Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,122
of water yesterday? You tricked me there.”
He takes a single step toward me.
“That must have been before you got so excited about this other guy, Petty, whoever the hell he is.”
He walks right up to me as I struggle to stay upright, as I pray that oxygen will come, that I won’t lose consciousness—
“But you still have no proof,” he whispers to me, putting his hand on my cheek. “Whatever I did in the military doesn’t make me a killer now. Any proof you come up with is proof that points to Lieutenant Wagner. Who has fled, by the way, which doesn’t exactly make him look innocent.”
“We…we…found his body,” I say, black spots flashing before my eyes.
His expression changes, the confidence disappearing, but only for a moment. “No, you didn’t,” he says. “That’s a lie.”
“People…know I’m here,” I say.
He grips my hair in his hand, jerks my head. “But then you left here,” he whispers, “and I have no idea where you went. Must be that this Petty character killed you. Or maybe Lieutenant Wagner. Oh, the list of suspects.”
“Petty is…Petty…”
“Petty is what?” He jerks my head again. “Hmm? Petty is what, Emmy?”
“…in…cust—custody…”
“You already have Petty in custody?” Tom releases my hair, scrolls through the messages on my phone. “Well, Emmy, here’s a text from your beloved Agent Bookman from nine minutes ago that says ‘We missed him.’ That must be Petty…not in custody. All these lies.”
In one powerful movement, Tom grips my hair again and jerks me to the floor like a rag doll. My elbow hits something, a pan and a paint roller, and they’re knocked to the floor along with me, making a loud commotion.
I land hard on my shoulder, turn over onto my back, and look up at my stranger danger.
He drops down on me, pinning my body. He holds my arms with his hands and leans into me, his eyes ablaze.
Need air…can’t breathe…can’t pass out…can’t lose conscious—
“I need to know everything the FBI knows,” he whispers. “You have ten seconds. If you don’t tell me, I’ll find that fiancé of yours and gut him like a fish. If you tell me, Books lives. Go. One, one thousand…two, one thousand…three, one thousand…”
“No…no…”
“Oh, you won’t tell me.” His hands grip my throat and his thumbs press down on my windpipe, everything shutting down, everything dimming—
Books. Books. I’m—
“It didn’t have to be this way, Em—”
An explosion, then another following it instantly, glass shattering above us, raining shards of the window down on Tom and me. Tom releases me and bounces to his feet.
I suck in oxygen in exaggerated, raspy gulps. Then I turn and look toward the doorway.
I see Bonita Sexton, a gun in her hand, tears streaming down her face, the gun shaking so violently she can hardly maintain her grip.
126
“WHO ARE you?” Tom Miller asks. Then, quickly recovering: “Thank God someone’s here. We need an ambulance.”
I force myself up onto my elbows.
Rabbit takes another step into the room. “You kill…homeless people? Sick people? Why? How could anyone do that?”
“What? No. No, it’s not me. Me? Are you kidding? Please—please just put the gun down and we can talk.”
Rabbit shakes her head, her mouth in a snarl, fresh tears rolling down her face.
Using the window ledge for support, I get to my feet.
“You killed so many…innocent, harmless people,” Rabbit says, her voice cracking.
“Rabbit,” I say, finding my voice, my throat scorched.
She shakes her head and takes another step closer.
“Be careful with that thing,” says Tom. “Do you even know how to use it?”
I have the same question. She’s worked at the FBI for decades. She could’ve used the firing range in the Hoover Building as much as she wanted. But did she? It’s one thing to shoot at a large picture window, another to shoot at a dangerous man like Tom if he makes a move. Which he’s going to do.
“Bonita,” I say. “Don’t kill him. Stay right where you are. Let me call it in.”
“No,” she whispers, the gun threatening to fall from her grip, the trembling of her arms increasing the more emotional she gets.
“Honey, you’re not a killer,” I say. “Don’t become one.”
Her eyes narrow; her jaw clenches. “Why not?” More tears, more sobbing. “What do I have to lose?”
Prison, she means. For the Citizen David bombings. She figures she’s going to spend the rest of her life behind bars anyway.