Swimsuit

The executioner bent to the camera, his chin dripping sweat and blood, smiling with satisfaction, as he said, “Is everybody happy?”

Chapter 122

Gorge rose in my throat, and I was trembling horribly, perspiring heavily. I suppose I was relieved that Henri was dead, but at the same time my blood was screaming through my arteries. I reeled from the sickening, indelible images that had been freshly branded on my brain.

Inside the silent interrogation room, Horst Werner's unfeeling expression hadn't changed, but then he looked up and smiled sweetly as the door opened, and a man in a dark suit came in, put a hand on his shoulder.

My interpreter confirmed what I'd guessed; Werner's lawyer had arrived.

The conversation between the lawyer and Captain Voelker was a short, staccato volley that boiled down to one unalterable fact: the police didn't have enough to hold Werner at this time.

I watched in shock as Werner strolled from the interrogation room with his lawyer, a free man.

A moment later, Captain Voelker joined me in the observation room, told me emphatically that it wasn't over yet. Warrants for Werner's bank and phone records had been obtained. Alliance members around the world would be squeezed, he said. It was just a matter of time before they had Werner locked up again. Interpol and the FBI were on the case.

I walked out of the police station on unsteady legs, but into clean air and daylight. A limo was waiting to drive me to the airport. I told the driver to hurry. He started the engine and raised the glass divider. But still, the car took off and maintained only a moderate speed.

Inside my mind, Van der Heuvel was saying, “Be afraid of Horst Werner” – and I was. Werner would find out about my transcripts of Henri's confession. It was admissible evidence against him and the Peepers. I had replaced Henri as the Witness, the one who could bring Werner and the rest of them down on multiple murder charges.

My brain sped across continents. I slapped at the divider, shouted to the driver, “Go faster. Drive faster.”

I had to get to Amanda, by plane, by helicopter, by pack mule. I had to get to her first. We had to draw the walls around us and stay hidden, I didn't know for how long, and I didn't care.

I knew what Horst Werner would do if he found us.

I knew.

And I couldn't stop myself from wondering one other thing. Was Henri really dead?

What had I just watched back there at the station?

That blink of his eye – was it a wink? Was the film some kind of video trick he'd played?

“Drive faster.”

Epilogue

A letter to my readers.

When this book came out, the sales far exceeded my publisher's expectations, but it had never occurred to me that it would be in thousands of bookstores around the world – and that I would be living in a shack on the side of a mountain in a country not my own.

Some would say, “Be careful what you wish for because you may get it.” And I would answer, “I got what I wished for in a way I could not have imagined.”

I am with Amanda, my love, and she has adapted easily to the breathtaking beauty and solitude of our new life together. She is bilingual, and has taught me to speak another language, and to cook. From the start, we planted a vegetable garden and took weekly hikes down the mountain to a charming village for bread and cheese and supplies.

Amanda and I were married in this village, in a small church made by devout hands, blessed by a priest and a congregation of people who have taken Amanda and me into their hearts. The Foozle will be baptized here when he comes into the world, and I can hardly wait for him to be born. Our son.

But what is his birthright? What promises can I make him?

The first time I saw the off-road vehicle climbing the rut that winds up from the valley, I armed my bride and lined up guns on the table near the window.

The car was a private carrier that my publisher had hired to bring me mail and news of the world. After I searched the driver and let him go, I read everything Zagami sent me. I learned that the Peepers had been rounded up, that every one of them will go to trial for murder, and for conspiracy to commit murder, and for lesser crimes that will keep them in prisons for as long as they live.

Some days, my mind fastens on Horst Werner, his long arms and steel fists, and as his trial drags on, I think, At least I know where he is.

And then I think about Henri.

Sometimes I run the images of Henri's death through my mind like a length of film through the sprockets of an old-time film projector. I watch his horrific execution and convince myself that he really is dead.

At other times, I'm just as sure that he has fooled everyone. That he is living his life under an assumed name – as I am. And, one day, he will find us.

I thank my loyal readers for your letters, your concern, and your prayers for our safety. Life is good here. Sometimes I am very happy, but I can't quite dismiss my fear of the psychopathic monster I knew too well – and I ca

Acknowledgments

The authors are grateful to these fine professionals for giving generously of their time and expertise: Dr. Humphrey Germaniuk, Capt. Richard Conklin, Clint Van Zandt, Dr. David Smith, Dr. Maria Paige, and Allison Adato.

We also thank our excellent researchers: Rebecca DiLiberto, Ellie Shurtleff, Kai McBride, Sage Hyman, Alan Graison, Nick Dragash, and Ly

Special thanks to Michael Hampton, Jim and Dorian Morley, Sue and Ben Emdin, and to Mary Jordan, who makes it all possible.

About the Authors

JAMES PATTERSON is one of the bestselling writers of all time, with more than 170 million books sold worldwide. He is the author of the top-selling detective series of the past twenty years – the Alex Cross novels, including Kiss the Girls and Along Came a Spider, both of which were made into hit movies. Mr. Patterson also writes the bestselling Women's Murder Club novels, set in San Francisco, and the new series of #1 New York Times bestsellers featuring Detective Michael Be

James Patterson's lifelong passion for books and reading led him to launch a new Web site, ReadKiddoRead.com, which helps parents, grandparents, teachers, and librarians find the very best children's books for their kids.

MAXINE PAETRO is a novelist and journalist. She lives with her husband in New York.