But it did not connect. His fingers were flailing until they finally grabbed something. It took him a second to realize it was not hair. Out of the corner of his eye he could see what he was holding: he had removed the gunman’s mask.
Suddenly the grip was loosened. Pugachov slumped, panting heavily. He was no longer the fit, fighting machine of his youth; that stint of military duty in Afghanistan was in the faraway past. Perhaps the masked man had realized that; maybe he understood that Pugachov could inflict no serious damage and was about to let him go.
‘I’m afraid you’ve just made a big mistake, my friend.’
Pugachov looked up to see a much younger man than he was expecting. Now that the mask was off, he could see that his eyes were of the most exceptional blue, almost feminine in their beauty. They seemed to cast beams of sharp, bright light.
He did not have long to stare into them because his view was soon obscured – by the mouth of what he recognized to be a silencer, aimed right between his eyes.
Sunday, 4.14am, Sag Harbor, New York
TC was staring at Will, stock still. The sound was too regular to be the music of an old house, the creaking of aged timber. There was no doubt about it: these were footsteps. Will grabbed the heaviest poker he could find from the fireplace, placed his finger over his lips to hush TC and edged out of the study.
He crept down the corridor, towards the kitchen. The sound seemed to have moved there. As he got closer, he could hear a rustling, as if the intruder was rifling through papers. He inched closer, until he could see the shadow of a tall man. His heart was pounding; his throat was parched.
In a single movement, Will swung around the corner, lifted the poker above his head—
‘Christ, Will! What the hell are you doing?’
‘Dad!’
‘Will, you scared me out of my wits. I thought someone had broken in. Jesus.’ Monroe Sr, clad in striped pyjamas, collapsed into a chair, clutching at his chest.
‘But Dad, I didn’t—’
‘Hold on, Will. Give me a second to catch my breath here. Hold on.’
When Will called out to TC, his father’s bewilderment was complete. ‘What on earth is going on here?’
Will did the best he could, talking his father through the events of the last few hours: the text messages, Proverbs 10, the visit to the office, the stalker, the dash for Penn Station. He listened patiently, nursing the hot tea TC had made for him, the great judge now a Dad.
‘I should have told you I was here. I came yesterday evening. I hadn’t heard from you and I was climbing the walls with worry. I thought it might help to hear the ocean, breathe in the sea air. Beth is your wife, Will, but she’s also my daughter-in-law. She’s family.’ He glanced towards TC, whose face turned hot.
‘I’m sorry we woke you,’ she said, as if trying to change the subject. Then, yawning, ‘I could really use some sleep.’
‘Motion granted. Will, the garden room is made up.’
That peeved Will. Was his father giving his son an order, instructing him that he must sleep separately from TC – as if suspecting that, left to their own devices, they would share a bed? Did his father really believe that Will was cheating on the daughter-in-law he loved so dearly?
Perhaps his father suspected something much darker. Was it even possible? Could he imagine his son had somehow engineered this whole episode as a way to get back with his ex? Will realized how economical with information he had been, barely letting his father in on the quest for Beth. How insistent he had been that the police remain uninvolved. It had been nearly thirty years since Will Monroe Sr had practised criminal law – but he would have forgotten none of it.
What was worse, Will knew he could feel no righteous indignation. After all, a matter of hours earlier he had pressed his lips to TC’s, their eyes closed, in a kiss. And not a fleeting brush either; it had been a real kiss.
He was too exhausted to say any more. He surrendered mutely to his father and headed upstairs, joining TC who was waiting for him on the landing. The way she stood, as if she were hiding herself, suggested she felt it, too: the suspicion radiating from his father and the guilty admission that it was not entirely groundless.
Sunday, 12.33am, Manhattan
‘Good work, young man. And your enthusiasm is a joy to me, it really is.’ The voice was clear and distinct, even on the telephone. ‘No, your best move now is to hang back. I’m not worried about Sag Harbor. That’s not going to be a problem. We need you there, in the city.’
‘So where do you want me to post myself, sir?’
‘Well. They’re not going to stay in Long Island long, are they? He’s going to have to come back. And that means Penn Station. Why don’t we make sure you’re there to greet him?’
Sunday, 9.13am, Sag Harbor, New York
He had left his phone on and placed it right by his ear. But his exhaustion was so deep, the short trill of a newly arrived message barely woke him. Instead, it insinuated itself into his dream. He was putting the key in the lock of his front door; he walked in to find Beth standing in the kitchen, clasping a child to her waist. She seemed fierce, as if she was protecting this little boy – or girl, Will could not tell – from an intruder about to do terrible harm. Get back, her eyes seemed to say. She looked wild; feral. Oh I see, thought the Will of the dream. That’s Child X. And, right on cue, as if heralding this realization, a bell started to toll . . .
Like a winch pulling a diver up to the surface, his conscious brain dredged him up and out of sleep. Reflexively, he grabbed the phone and brought it to his face.
1 new message
fOrtY
He leapt out of bed and marched down the corridor to TC’s room, one of the few denied a view of the ocean, backing onto a large, English-style garden instead. The sun was streaming into the hallway, accompanied by the sound of the waves. There was no getting away from it: his father had chosen a gorgeous spot.
His father. Only now did Will remember their night-time encounter. He had very nearly bludgeoned his dad. He might have killed him. But there was no time to dwell on that.
‘OK,’ he said, once he had shaken TC awake and she was propped up on one of the dozen or so pillows his father’s housekeeper routinely provided for each bed. ‘There’s another one. Forty.’ He was holding up the phone.
‘Forty messages?’ she croaked, eking the sleep out of one eye.
‘No. That’s the message. Look.’
‘Why’s he written it so weirdly?’
‘I don’t know. Get cracking on that, can you? I have a phone call to make.’
He
