Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,20
guess,” she says. “But like I said, even if I knew her—or his—name, I would never tell a soul.”
“Good to know, Shaindy,” I say.
Clearly, Shaindy thinks I’m her source. That’s not surprising. She’s wondering why I would go to the trouble of texting her anonymously instead of just talking to her face to face. After all, she’s already proven that I can trust her.
But she won’t ask, and she won’t tell.
And neither will I.
She winks at me. “Well,” she says, “I’ll just keep checking my phone.”
20
THE MAN who sometimes calls himself Charlie leans back against the seat of his wheelchair in his custom van, his earbuds in, one hand clutching the cell phone, the other arm hanging lazily over the steering wheel.
He is not, in reality, listening to music or talking on the phone. It is a device to throw off suspicion should someone passing by on the sidewalk happen to glance at the curb and see him inside the vehicle or, God forbid, should a police officer approach. He can simply put a cheerful smile on his face and begin speaking and moving his hands expressively, and he will appear to be talking to someone about something innocuous, not staking out a private residence.
What’s interesting is that his speaking on the phone or wearing a smile does not indicate that he is not dangerous or a threat. Why would someone with bad intentions sneer or scowl at people as they pass him, thereby telegraphing those intentions?
But people see what they want to see. They don’t want to see a threat on their quiet little street, and thus they’re willing to accept almost any verbal or nonverbal cue—a carefree expression, some forced laughter—that reinforces their preconceived bias.
Harrison Bookman lives on a tree-lined street of brick homes and SUVs; his neighbors are people who walk their dogs and go for early-morning runs and fuck their spouses once a week and worry about retirement and college tuition, not about where their next meal will come from. Bookman’s address is unlisted, befitting a former FBI agent, but it wasn’t hard to find his town house. It was a simple matter of following him home from his bookstore.
Charlie’s senses go on high alert when a car pulls into Bookman’s driveway. He does a double take at the woman who gets out of the car. Had he not been anticipating her, hoping for her, he would not have recognized this tall, thin woman who locks her Jeep by remote and heads toward Bookman’s front door.
Her hair is longer than it was in the photos they ran a year ago. Different length, different style, different color. He recalls lighter-colored hair pulled back, not ink-black hair running past her shoulders, bangs covering her forehead.
It is a subtle change, and it has a practical value, he recognizes. The bangs, her blouse with the high neckline, almost touching her cheek, blue jeans instead of shorts despite the heat. She is covering the scars.
“You want to hide, but you know you can’t,” he whispers.
And she’s doing a decent job of hiding the limp too, although it’s there if you look for it.
“You are scared and bruised and scarred,” he says. “But you adapted and overcame. You keep fighting. You keep doing your job.”
She primps a bit as she walks, her fingers swiping at her bangs.
“He won’t care about the scars, Emmy. If he is half the man he should be, your scars won’t matter at all. Your scars…are what make you beautiful.”
He sucks in a breath. Feels pressure in his chest. Jealousy and envy are not emotions that find him easily. The jealous man is the man too weak to reach for what he wants, who occupies his time with longing and regret instead of action. A moment of envy is a moment wasted.
The thinking man has no affections. Only a heart of stone.
Hate, anger, love, sadness—all are irrelevant. All are distractions. Happiness is too; at least, how most people define the word. Happiness is not an emotion to be felt every day, a selfish indulgence to be hoarded and constantly relished. Happiness is the ultimate goal, and it comes not from egotistical pleasure but from knowing that one has achieved one’s aim.
“I do not love you or hate you,” he says to Emmy as she reaches the front door of Bookman’s town house. “I do not like you or dislike you. You are an impediment, nothing more.”