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[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] those fine summer days of my youth, when I became a reasonably good swimmer. Now, Sampson and I floated on the calm surface, out about a hundred yards or so from shore. The sky above was the deepest shade of evening blue, sparkling with countless stars. I could see the curving white sand of the beach as it stretched several miles in either direction. Palm and casuarina trees shimmied in the sea breeze. I felt devastated, totally overwhelmed as I floated on the sea. I kept seeing Christine with my eyes open or closed. I couldn t believe she was gone. I teared up as I thought about what had happened, the unfairness of life sometimes. You want to talk about the investigation? My thoughts so far? Little things I learned today? Or give it a rest for the night? Sampson asked me as we floated peacefully on our backs. Talk? Or quiet time? Talk, I guess. I can t think about anything else except Christine. I can t think straight. Say whatever you re thinking. Something bothering you in particular? Little thing, but maybe it s important. I didn t say anything. I just let him go on. What puzzles me is the first newspaper stories. Sampson paused and then continued. Busby says he didn t talk to anybody the first night. Not a single person, he claims, you didn t either. Story was in the morning edition, though. It s a small island, John. I told you that and you ve seen it yourself. But Sampson kept at it, and I began to think that maybe there was something in it. Listen, Alex, only you, Inspector Busby, and whoever took Christine knew. He called it in to the paper. The kidnapper did it himself. I talked to the girl at the paper who got the call. She wouldn t say anything yesterday, but she finally told me late today. She thought it was just a concerned citizen calling. I think somebody s playing with your head, Alex. Somebody s running a nasty game on you. We have her. A game? What kind of nasty game? Who were the players? Was one of them the Page 76 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html Weasel? Was it possible that he was still here in Bermuda? Chapter Forty-Eight I couldn t sleep back at the hotel. I still couldn t concentrate or focus and it was incredibly frustrating. It was as if I were losing my mind. A game? No, this wasn t a game. This was shock and horror. This was a living nighI mare beyond anything I had ever experienced. Who could have done this to Christine? Why? Who was the Weasel? Every time I closed my eyes, tried to sleep, I could see Christine s face, see her waving goodbye that final time on the Middle Road, see her walking through the hotel gardens with flowers in her hair. I could hear Christine s voice all through the night -and then it was morning again. My guilt over what had happened to her had doubled, tripled. Sampson and I continued to canvass Middle Road, Harbour Road, South Road. Every person we spoke to in the police and military believed that Christine didn t simply disappear on the island. Sampson and I heard the same song and dance every day for a week. No one -shopkeepers, taxi or bus drivers - had seen her in Hamilton or St George, so it was possible that she d never arrived in either town that afternoon. No one, not one witness remembered seeing her moped on the Middle or Harbour Roads, so maybe she never even got that far. Most disturbing of all was that there hadn t been any further communication to me about her since the e-mail on the night she d disappeared. The e-mail address was fake. Whoever had contacted me was a skillful hacker able to conceal their identity. The words I d seen that night were always on my mind. She s safe for now. We have her. Who was we ? And why wasn t there any further contact? What did they want from me? Did they know that they were driving me insane? Was that what they wanted to do? Did the Weasel represent more killers than one? Suddenly that made a lot of sense to me. Sampson returned to Washington on Sunday, and he took Nana and the kids with him. They didn t want to leave without me, but it was time for them to go. I couldn t make myself leave Bermuda yet. It would have felt as if I were abandoning Christine. On Sunday night, Inspector Busby showed up at the Belmont Hotel around nine. He asked me to ride with him out past Southampton, about a six-mile drive that he said would take us twenty minutes or more. Bermudians measure distance in a straight line, but all the roads run in wiggles and half-circles, so it always takes longer to travel than you would think. What is it, Patrick? What s out in Southampton? I asked as we rode along Middle Road. My heart was in my throat. He was scaring me with his silence. Page 77 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html We haven t found Ms. Johnson. However, a man may have witnessed the abduction. I want you to hear his story. You decide for yourself. You re the big city detective, not me. You can ask whatever questions you like. Off the record, of course. The man s name was Perri Graham, and he was staying in a room at the Port Royal Golf club. We met him at his tiny apartment in the staff quarters. He [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |