circus, with hundreds of gawkers dressed like kids for Halloween. What a grotesque irony. Karin long believed in-or at least wished for-physical immortality, and now she lies
And in some other place-perhaps just as dark and lonely-a woman named Rosalind May is lying or standing or sitting tied in a chair, and the most any of us can do is pray there is breath in her lungs. The Mill Creek, Michigan, police have probably turned their city upside down, rousting every homeless drunk and sexual offender within their jurisdiction and coming up with zero. I remember Baxter telling me May had two grown sons. My mind conjures images of them trying to convince themselves that their mother eloped with a secret lover-or even that she was kidnapped by some money-hungry sleazoid-because to accept anything else is to accept that she is beyond mortal succor.
The dazed feeling of decompression sickness will not leave me. Last night, driving home from the Jackson airport, I felt a brief euphoria at successfully extricating myself from the clutches of the FBI. But have I really? Four days ago I disengaged from my normal life with a single phone call, and I have yet to reengage. It’s not for lack of trying. Earlier today-as soon as I saw that Patrick was gone-I sat down at my Gateway 2000 to check the status of my futures positions. The layer of dust that had accumulated on the keyboard in my absence told me the news would not be good, and it wasn’t. I was several thousand dollars down, and the trend was moving against me. Lenz’s suggestion about dumping my contracts looked much better from hindsight. My first thought was,
The mathematics of the situation are simple: one man and seven women are dead; one man killed them all. Rosalind May is missing, probably dead; the same man kidnapped her. The single known element common to all the crimes is EROS, which I know better than anyone on earth save Miles Turner. In some ways-in the human dimension-I may know it better than Miles. But at that point I stop thinking. Because to go further is to admit things I do not want to admit.
Returning from the kitchen with a chicken salad sandwich, I notice the message light blinking on my answering machine. Nine messages. I must have slept like the dead not to hear the phone ringing all day. Taking a bite of my sandwich, I stare at the digital readout, debating whether to play back the tape or just erase the damned thing.
Intuition is a strange thing. The red LED light is inanimate, yet it speaks to me with the urgency of the voices captured as magnetic particles inside that machine. I want to ignore it, but I can’t. Somewhere in the fluid circuits of my brain, a certainty has formed. Most of those voices will say little I wish to hear, but at least one will profoundly change my life. Or at least my perception of it. I’ll wait as long as I can to play them back.
Suddenly, like God laughing at me, the machine clicks and the
“Pick up the goddamn phone, Cole!”
Arthur Lenz. By now his voice rates up there with the shriek of my college alarm clock.
“Your friend Turner has flown the coop, so you’re next on the chopping block. You’d better listen to what I have to say.”
“I’m here,” I say, picking up.
“This isn’t Ed McMahon, my friend.”
“What did you say about Miles?”
“He’s gone AWOL. Slipped his leash.”
“What do you mean?”
“He walked out of EROS headquarters and never came back.”
“When?”
“About two hours ago.”
“How do you know he’s not coming back?”
“Trust me. He’s history.”
“That’s immaterial.”
“It is? I thought Baxter was going to arrest him.”
“You warned him, didn’t you, Cole?”
I don’t give Lenz the satisfaction of hearing me deny it.
“It doesn’t matter. A half hour ago Turner’s name went out on a nationwide police alert. He’ll be arrested the second he’s sighted. He’s been classified armed and dangerous.”
“What! You know Miles isn’t armed.”
“There’s a nine-millimeter pistol registered in his name in New Jersey. Did you know that?”
“I don’t know anything today, Cole. I tried to help you two, and against the advice of seasoned police officers. Now you’re just about on your own.”
“Just about? What does that mean?”
“It means you should listen closely.”
“I think Turner may run in your direction.”
I laugh out loud. “If that’s what you think, you’re never going to catch him. He’d go to jail before he’d come back to Mississippi. To him it’s the same thing.”
“And he knows I believe that, which is precisely why I think he might do it. Turner’s no fool.”
“I’m still listening.”
“The situation is fluid now. You’re going to notice some surveillance around your house.”
“What? Damn it, you said you were taking care of the harassment.”
“There’s only so much I can do. Daniel must be able to tell the police component of the investigation that he’s watching you. It’ll be local law enforcement.”
“Great. Our felonious sheriff who can’t legally carry a gun?”
“No. Your farm is on the line between Cairo and Yazoo counties, so Baxter chose Yazoo. Still, I have my doubts about local cops being able to handle Turner.”
“If he did show up, they wouldn’t have much trouble spotting him. Miles would be the only guy within sixty miles wearing all black, long hair, and any jewelry besides a ring.”
“You know better than that, Cole.”
“I still think you’re nuts. If I were you, I’d watch the airports in nonextradition islands like Tenerife.”
Lenz hesitates. “How do you know about Tenerife?”
“Christ, you’re paranoid. I read, okay? And so does Miles.”
“Does he have money?”
“You’d know more about that than I would.”
The psychiatrist is silent for several moments. “Here’s the deal, Cole. If Turner contacts you-especially if he shows up at your door-you call me first, then stall him until someone arrives to pick him up.”
“Sorry. You’re asking too much. As far as I know, you have zero evidence that Miles has committed any crime.”
“We have a warrant for his arrest.”
“On what charge?”
“Obstruction of justice.”
“Fine. Just don’t expect me to do your work for you.”
“I think you’re forgetting the leverage I hold over you,” Lenz says, his voice tight.
“So much for patient confidentiality, eh?”
“Damn it, can’t you see what’s at stake here?”
“Your career?”
“Rosalind May’s life!”
“I think Rosalind May is dead, Doctor. So do you. And you can bet your last buck that if you reveal anything I
