Next, she ran her eyes over the bookcase. There was only one book on the top shelf: the Bible. On the next shelf were six separate modules of cassette tapes and a Sony
Walkman. Five of the modules were labeled with the name of a language, whereas the sixth was marked "Voice Exercises." The bottom shelf contained an extensive range of reference CDROMs. All were in their designated place.
Her gaze shifted to the right, taking in the window, and a simple wooden desk and chair. A laptop computer and telephone sat neatly laid out on the desk, both linked to a separate phone socket in the white wall behind. Also on the desk were a watch and a thin manila folder. On the floor beside it a neat stack of similar, more faded folders, at least sixty tall. All had their corners clipped like expired passports. All except the one at the top. This and the file on the desk were still unmarked and intact. But it was the one on top of the pile that her eyes went to, causing her to sigh.
Next, she did an about-face and let her eyes quickly scan the recess that housed the modest kitchenette, ignoring the adjacent bathroom door, coming to rest on the main door of the apartment. She visually checked all four locks on the steel door, then walked to the vast oak cupboard beside it.
She opened it, revealing its two distinct roles. The lefthand side acted as a wardrobe. Here men's suits hung neatly from a rail alongside women's dresses. Above them an array of exquisite human-hair wigs--some short, some long. On the floor, six pairs of men's and women's shoes, all the same size, were lined up in regimented rows.
But it was the right-hand side of the cupboard that attracted most of her scrutiny. This was essentially a tool rack, similar to those found on the walls of many a suburban garage. But these tools were not used to perform home-improvement tasks, or to cultivate gardens.
On the top level three knives hung on specially designed pegs. Like exhibits in a museum, they were ordered from left to right in ascending order of size. Although clean and in good condition, the worn handles attested to their frequent use. To the right of this trio was a kukri, the traditional curved knife used by the Gurkha soldiers of Nepal. She caressed each of the knives in turn, thrilling to the keenness of their blades.
Beneath the kukri was a lethal nunchaku: two shafts of wood, each a foot long, linked by a chain. The tip of each pale wooden shaft was heavily stained a deep bloody red. A garrote hung from the same peg like a discarded necktie. On the lower level were three guns: a ceramic Glock 9mm semiautomatic handgun capable of evading metal detectors, a SIG Sauer pistol, and a Heckler Koch submachine gun. At the bottom, lying horizontally in specially designed cradles, were a precision longrange sniper rifle and a pump-action shotgun. Among all these articles were neatly labeled drawers and shelves laden with accessories and ammunition.
Maria ran her hands sensuously over her charges, rubbing away a smear on the barrel of the oily Heckler Koch, and straightening a magazine clip beneath the SIG.
When she was satisfied everything was in order she padded across the wooden floor back to the bathroom. In here she turned on the shower and stood under the warm, steady flow. She took a bar of coal tar soap from the dish and scrubbed her skin till it felt raw. She used the same bar to lather her shaved head, blinking away the stinging suds. And as her muscles relaxed she surrendered to her feelings of anger and shame. And again considered the scientist who had been preying on her mind since Stockholm.
It was ironic that she had made her first ever mistake with the target she regarded as the most dangerous. All the others were clear-cut demons: the gun dealers, the blaspheming movie producers, the crooked TV evangelists, the bent mob lawyers and drug barons. With them the face of the devil was clear to see and easy to eradicate. But ever since the Father had given her the manila folder containing the details on Dr. Tom Carter, she had known he was different. His evil was far more powerful and insidious than any of the others she had dispatched. Society actually regarded his blaspheming genetics as good. It even saw fit to honor him as a savior. And Maria knew that there could be no worse evil than that which effortlessly masqueraded in the trappings of righteousness.
Maria felt the rage build inside her. She was Nemesis. She did not make mistakes. She had intended the kill to be public on the night of Dr. Carter's greatest triumph, to show
the world the hollowness of his achievements. It was supposed to be a surgical strike; she should have been gone long before the atheist's body even hit the ground. Instead his colleague had pushed the target aside, and the wife had taken the bullets.
