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The October List
By Jeffery Deaver Grand Central Publishing
Copyright © 2013 Jeffery Deaver
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4555-7664-7
CHAPTER 1
6:30 P.M., SUNDAY
She stood at the window of the Manhattan apartment, peering through a slit in the drapes. Her hands trembled.
"Do you see anyone?" the man across the room asked, voice edgy.
"I'm not sure. Maybe." Her body pitched forward, tense, Gabriela tugged the thick sheets of cloth closer together, as if someone was scanning the windows with binoculars. Or a sniper rifle. "Of course, I didn't see anybody earlier today, either. Until it was too late." She muttered fiercely, "I wish I had a gun now. I'd use it. If anybody's there, I swear to God I'd use it."
Sam Easton asked, "But who would it be?"
She turned to him, stepping away from the window fast. "Who? It could be anyone. Everybody in the world, it seems, wants the goddamn October List!"
"How could they know you were here?"
Gabriela gave a bitter laugh. "I don't seem to have any secrets anymore." She hesitated, then, reluctantly, she looked out again. "I just can't tell. I thought somebody was there. But the next minute he was gone. I—" Then she whispered manically, "The dead bolt!"
Sam stared, cocking his head.
Eyes wide in alarm, Gabriela asked, "Did I lock it?" She walked quickly out of the living room around the corner to the hallway and then returned. "No, it's okay. Everything's locked up."
Sam now took her place at the window, looked out. "I see shadows, I see some movement. But I can't tell for sure. Could be somebody, could be a tree blowing in the breeze. Damn streetlight's out, the one in front of the building." He glanced at her. "Was it working earlier?"
"I don't know," she said. "I think maybe it was. How could somebody shut out a streetlight?"
Sam didn't answer. He too stepped back from the slit between the drapes. He crossed the room and sat on a hassock near her. She'd noted earlier that he was in good shape but hadn't seen clearly how slim his waist was, how broad his shoulders. His muscles tested his suit jacket and white shirt.
Gabriela raged, "Jesus, I hate this! ... Sarah, what's she going through? What's she thinking? What—?" Her voice choked. Then she breathed in and out slowly. "How soon, do you think, until we know?" Daniel and Andrew had left about a half hour ago to meet Joseph.
She wiped a dot of blood from her lower lip.
Sam said, "Hard to say. Joseph's got his own agenda, you know. The ... someone in his position pretty much has all the power."
Gabriela could tell he'd been about to say "the kidnapper" but didn't want to add that, maybe so that she didn't become more upset.
She exhaled slowly, pressed her rib cage. Gave a faint wince. "I hate the waiting."
Sam said awkwardly, "They'll make it happen."
"Will they?" she asked, in a whisper. "Joseph's a crazy man. A wild card. I have no idea what he's going to do."
A fog of silence filled the dim room, a silence engendered by two strangers who were waiting to hear a child's fate.
"When exactly did it happen?" Sam asked. His suit was unbuttoned, his tieless dress shirt starched smooth as Sheetrock.
"When did Joseph kidnap her?" Gabriela asked; she wasn't afraid to use the word. "Saturday morning. Yesterday."
Forever ago. That was the phrase that had occurred to her but she didn't use the expression with this man, whom she'd only known a few hours.
"And how old is Sarah?"
Gabriela responded, "Six. She's only six."
"Oh, Jesus." His long, matte-dry face revealed disgust, a face older than that of most men in their mid-thirties. A jowl quivered.
She nodded, a token of thanks for the sympathy. After a pause: "I hate Sundays."
"I know what you mean." Sam's eyes regarded her again: the new black jeans bought on the run while she and Daniel were being chased through the streets of New York. They fit poorly. A bulky, unbecoming navy-blue sweatshirt. He'd been noting her mussed auburn hair, and a gaunt face whose makeup had long ago been teared away. He scanned her lean hips too, her abundant breasts, but clearly had no romantic or lustful interest. She reflected, Whatever his circumstances or preferences, I'm sure I look pretty bad.
