The Twelfth Card (Lincoln Rhyme 6)

Mr. Bell stood in the doorway of her room and looked over her bed, which was covered with schoolbooks and papers.

"My, I must say you do work hard."

Geneva shrugged.

"I'm going home to my boys now."

"You have sons?"

"That I do. Two of 'em. Maybe you'll meet them someday. If you'd like."

"Sure," she said. Thinking: That'll never happen. "Are they at home with your wife?"

"They're at their grandfolks right now. I was married but she passed on."

These words flicked Geneva's heart. She could see pure pain behind them--in the way, oddly enough, that his expression didn't change as he spoke them. It was like he practiced saying this to people and not crying. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, that was some years ago."

She nodded. "Where's Officer Pulaski?"

"He's gone home. He's got a daughter. And his wife's expecting."

"Boy or girl?" Geneva asked.

"I honestly couldn't tell you. He'll be back tomorrow early. We can ask him then. Your uncle's in the next room and Miss Lynch'll be staying here tonight."

"Barbe?"

"Yes'm."

"She's nice. She was telling me about some of the dogs she owns. And about some of the new TV shows." Geneva nodded down at her books. "I don't have much time for TV."

Detective Bell laughed. "My boys could use a bit of your influence, miss. I will sure as rain get y'all together. Now, you shout out for Barbe, any reason you want." He hesitated. "Even you have a bad dream. I know it's tough sometimes, your parents not home."

"I do fine being alone," she said.

"I don't doubt it. Still, holler if you need to. That's what we're here for." He walked to the window, peeked out through the curtains, made sure the window was locked and let the drapes fall back. " 'Night, miss. Don't you worry. We'll catch ourselves this fellow. Only a matter of time. There's nobody better than Mr. Rhyme and the people he's got working with him."

" 'Night." Glad he was leaving. Maybe he meant well but Geneva hated to be treated like a child as much as she hated to be reminded of this terrible situation. She cleared her books off the bed and stacked them neatly by the door so that if she had to leave fast she could find them in the dark and take them with her. She did this every night.

She now reached into her purse and found the dried violet that that illusionist woman, Kara, had given her. She looked at it for a long moment then put it carefully into the book that was on the top of the stack and closed the cover.

A fast trip to the bathroom, where she cleaned the pearl-colored basin after washing up and brushing her teeth. She laughed to herself, thinking of the unholy mess that was Keesh's john. In the hallway Barbe Lynch said good night to her. Back in the bedroom, Geneva locked the door, then hesitated and, feeling foolish, propped the desk chair under the knob. She undressed and pulled on shorts and a faded T-shirt and got back into bed. She shut the light out and lay on her back, anxious and frenzied, for twenty minutes, thinking of her mother, then her father, then Keesh.

Kevin Cheaney's image made an entrance; she shoved it angrily away.

Then her thoughts ended up on her ancestor, Charles Singleton.

Running, running, running . . .

The leap into the Hudson.

Thinking of his secret. What was so important that he'd risk everything to keep it hidden?

Thinking of the love he had for his wife, his son.

But the terrible man from the li