The Skin Collector (Lincoln Rhyme 11)

e delivering the news.

Fine with her. She was still angry and wasn't sure she could ever wholly forgive Amelia for trying to break up her relationship with her soul mate.

In the living room Seth pulled off his jacket and they dropped onto the couch. He cradled her head and pulled her close.

'You want anything?' she asked. 'Coffee? I've got some champagne or, I don't know, bubbly wine. I've had it for a year. It's probably still good.'

'Sure, coffee, tea. Anything warm.' But before she rose Seth took her by the arm and studied her carefully, looking her over with a face of both relief and concern. 'You all right?'

'I am. How about you? You're the one who was going to get a tattoo from that crazy guy.'

Seth shrugged.

She could see he was troubled. She couldn't imagine what it had been like to be pinned down like that, knowing you were about to be killed. And killed so painfully. The news reported that the poisons the killer had used were picked because of their agonizing symptoms. At least he didn't seem to blame her for the attack any longer. She'd been cut deeply to see him pulling away afterward. Walking away from her, not looking back ... that was almost more than she could stand.

But he'd forgiven her. That was all in the past.

Pam walked into the kitchen and put water on to boil, readied the drip coffee-maker.

He called, 'And what exactly did happen? You talk to Lincoln?'

'Oh.' She stepped into the doorway. Her face was grave and she brushed her static-clinging hair from her face, twined it into a rope and let it fall on her back. 'It was terrible. That guy? Who attacked you? He wasn't a psycho at all. He'd come here to poison the water supply in New York.'

'Shit! That was it? I heard something about water.'

'One of those militia groups, like my mother was in.' She gave a wry smile. 'Lincoln thought that the killer was obsessed with the Bone Collector. But, get this, it wasn't that at all; he was interested in the attack my mother planned here years ago. He was trying to figure out how Lincoln and Amelia would conduct an investigation. Oh, he wasn't very happy he missed that. Lincoln, I mean. He gets pretty mad when he makes mistakes.'

The kettle whistled and Pam ducked back into the kitchen and poured the boiling water into the cone. The crisp sound was comforting. She fixed his the way he liked it - two sugars and one dash of half-and-half. She drank hers black.

Pam brought the cups out and sat beside him. Their knees touched.

Seth asked, 'Who were they exactly?'

She tried to recall. 'They were with, what was it called? The American Family Council. Something like that. Doesn't sound like a militia.' Pam laughed. 'Maybe they had a public relations team work on their image.'

Seth smiled. 'You ever hear of them when you and your mom were hiding out in Larchwood?'

'Don't think so. Lincoln said the people doing this were from Southern Illinois. It wasn't far away from where my mother and I were. And I remember my mother and stepfather would meet with people from the other militias sometimes but I never paid any attention. I hated them all. Hated them so much.' Her voice faded.

'But the tattoo guy, the killer, he's dead and the others got arrested.'

'Right. A husband and wife and their son. They still don't know who the guy in the tunnel was, who was killed. The tattoo artist.'

'You're still not talking to Amelia?'

'No,' she said. 'I'm not.'

'For now.'

'For a long time,' Pam said firmly.

'She doesn't like me.'

'No! That's not it. She's just protective. She thinks I'm this fragile doll. I don't know. Jesus.'

Seth put down the coffee. 'Okay if we talk about something serious?'

'Sure, I guess.'