She rose and walked to the corner of the apartment. There sat a black backpack, from which the price tag still dangled. She unzipped it, then withdrew a smaller gym bag and, from that, a skein of yarn, some needles and the piece she'd been working on. The strands were deep green and blue ...
Echoing a line from a song.
One of her favorites.
Eyes red, demeanor anxious, Gabriela sat once again in the shabby plush purple chair in the center of the living room. Though she clutched the yarn, she didn't begin the rhythmic, comforting motion, so familiar, with the red knitting needles yet. She touched her mouth with a tissue. Looked at the wad, which was white as fine linen, now blotched red. Her fingers were tipped with polish of a similar shade.
Then, tap, tap, Gabriela knitted five rows. She coughed several times, pressed her side, below her right breast, her eyes squinting shut momentarily. She tasted blood. Copper, salty, bitter.
Concern rippling his brow, Sam asked, "If it's bleeding like that, shouldn't you go to the emergency room? It looks worse."
Gabriela gave a brief laugh. "That probably wouldn't be a good idea. Didn't Daniel tell you what happened this afternoon?"
"Oh. Sure. Wasn't thinking."
"I'll live with it until I get Sarah back. Then I'll have things taken care of. In the prison hospital, most likely." A cynical smirk accompanied this comment.
She studied the apartment once more. When she and Daniel had arrived two hours ago she'd been too preoccupied to notice much. In addition to being filled with beat-up furniture, and exuding a sense of the temporary, it was gloomy, particularly now in the oppressive dusk. She supposed this atmosphere was mostly due to the tall ceilings, small rooms, gray wallpaper flecked with tiny pale flowers. Her eyes went to the wrought-iron coffee table in the middle of the room. Its spiky edges looked like a weapon from a science fiction film.
Pain ...
The table set her nerves aflame. But she thought yet again, as she'd done so often in the past two days: Your goal. All you should think about is your goal.
Sarah. Saving Sarah is your only goal. Remember that, remember that, remember that.
Gabriela asked, "You work with Daniel much?"
Sam replied, "We've had a relationship with him and The Norwalk Fund for close to seven years."
"How many people've told him he looks like the actor?" She was thinking back to Friday night—could it really have been just two days ago?—meeting Daniel Reardon for the first time. Then later that evening: recalling his damp brow, speckled with moisture, and beneath, his blue eyes, which were simultaneously easy and intense.
"A lot," Sam said and again rubbed his bare, shiny scalp. "I don't get that much: Are you this or that actor?" He was laughing. He had a sense of humor after all, maybe.
"And the head of your company, Andrew—what was his last name again?"
"Faraday."
"He's a fascinating man," she said. "I've never heard of a specialty like his before."
"Not many companies do what we do. He's made a name for himself. Travels all over the world. Flies a hundred thousand miles a year. Minimum."
She knit another row of blue and green. Tap, tap.
"And your job, Sam?"
"I'm a behind-the-scenes guy. The operations chief for the company."
"Like me," she said. "I run my company's office and ..." Her voice faded and she gave a sour laugh. "I ran the office. Before all this happened." She sighed, dabbed at her mouth once more, examined the tissue and continued knitting, as if she was simply tired of receiving bad news. She gave him a wry look. "Operations chief also has babysitter in the job description?"
He opened his mouth—a protest was coming—but then he said, with a grin, "Was it that obvious?"
She continued, "It doesn't make a lot of sense for you to be involved in this except for one reason: to make sure I stay out of their hair."
"Daniel and Andrew are negotiating your daughter's release from a kidnapper. What would you do if you'd gone with them?"
She shrugged. "Scratch Joseph's fucking eyes out."
"That's what Daniel figured. Better for you to stay here."
"And if I wanted to sneak off to the meeting, how were you going to stop me?"
"I'd probably beg."
