Murder Club 03 - 3rd Degree by James Patterson

Author:James Patterson
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Published: 2004-02-29T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 59

THE LATEST E-MAIL had Cindy rocking back on her heels. For once, she was in the story, not just merely writing it.

And she felt a little scared. Who could blame her, with what was going on? But for the first time in her career, she also felt that she was really doing some good. And that’s what thrilled her. She sucked in a deep breath and faced the screen of her computer.

That wasn’t us in Portland, the message had said.

But why disclaim the killing? Why the five-word denial, nothing more?

To separate themselves. To distinguish their crusade from a copycat killer. That seemed obvious.

But the knot growing in her stomach told her that maybe there was something more.

Maybe she was pressing too hard. But what if—completely outside the box—what if what was coming through wasn’t a denial, but something else. A conscience.

No, that’s crazy, she thought. These people had blown up Morton Lightower’s town house with his wife and a child inside. They had shoved horrible poison down Bengosian’s throat. But they had spared little Caitlin.

There was something else…. She suspected that the person corresponding might be a woman. She had referred to “her sisters in bondage.” And she’d chosen to write to her. There were plenty of other reporters in the city. Why her?

Cindy was thinking that if there was any humanity in this person, maybe she could reach it. Maybe she could tap into it. Reveal something. A name, a place. Maybe it was the au pair writing, and maybe she did have a heart.

Cindy cracked her knuckles and leaned over the keyboard. Here goes…

She typed:

Tell me, why are you doing these things? I think you are a woman. Are you? There are better ways to achieve your goals than killing people who the world views as innocent. You can use me. I can get the message out. Please… I told you I was listening. I am…. Use me. Please… Don’t kill anymore.

She read it over. It was a long shot. Longer than a long shot.

And she felt, pausing over the message, that if she sent it, she really would enter the story, that her whole life would change.

“Sayonara,” she whispered to her old life—the one of passively watching and writing. She pressed SEND.

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