Jeffery Deaver

His face wet with sweat and with tears, the man runs for freedom, he runs for his life.

“There! There he goes!”

The former slave does not know exactly where the voice comes from. Behind him? To the right or left? From atop one of the decrepit tenements lining the filthy cobblestoned streets here?

Amid July air hot and thick as liquid paraffin, the lean man leaps over a pile of horse dung. The street sweepers don’t come here, to this part of the city.  Charles Singleton pauses beside a pallet stacked high with barrels, trying to catch his breath.

A crack of a pistol. The bullet goes wide. The sharp report of the gun takes him back instantly to the War: the impossible, mad hours as he stood his ground in his dusty blue uniform, steadying his heavy musket, facing men wearing dusty gray, aiming their own weapons his way.

Running faster now. The men fire again. These bullets also miss.

“Somebody stop him! Five dollars’ gold if you catch him.”

But the few people out on the streets this early—mostly Irish rag pickers and laborers trooping to work with hods or picks on their shoulders—have no inclination to stop the Negro who has fierce eyes and large muscles and such frightening determination. As for the reward, the shouted offer came from a city constable, which means there’s no coin behind the promise.

At the Twenty-third Street paintworks, Charles veers west. He slips on the slick cobblestones and falls hard.  A mounted policeman rounds the corner and, raising his nightstick, bears down on the fallen man. And then—

And? the girl thought.

And?

What happened to him?

Sixteen-year-old Geneva Settle twisted the knob on the microfiche reader again but it would move no farther; she’d come to the last page on this carriage. She lifted out the metal rectangle containing the lead article in the July 23, 1868, edition of Coloreds’ Weekly Illustrated. Riffling through the other frames in the dusty box, she’d worried that the remaining pages of that article were missing and she’d never find out what happened to her ancestor, Charles Singleton. She’d learned that historical archives regarding black history were often incomplete, if not forever misplaced.

Where was the rest of the story?

Ah . . . Finally she found it and mounted the carriage carefully into the battered gray reader, moving the knob impatiently to locate the continuation of the story of Charles’s flight.

Geneva’s lush imagination—and years of immersing herself in books—had given her the wherewithal to embellish the bare-bones magazine account of the former slave’s pursuit through the hot, foul streets of nineteenth-century New York. She almost felt she was back then, rather than where she really was at the moment: 140 years later in the deserted fifth-floor library of the Museum of African-American Culture and History on Fifty-fifth Street in Midtown Manhattan.

As she twisted the dial, the pages streamed past on the grainy screen. Geneva found the rest of the article, which was headlined:

SHAME
————–
THE ACCOUNT OF A FREEDMAN’S CRIME
————-
CHARLES SINGLETON, A VETERAN
OF THE WAR
BETWEEN THE STATES,
BETRAYS THE CAUSE OF OUR PEOPLE
IN A NOTORIOUS INCIDENT

A picture accompanying the article showed twenty-eight-year-old Charles Singleton in his Civil War uniform. He was tall, his hands were large and the tight fit of the uniform on his chest and arms suggested powerful muscles. Lips broad, cheekbones high, head round, skin quite dark.

Staring at the unsmiling face, the calm, piercing eyes, the girl believed there was a resemblance between them—she had the head and face of her ancestor, the roundness of his features, the rich shade of his skin.  Not a bit of the Singleton physique, though. Geneva Settle was skinny as a grade-school boy, as the Delano Project girls loved to point out.

She began to read once more, but a noise intruded.

A click in the room. A door latch? Then she heard several footsteps. They paused. Another step. Finally silence. She glanced behind her, saw nobody.

She felt a chill, but told herself not to be freaked. It was just bad memories that put her on edge: the Delano girls whaling on her in the school yard behind Langston Hughes High, and that time Tonya Brown and her crew from the St. Nicholas Houses dragged her into an alley then pounded her so bad that she lost a back tooth that still hadn’t been replaced. Boys groped, boys dissed, boys put you down. But it was the girls who made you bleed.

Get her down, cut her, cut the bitch . . .

More footsteps. Another pause.

Silence.