She laughed.
"What do you know about Joseph?" Sam asked.
The smile vanished like water in parched dirt. "He's a monster, a sadist." She cast a glance at the CVS drugstore bag, inside which they could see a bloodstain, paled by the white plastic.
Sam noted it too. "Daniel told me about that. Unbelievable. Who'd do something like that?"
She closed her eyes momentarily, brow wrinkling. "Joseph's big and intimidating. A bully, a thug. But you know what's worse? He's got this weird side to him. Like his haircut. He has real thick, blond curly hair, and he greases it or something. It's eerie. He grins a lot. And he's got this, I don't know, this tone when he talks. You heard him on speakerphone. Taunting. Giddy."
"You know who he sounded like? That character from one of the Batman movies. Heath Ledger played him. Remember?"
"Yes, you're right. Exactly. The Joker."
Suddenly Gabriela's fists closed around the knitting, as if she was going to rip the piece apart. A moment passed and she seemed to deflate, head forward, shoulders sagging. "God, what a nightmare—this weekend." A pathetic smile bent her lips. "Two days ago I was a mother with a job I loved. I'd just met Daniel and, you know, things really clicked between us. And now? My daughter's been kidnapped. Daniel and your boss might be on their way to get shot. The police are after me and I've done some ... I've done some terrible things today. Oh, Christ ..."
She nodded toward the window. "And apparently Joseph isn't the only one to worry about. The goddamn October List? Why did it end up in my lap?"
"It'll work out," he said, though they both knew the reassurance was merely verbal filler.
After a moment she asked Sam, "Why would Daniel do all of this for me? Anybody else would've been long gone."
"Why? He's got an interest in what happens."
"What?"
"You."
"Me?"
Sam smiled. "He likes you. That's what he told me ... And told me not to tell you."
She pictured Daniel's close-cropped black hair, his square jaw, his dancing blue eyes.
The actor ...
She felt the rippling sensation, low in her belly. Had a memory of his lips on hers, his body close. His smells, his tastes. The moisture on his brow and on hers. "I like him too."
"Here's the thing," Sam said, sitting forward on the leather hassock. "No surprise: Daniel's good looking and he's rich and he's a nice guy. A lot of women see that and they think, Jackpot. But they don't care who he is, not inside. They don't connect. Daniel said you and he hit it off before you knew he had the boat and the fancy cars and the money."
"Yeah, our meeting was not the most romantic experience in the history of relationships." She gave Sam a careful gaze. "Okay, he likes me. But he's also doing this because of what happened in New Hampshire. Right?"
"He told you?" Sam seemed surprised.
"He did, yes. Sounded pretty bad."
A nod. "Oh, yeah. Changed his whole outlook on life. And, true, probably that is one of the reasons he's helping you. Kind of giving back for what happened. That was tough. You know, with his kids involved and all."
"Yes."
"Daniel doesn't tell everybody about New Hampshire. In fact, hardly anyone."
She stared at her knitting, the tangles of color. "God, it's so risky, what he and Andrew're doing. They downplayed it, but ..." She pulled her phone from the sweatshirt pouch, glanced at the screen, slipped it back.
"Anything?"
"Nothing." A sigh. She rose, walked to the bar and poured some red wine. Lifted her eyebrow. Sam nodded. She filled a glass for him and returned to the couch, handed it off. They sipped. No tap of glasses or toast, of course. Not now.
Gabriela sat and started to sip, but eased the wine away from her lips. She exhaled audibly.
"Are you all right?" Sam asked.
Frowning broadly, she was staring at a newspaper on the Alien coffee table. Scooting forward.
"My God," she said.
"What?"
She looked up, eyes wide as coins. "I know what it is."
He regarded her quizzically.
"The October List, Sam." She slid the New York Times his way. He walked forward and picked it up. She continued, "I know what it means! The clues were there all along. I just didn't put them together." In a low voice, "It's bad, Sam. What's going to happen is really bad."
