The Vanished Man (Lincoln Rhyme 5)

"Oh, she's fine, girl. But I wanted to tell you--don't get your hopes up. It might be nothin'. But a few minutes ago she woke up and asked for you. She knows it's Sunday night and she remembered you coming by earlier."

"You mean, 'me,' the real me?"

"Yep, your real name. Then she gave this little frown and said, 'Unless all she goes by is that crazy stage name of hers, Kara.' "

My God. . . . Could she be back?

"And she knew me and she asked where you were. Said she wanted to tell you something."

Kara's heart accelerated.

Tell me something . . .

"Better get over here soon, honey. Might last. But it might not. You know how that goes."

"I'm in the middle of something, Jaynene. I'll get there as soon as I can."

They hung up and, frantic, Kara returned to her seat. The tension was unbearable. Right this instant her mother might be asking where her daughter was. Frowning and disappointed that the girl wasn't there.

Please, she prayed, looking again toward the doorway for Kadesky.

Nothing.

Wishing she could tap a hickory magic wand on the battered metal railing in front of her, point it at the doorway and materialize the producer.

Please, she thought again, aiming the imaginary wand toward the doorway. Please . . .

Nothing for a moment. Then several figures entered. None of them was Kadesky, though. They were just three women dressed in medieval costumes and wearing masks whose forlorn expressions were belied by the buoyant spring in the step of actors about to begin their evening's performance.

*

Roland Bell was standing in one of the canyons of downtown Manhattan: Centre Street between the grimy, towering Criminal Courts building, crowned by the Bridge of Sighs, and the nondescript office building across the street from it.

Still no sign of Charles Grady's Volvo.

The lighthouse rotation once again. Where, where, where?

A honk nearby, in the direction of the entrance to the bridge. A shout.

Bell turned and jogged a few steps toward the sounds, wondering: Misdirection?

But, no, it was just a traffic dispute.

He turned back, toward the entrance to the Criminal Courts building, and found himself looking right at Charles Grady, who was strolling casually up the street, a block away. The prosecutor was walking with his head down, lost in his thoughts. The detective sprinted toward the man, calling, "Charles! Get down! Weir's escaped!"

Grady paused, frowning.

"Down!" Bell called breathlessly.

The alarmed man crouched on the sidewalk, between two parked cars. "What happened?" he shouted. "My family!"

"I've got people with them," the detective said. Then, to the pedestrians: "Everybody! Police action here! Clear the street!"

People scattered instantly.

"My family!" Grady called desperately. "You're sure?"

"They're fine."