The nature of this place didn’t help. Dim, musty, quiet. And there was no one else here, not at 8:15 on a Tuesday morning. The museum wasn’t open yet—tourists were still asleep or having their breakfasts—but the library opened at 8:00. Geneva had been waiting here when they unlocked the doors, she’d been so eager to read the article. She now sat in a cubicle at the end of a large exhibit hall, where faceless mannequins wore nineteenth-century costumes and the walls were filled with paintings of men in bizarre hats, women in bonnets and horses with wack, skinny legs.

Another footstep. Then another pause.

Should she leave? Go hang with Dr. Barry, the librarian, until this creepy dude left?

And then the other visitor laughed.

Not a weird laugh, a fun laugh.

And he said, “Okay. I’ll call you later.”

A snap of a cell phone folding up. That’s why he’d been pausing, just listening to the person on the other end of the line.

Told you not to worry, girl. People aren’t dangerous when they laugh. They aren’t dangerous when they say friendly things on cell phones. He’d been walking slowly because that’s what people do when they’re talking—even though what kind of rude claimer’d make a phone call in a library? Geneva turned back to the microfiche screen, wondering; You get away, Charles? Man, I hope so.

Yet he regained his footing and, rather than own up to his mischief, as a courageous man would do, continued his cowardly flight.

So much for objective reporting, she thought angrily.

For a time he evaded his pursuers. But escape was merely temporary. A Negro tradesman on a porch saw the freedman and implored him to stop, in the name of justice, asserting that he had heard of Mr. Singleton’s crime and recriminating him for bringing dishonor upon all colored people throughout the nation. The citizen, one Walker Loakes, thereupon flung a brick at  Mr. Singleton with the intent of knocking him down. However,

Charles dodges the heavy stone and turns to the man, shouting, “I am  innocent. I did not do what the police say!”

Geneva’s imagination had taken over and, inspired by the text, was writing the story once again.

But Loakes ignores the freedman’s protests and runs into the street, calling to the police that the fugitive is headed for the docks.

His heart torn, his thoughts clinging to the image of Violet and their son, Joshua, the former slave continues his desperate run for freedom.

Sprinting, sprinting . . .

Behind him comes the gallop of the mounted police.  Ahead of him, other horsemen appear, led by a helmeted police officer, brandishing a pistol.  “Halt, halt where you are, Charles Singleton! I’m Detective Captain William Simms. I’ve been searching for you for two days.”

The freedman does as ordered. His broad shoulders slump, strong arms at his side, chest heaving as he sucks in the humid, rancid air beside the Hudson River.
Nearby is the Tow Boat office,  and up and down the river he sees the spindles of the sailing ship masts, hundreds of them, taunting him with their promise of freedom.  He leans, gasping, against the large Swiftsure Express Company sign.  Charles stares at the approaching officer as the clop, clop, clop of his horse’s hooves resonate loudly on the cobblestones.

“Charles Singleton, you are under arrest for burglary. You will surrender to us or we will subdue you. Either way you will end up in shackles. Pick the first and you will suffer no pain. Pick the second, you will end up bloody. The choice is yours.”

“I have been accused of a crime I did not commit!”

“I repeat: Surrender or die. Those are your only choices.”

“No, sir, I have one other,” Charles shouts. He resumes his flight—toward the dock.

“Stop or we will shoot!” Detective Simms calls.

But the freedman bounds over the railing of the pier like a horse taking a picket in a charge. He seems to hang in the air for a moment then cartwheels thirty feet into the murky waters of the Hudson River, muttering some words, perhaps a plea to Jesus, perhaps a declaration of love for his wife and child, though whatever they might be none of his pursuers can hear.

# # #

Fifty feet from Geneva Settle forty-one-year-old Thompson Boyd moved closer to the girl.

He pulled the stocking cap over his face, adjusted the eye holes and opened the cylinder of his pistol to make sure it wasn’t jammed. He’d checked it earlier but, in this job, you could never be too certain. He put the gun into his pocket and pulled the billy club out of a slit cut into his dark raincoat.