But before she could say anything more there came a noise from the front hallway: a click, followed by the distinctive musical notes of the front door hinge, O–oh, high–low. Stale air moved.
Gabriela rose fast. Sam Easton, holding his wine in one hand and the newspaper in the other, turned to the hallway.
"Is my daughter all right?" she cried. "Please tell me! Is my daughter all right?"
A man entered the room quickly. But it wasn't Daniel Reardon or Andrew Faraday, returning from their mission to save her daughter.
Joseph wore a black jacket and gloves and yellow-tinted aviator glasses. His glistening golden curly hair dangled to mid-ear.
In his gloved hand he held a pistol whose muzzle ended in a squat, brushed-metal silencer.
"No!" Gabriela gasped, looking toward Sam.
After scanning the room quickly, Joseph turned toward them, lifting the gun in a way that seemed almost playful.
CHAPTER 2
5:50 P.M., SUNDAY 40 MINUTES EARLIER
The warehouse was just as he'd left it on Friday, when he'd been here making preparations.
Damp, brick walls covered with scabby light green paint, redolent of cleanser fumes and oil and pesticide and rust, lit by unkind fluorescents. One began flickering and Joseph rose from the table where he'd been sitting, took a mop from the corner, the strands molded into a mass, sideways, like windswept hair, and with the tip of the handle shattered the offending tubular bulb. There was nothing sturdy enough to stand on to remove it. Shards fell, dust too. The crackle was satisfying.
This building was similar to the one where he'd done his little surgery last night, the warehouse west of Times Square. Here, in SoHo, there was a demand for industrial spaces to turn into private residences—at astronomical sums, of course. This particular building would probably never be converted. There were no windows. Bad for resale to chic-minded lawyers and brokers. Good for Joseph's purposes, though. In fact, he could just make out a faint spatter of dark brown dots on the floor. Several months ago those discolorations had been bright red. The man had finally told Joseph what he wanted to know.
Solid brick walls. They absorbed the screams well.
Before returning to the chair, he walked to the heater panel, turned the unit up. Mold-scented air slipped out of the vents. Warmish. Still, he kept on his gloves—thin, flesh-colored cloth. Not for the comfort, though. Force of professional habit. Joseph recalled many times in the heat of summer when he'd worn gloves like these.
He sat once more, in the chair on whose back his leather jacket was draped. Pulling off his baseball cap and rubbing his thick golden ringlets, Joseph reached into the bag he'd brought with him and extracted the distinctive green box of Dom Pérignon champagne. He then removed from his pocket two mobile phones—his own iPhone, and the one lifted from the same apartment where he'd taken the boxed wine. His phone he set on the table. The other he scrolled through—clumsily because of the gloves—and noted the phone numbers and texts.
He set the Samsung down then stretched out his legs, checking the time. He wouldn't have long to wait. That was good. He was tense. You always were on edge at times like this. You had to be. He'd known plenty of men who'd relaxed when they shouldn't have. They were dead or changed for the worse, much worse.
But adrenaline got you only so far.
He glanced toward a door at the back of the warehouse, secured with a thick dead bolt. It led to a small storeroom. From beneath the door warm yellow light flowed. You could hear the Dora the Explorer DVD.
"Hey, Boots! Let's go over there!"
Joseph looked once more at the box containing the champagne. It was marred with a bloodstain on the side. Six dots in a row, like part of the Morse code for S- O-S. He knew the prestige of Dom Pérignon, though he'd never had any. This reminded him that he had a thirst. He rose and, walking stiffly from the chill, went to a cupboard in the corner of the warehouse, where he'd stashed a bottle of his Special Brew. He twisted off the cap and thirstily drank down nearly half of the contents. Felt the rush, felt the comfort.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The October List by Jeffery Deaver. Copyright © 2013 Jeffery Deaver. Excerpted by permission of Grand Central Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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