from you in like three weeks, and then you’re all of a sudden, like ‘call me in one minute’ and—”

“I might be in trouble.”

“What?”

“Hang on.” Tessa peered around the corner and saw Officer Muncey standing with her hands on her hips.

“You don’t have books in here, do you?” said Officer Muncey. “I’m on the phone,” Tessa snapped.

Then Officer Muncey unclasped Tessa’s knapsack and dumped Tessa’s clothes onto the table. “Tessa,” she said. “Hang up the phone.”

“Stop those servers!” I told Williamson. “And call the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Tell them to get a team in here now. And, Ms. Prescott, we need to shut down the hotel, quarantine these people. We have to. No one leaves.”

She pursed her lips but only for a moment—probably calculating the losses in tens of millions—and then nodded briskly. “I’ll do it.” This was a woman who wasn’t afraid to make a decision.

“We have to control this,” I said. “Shut it down.”

“We don’t even know what the contagion is,” said Lien-hua.