He was in the stacks of books in the costume exhibit hall, which separated him from the microfiche reader tables. His latex-gloved fingers pressed his eyes, which had been stinging particularly sharply this morning. He blinked away a few tears from the pain.

He looked around again, making sure the room was in fact deserted.

No guards were here, none downstairs either. No security cameras or sign-in sheets. All good. But there were some logistical problems. The big room was deathly quiet, and Thompson couldn’t hide his approach to the girl.  She’d know someone was in the room with her and might become edgy and alert.

So after he’d stepped inside this wing of the library and locked the door behind him, he’d laughed, a chuckle.  Thompson Boyd had stopped laughing years ago. But he was also a craftsman who understood the power of humor—and how to use it to your advantage in this line of work. A laugh—coupled with a farewell pleasantry and a closing cell phone—would put her at ease, he reckoned.

This ploy seemed to work. He looked quickly around the long row of shelves and saw the girl, staring at the microfiche screen. Her hands, at her side, seemed to clench and unclench nervously at what she was reading.

He started forward.

Then stopped. The girl was pushing away from the table. He heard her chair slide on the linoleum. She was walking somewhere. Leaving? No. He heard the sound of the drinking fountain and her gulping some water. Then he heard her pulling books off the shelf and stacking them up on the microfiche table. Another pause and she returned to the stacks once again, gathering more books. The thud as she set them down.  Finally he heard the screech of her chair as she sat once more. Then silence.

Thompson looked again. She was back in her chair, reading one of the dozen books piled in front of her.

With the bag containing the condoms, razor knife and duct tape in his left hand, the club in his right, he started toward her again.

Coming up behind her now, twenty feet, fifteen, holding his breath.

Ten feet. Even if she bolted now, he could lunge forward and get her—break a knee or stun her with a blow to the head.

Eight feet, five . . .

He paused and silently set the rape pack on a shelf. He took the club in both hands. He stepped closer, lifting the varnished oak rod.

Still absorbed in the words, she read intently, oblivious to the fact that her attacker was an arm’s length behind her.  Thompson swung the club downward with all his strength toward the back of the girl’s skull.

Crack. . . .

A painful vibration stung his hands as the baton struck her head with a hollow snap.

But something was wrong. The sound, the feel were off.  What was going on? Thompson Boyd leapt back as the body fell to the floor.

And tumbled into pieces.

The torso of the mannequin fell one way. The head another. Thompson stared for a moment.  He glanced to his side and saw a ball gown draped over the bottom half of the same mannequin—part of a display on women’s clothing in Reconstruction America.

No . . . .

Somehow, she’d tipped to the fact that he was here and was a threat. She’d then collected some books from the shelves as an excuse for standing up and taking apart a mannequin. She’d dressed the upper part of it in her own sweatshirt and stocking cap then propped it on the chair.

But where was she?

The slap of racing feet answered the question. Thompson Boyd heard her sprinting for the fire door. The man slipped the billy club into his coat, pulled out his gun, and started after her.

“Lincoln Rhyme, Deaver’s popular paraplegic detective, returns in a robust thriller that demonstrates Deaver’s unflagging ability to entertain. …this is one of the more lively thrillers of the year and will be a significant bestseller.”
— Publishers Weekly

“A new Lincoln Rhyme novel is cause for excitement among fans of twisty-turny thrillers. This time out, Rhyme, the quadriplegic forensic investigator, is trying to find out why a man was stalking a high-school student. Turns out it might have something to do with the death of one of the student’s ancestors nearly 140 years ago. Deaver, who must have been born with a special plot-twist gene, somehow manages, in every book, to pull two or three big surprises out of his hat. He also has a knack for drawing us immediately into the story. For some readers, it’s his detailed description of investigative techniques; for others, it’s Rhyme himself, the crusty, bad-tempered (but secretly lovable) detective who, with the help of his protege (and lover), the beautiful Amelia Sachs, solves crimes that most other investigators couldn’t begin to crack. The Rhyme novels are among the cleverest of contemporary detective fiction.”
—Booklist

Narrated by Joe Mantegna. Listen to an excerpt.