She rubbed the soap harder into her skin. She should have neutralized his colleague, Jack Nichols. The man had been a hero when he'd been in the FBI. It was Special Agent Jack Nichols who had stopped Happy Sam, the serial killer who cut the mouths out of his "smiling" victims in order to "capture their happiness." She knew all this. She could see that crescent-shaped scar on his face clearly--the same scar that Jack Nichols had received from the killer just before breaking his neck. No, she should definitely have factored in the possibility of the ex-agent helping his friend. That was amateurish. Unforgivable.
Maria turned off the shower, picked a coarse towel from the rail, and roughly dried herself. When she had finished she walked naked to the desk and picked up the manila folder. She opened it and glanced at the photograph of the next Righteous Kill.
She reached for the stack of similar files on the floor, all but one with their corners clipped, all but one successfully terminated. She picked up the one intact folder from the top. Opening it, she stared at the face of Tom Carter, her only failure. The piercing blue eyes seemed to stare back at her from under his thick thatch of unruly black hair. The strong jaw gave his long face a stubborn cast that made her even more determined to stop him. She desperately wanted to finish what she'd started, but knew it hadn't been sanctioned. Still, she could at least visit Dr. Carter and make him realize his punishment had only been postponed--not canceled. She checked the time on the watch by the phone. She'd have to hurry if she was to catch the Concorde flight.
Reluctantly she put Dr. Carter's folder back on the stack. Opening it stirred up all the old anxieties and her fingers began to pick at the fresh, livid scars on her thigh. Her picking became more agitated as she recalled the humiliation when Brother Bernard and the Father had learned of
her failure: Nemesis's
first
failure. And how Brother Bernard had rebuked her.
She turned, walked back to the crucifix, and knelt before it. Her quick prayer was a simple one: that after completing next month's Righteous Kill in Manhattan, the Father would give her another chance to finish the scientist.
FOUR
Beacon Hill
Boston
T
he next morning Tom Carter woke early. He reached across the large bed to Olivia. Only when he felt the cool expanse of unoccupied sheet did he remember his wife was dead. It had been his first waking thought every morning since the shooting, and he wondered if it would continue forever. He opened bleary eyes and watched the clock glowing on the bedside table: 5:16 A.M. Then the second remembered nightmare pierced his consciousness.
How long was a year anyway? Fifty-two weeks? Three hundred and sixty-five days? Eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours? However he put it he couldn't make it sound longer than it was, and it wasn't long enough. But according to DAN that was all the time Holly had--at the very most. Without a cure she would be lucky to see one more birthday.
When DAN had told him the time horizon he had almost felt a bizarre sense of relief. The deadline was so close there was really
nothing
he could do. He had every excuse to give in--to concentrate on helping to identify Olivia's killer and ensuring Holly's last few months were as enjoyable and painless as possible. But of course that wasn't his way. He had never been any good at accepting anything passively.
He sat up in bed and shook his head, trying to clear all the jumbled thoughts and fears from his mind. If he was even to begin planning what should or
could
be done to help Holly he would need a fresh perspective. And he could think of only one way to get it. Before he broke the news to his father and Jack he would talk it through with the one person who had always listened to him in times of crisis and doubt.
Tom swung heavy legs out of the bed and wandered into the connecting bathroom. Olivia's array of shampoo and conditioner bottles sat undisturbed on the table by the bath. Like so many things around this home, which Olivia had created, the bottles were another reminder of her presence. But he couldn't yet bear to throw away even the smallest memento of her.
He set the shower to the power setting and blasted himself awake till his skin tingled. Looking down, he studied the ugly, purple scar above his right knee. The Swedish doctor had told him how lucky he was that the bullet had passed through his leg, causing only minor muscle damage. But few moments went by when he didn't wish every single bullet that had torn into Olivia's body had torn into his instead.
After showering, he toweled himself dry and opened the large wardrobe he had shared with his wife. Olivia's clothes hung emptily from the pegs, her smell still among them. He reached into his side, threw on the first clothes that came to hand, and grabbed the long quilted leather jacket lying discarded on the floor from last night.
