Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,62

planned it. He exhales with a mix of pride and relief.

Oh, how he enjoys playing with them, batting these FBI idiots back and forth with his massive paws, sprinkling a few false clues here, some red herrings there, watching them chase their tails. Is he really so much smarter than everyone else?

Yes. But it’s more than that. It’s his discipline that sets him apart, his planning and execution. Most people are lazy.

Emmy Dockery isn’t, which is why she’s presented such a challenge. He admits he was beginning to worry about her, but look how easy she was to fool!

As he basks in the glow of his success, words fly past him on the screen. He blinks out of his moment and focuses on them.

That’s what he wants me to think, anyway. I know it’s not true.

Citizen David is too expert at explosives to use that much blast by accident. And he never would have risked the very people he champions—the poor, the mentally ill, the homeless—by bombing a payday-loan store right beneath a homeless shelter.

As if he’s been shoved in the chest, he draws back, catching his breath. It—it didn’t work? That can’t be. Everything he did was perfect—

“Are you finished, sir?”

His head snaps toward the barista in the long green apron and hat, who jumps back at his reaction. “What?” he snarls at him.

“Sir, are you finished with your—”

“Does it look like I’m finished? Why are restaurants always in such a goddamn hurry to take your plate?”

“Hey, easy, guy, it’s all good, no worries.” The boy raises his hands in surrender.

He watches the kid retreat, scolding himself for the outburst. You always, always stay in character. You don’t let the anger show. Not in public. Not while you’re playing the role.

Besides, he consoles himself, taking a breath, what Emmy’s saying is just a theory. The FBI can’t know anything for certain. Yes, he decides, it’s just a theory she’s kicking around. Emmy hasn’t been able to get anyone in the FBI to listen to her ideas about me so far. Why should now be any different?

His attention returns to the screen of his clone, which is mirroring every word Emmy writes:

Everything changed when I found Mayday.

He gasps, grips the sides of the laptop like he’s about to shake it. His eyes dart about the room, panic overtaking him, everything upside down, spinning out of control—

He reads it and rereads it, confirming that he’s really seeing those words, that his eyes aren’t fooling him, that this isn’t some momentary nightmare. His thoughts zigzag and his eyes bore into the words until the letters start to move and dance about, growing and shrinking, mocking him, laughing at him—

I f o u n d M a y d a y

I f o u n d M a y d a y

“Sir, are you okay? Sir? Sir.”

He looks up at the man addressing him, older than the first one, probably the store manager in his white shirt and green hat and name tag. The man takes a step back. “Is something wrong, sir?”

He closes the laptop gently and drops it into his bag, suddenly aware of his trembling hands, the heat on his face.

“I’ll leave,” he whispers. “I’ll leave right now.”

60

Everything…changed…when I…found…Mayday.

I finish typing and scoot back my chair, assessing the words.

Pully, sitting next to me, chews on his lower lip and stares at the computer screen with the expression of a fascinated child. I’ve always wondered if he was cut out for the FBI. He’s a computer genius, no doubt, and we’ve put his skills to tremendous use. But this job requires a strong stomach, even for the analysts who stay behind their desks. Financial crimes are one thing. But the brutal stuff—human traffickers, sex offenders, murderers who cross state lines and trigger our jurisdiction—is not for Pully.

I told him—actually, Rabbit told him, but I agreed—that he couldn’t be part of our hunt for Darwin, and yet here I am, involving him. But only because of his skill with computers; I needed him to see if Darwin had hacked into my laptop and desktop. Rabbit is good with computer-tech stuff, but Pully is a magician.

“Penny for your thoughts,” I say, instantly dating myself to this millennial.

“What? Oh.” He shrugs. “Well, mentioning Mayday will definitely get his attention. But you’re tipping him off. You’re telling him that we’re onto him.”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to make him think he’s getting away with it? To let him feel warm and comfortable while we