May 2006

Question: The Cold Moon is the seventh Lincoln Rhyme novel. When you wrote The Bone Collector, did you know that you were writing the first in a series?
Jeffery Deaver: I had no idea. It never occurred to me that he would become such a popular character (the books are selling in 150 countries and translated into 35 languages; Iceland is the latest on the list). But my goal is to give readers something they enjoy, and because so many people enjoyed The Bone Collector, I thought I’d follow up with another. Good thing I didn’t kill him off at the end of the story, which I thought about doing.

Q: How does writing for the series differ from writing a stand-alone novel, like Garden Of Beasts?
JD: There are two problems with a series. First, you have to write the same thing, but make it different. For instance, all of the Rhyme/Sachs books have to involve forensic science, police procedure and issues of Rhyme’s physical condition. But at the same time, I’m always looking for ways to make the story fresh. The second problem is that authors can’t truly put their continuing characters in danger. So I need to come up with clever ways to jeopardize them (like personal relationship stories, or giving them sidekicks whom they love and care for—and whom I gleefully murder in chapter five).

Q: Throughout these books, Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs have faced many smart, complicated, and evil characters. Do you have a favorite “villain” from the books?
JD: That’s a good question—and a hard one, since it’s such a pleasure to create bad guys. Not to be self-serving but I must say that my favorite is the Watchmaker, the villain in The Cold Moon. I say this because he’s so smart and distant and calculating and . . . . Well, I can’t say any more. It might give something away.

Q: Lincoln’s aide, Thom, has become a favorite character for many readers. Does the affection that readers have for the smaller characters, like Lon, Thom, Mel, and Fred, ever surprise you? (And why did you not give Thom a last name?)
JD: Yes, a lot of people like Thom. One reader said if I ever kill him off, she’d tell all her friends never to read a Deaver book again. I like to think that the characters in a series book are like friends. We like to depend on them, spend time with them, allow them into our lives. Readers feel the same way. Every time a book comes out, it’s like a reunion. As for Thom’s last name, I like to keep a bit of mystery in my characters.

Q: In The Cold Moon, Amelia goes through a particularly difficult time professionally and personally, doubting herself and the job. Do you start each book already knowing how you want particular characters to evolve and change or does it happen naturally during the writing process? Do you already have long-term plans for each individual character?
JD: Because I outline extensively, I know exactly what kind of agony I’m going to put my characters through before I start writing. Each of the books has the core plot—the crime. But our lives are not one-dimensional; neither should a book be. I like to get at least two or three subplots and conflicts going, then, of course, resolve them. As for the long-term plans, I’m not as certain, though I do know my goal is emotional enjoyment of the book, not writing reality. There’ll be plenty of carnage and loss in the future of the series, but readers can rest assured that generally the heroes will be around for the next book in the series.

Q: How long do you plan on writing this series? And can you give us any insight on what to expect down the road for Lincoln and Amelia?
JD: I’ll write the series for as long as readers want to read it. I hear some writers say, “I write for myself.” No way. You write for your readers, and I intend to do everything in my power to keep giving them what they want. Lincoln and Amelia will continue to be both personally and professionally linked, which isn’t to say that there might not be changes in the future—especially if, say, figures from the past were to show up. . . . All I can say is: Stay tuned.

Q: There’s a fascinating character in The Cold Moon, Kathryn Dance, a policewoman from California, who is an expert in interrogation and kinesics, body language. Any chance she might make an appearance in future books?
JD: Yes, I enjoyed creating Kathryn. A young widow with two children, she’s a former jury consultant and is now an agent with the California Bureau of Investigation. And indeed she’ll be the main character of a new series I’ll be starting next year and alternating with the Lincoln Rhyme books.

 

Riddle

You can’t see me, but I’m always present.
Run as fast as you can, but you’ll never escape me.
Fight me with all your strength, but you’ll never defeat me.
I kill when I wish, but can never be brought to justice. Who am I?

Old Man Time.

12:02 a.m. Tuesday

Time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.
— William Faulkner

Chapter 1

“How long did it take them to die?”