On the landing he paused outside Holly's room and put his head around the open door. She was curled up in bed asleep. He crept over to her and kissed her forehead. As he studied her peaceful face, DAN's chilling prophecy seemed a distant--even ridiculous--nightmare. If he wasn't back before Holly awoke, he was sure Marcy Kelley, the housekeeper who lived in the selfcontained apartment on the top floor, would be up by then.
Leaving Holly sleeping, he stole down the still-dark staircase and quietly let himself out of the house. He went out the back door, because he knew the police car was parked
outside the front driveway, a few yards down the road. He noticed it had snowed overnight as he climbed into his Mercedes and quietly eased out of the side gate, away from his guardians. He wanted to be alone, and didn't really share Jack's concern that the person who had tried to kill him in Sweden might have followed him to the States. Olivia's killer was probably on the run now and Tom wished the police would concentrate on catching him, rather than wasting time watching over him.
The drive from Beacon Hill through the usually congested sprawl of Boston was eerily quiet. It was not yet six on a Sunday morning and he saw only a handful of moving cars on the fifteenminute journey, including an anonymous brown sedan that overtook him after the snow-capped bridge.
The watery pink of dawn was just breaking when he arrived at the snow-covered fields of the cemetery. The wrought-iron gates were open and he drove to the top of the plot where he could still see the mound of Olivia's fresh grave under the overnight snow. He parked the Mercedes and blowing into his cold hands scrunched across the snow to where she lay. At the grave he sat in the snow next to Olivia, knees hugged close to his chest, and told her what had happened.
Leaving nothing out he started from the beginning. It was as if Olivia was actually there listening to him, as she had done so often when alive.
"So, what should I do?" he asked aloud. "Do I accept the inevitable and make the most of the time left to Holly? Or do I risk missing the precious year she does have left trying to find an accelerated cure?"
As he sat there quietly watching the clear, cold fingers of dawn push back the darkness, he remembered Olivia's favorite poem and he smiled. He couldn't recall all the lines Dylan Thomas wrote to his dying father, but he remembered enough to know he had Olivia's answer. He would not let Holly go gently into any night. He would rage alongside her, using all his skill and resources to hold back the encroaching darkness.
Jasmine would have told no one of DAN's verdict and Tom wanted to keep it quiet. He certainly didn't want Holly to know anything of her imminent illness yet. He'd tell Alex and Jack tomorrow, along with whoever else could help and be relied on to keep their counsel. Together they would work out what the best plan of attack should be. After all, if they couldn't save Holly, nobody could.
It was then, just as the rising sun leaked its angled light on the cemetery that he saw the fresh footprints in the snow. They led his eyes from the grave, across the wide expanse of white to an anonymous brown sedan parked at the far end of the plot, and the broad-shouldered man standing next to it. The man was only a silhouette against the rising sun, but something about his posture told Tom he was watching him.
Tom stood and looked down at the deep prints, following them back to the grave, and for the first time noticed the small cross-shaped wreath of blood-red roses on the snow behind the gravestone. As Olivia would have wanted, he had asked wellwishers to make a donation to their favorite charities rather than present any flowers, so he wondered about the donor. Intrigued, he leaned over the gravestone and picked up the wreath. An envelope fell from the red flowers onto the snow in front of him.
With cold-numbed fingers he tore it open, revealing a small card. On the top was a quotation:
"The wages of sin is death."
Romans 6:23
. And beneath it he read the words that chilled him more than the icy cold: "Your wife paid for your sin this time. But your punishment will come." It was unsigned.
At last he felt something. All the anger and grief he had been denied since Olivia's death now came bursting to the surface. With blood pounding in his ears he squinted into the rising sun. Ignoring the pain in his leg he began to run in the direction of the lone silhouette. He pushed his legs through the thick snow as fast as he could, his breath visible in the cold air. But before he had covered twenty yards and been blinded by the sun, he knew that the man had already gone.