The man this question was posed to didn’t seem to hear it. He looked in the rearview mirror again and concentrated on his driving. The hour was just past midnight and the streets in lower Manhattan were icy. A cold front had swept the sky clear and turned an earlier snow to slick glaze on the asphalt and concrete. The two men were in the rattling Band-Aid-mobile, as Clever Vincent had dubbed the tan SUV. It was a few years old; the brakes needed servicing and the tires replacing. But taking a stolen vehicle in for service would not be a wise idea, especially since two of its recent passengers were now murder victims.

The driver—a lean man in his fifties, with trim black hair—made a careful turn down a side street and continued his journey, never speeding, making precise turns, perfectly centered in his lane. He’d drive the same whether the streets were slippery or dry, whether the vehicle had just been involved in murder or not.

Careful, meticulous.

  How long did it take?

Big Vincent—Vincent with long, sausage fingers, always damp, and a taut brown belt stretching the first hole—shivered hard. He’d been waiting on the street corner after his night shift as a word processing temp. It was bitterly cold but Vincent didn’t like the lobby of his building. The light was greenish and the walls were covered with big mirrors where he could see his oval body from all angles. So he’d stepped into the clear, cold December air and paced and ate a candy bar. Okay, two.

As Vincent was glancing up at the full moon, a shockingly white disk visible for a moment through a canyon of buildings, the Watchmaker reflected aloud, “How long did it take them to die? Interesting.”

Vincent had known the Watchmaker—whose real name was Gerald Duncan—for only a short time but he’d learned that you asked the man questions at your own risk. Even a simple query could open the door to a monologue. Man, could he talk. And his answers were always organized, like a college professor’s. Vincent knew that the silence for the last few minutes was because Duncan was considering his answer.

Vincent opened a can of Pepsi. He was cold but he needed something sweet. He chugged it and put the empty can in his pocket. He ate a packet of peanut butter crackers. Duncan looked over to make sure Vincent was wearing gloves. They always wore gloves in the Band-Aid-mobile.

Meticulous . . .

“I’d say there are several answers to that,” Duncan said in his soft, detached voice. “For instance, the first one I killed was twenty four, so you could say it took him twenty four years to die.”

Like, yeah . . . thought Clever Vincent with the sarcasm of a teenager, though he had to admit that this obvious answer hadn’t occurred to him.

“The other was thirty-two, I think.”

A police car drove by, the opposite way. The blood in Vincent’s temples began pounding but Duncan didn’t react. The cops showed no interest in the stolen Explorer.

“Another way to answer the question,” Duncan said, “is to consider the elapsed time from the moment I started until their hearts stopped beating. That’s probably what you meant. See, people want to put time into easy-to-digest frames of reference. That’s valid, as long as it’s helpful. Knowing the contractions come every twenty seconds is helpful. So is knowing that the athlete ran a mile in three minutes, fifty-eight seconds, so he wins the race. Specifically how long it took them tonight to die . . . well, that isn’t important, as long as it wasn’t fast.” A glance at Vincent. “I’m not being critical of your question.”

“No,” Vincent said, not caring if he was critical. Vincent Reynolds didn’t have many friends and could put up with a lot from Gerald Duncan. “I was just curious.”

“I understand. I just didn’t pay any attention. But the next one, I’ll time it.”

“The girl? Tomorrow?” Vincent’s heart beat just a bit faster.

He nodded. “Later today, you mean.”

It was after midnight. With Gerald Duncan you had to be precise, especially when it came to time.

“Right.”

Hungry Vincent had nosed out Clever Vincent now that he was thinking of Joanne, the girl who’d die next.

Later today . . .

The killer drove in a complicated pattern back to their temporary home in the Chelsea district of Manhattan, south of midtown, near the river. The streets were deserted; the temperature was in the teens and the wind flowed steadily through the narrow streets.

Duncan parked at a curb and shut the engine off, set the parking brake. The men stepped out. They walked for a half block through the icy wind. Duncan glanced down at his shadow on the sidewalk, cast by the moon. “I’ve thought of another answer. About how long it took them to die.”

Vincent shivered again—mostly, but not only, from the cold.

“When you look at it from their point of view,” the killer said, “you could say that it took forever.”