The Cold Moon (Lincoln Rhyme 7)

Vincent, on the other hand, felt the hunger unraveling within him. He ate a candy bar, then another.

Fuck the great scheme of things. I need a girl. . . .

Duncan took out his gold pocket watch and looked at it, gently wound the stem.

Vincent had seen the watch a few times but he was always impressed with the piece. Duncan had explained that it was made by Breguet, a French watchmaker who lived a long time ago ("in my opinion the finest who ever lived").

The watch was simple. It had a white face, Roman numerals and some small dials that showed the phases of the moon and was a perpetual calendar. It also had a "parachute," an antishock system in it, Duncan explained. Breguet's own invention.

Vincent now asked him, "How old is it, your watch?"

"It was made in the year twelve."

"Twelve? Like in Roman times?"

Duncan smiled. "No, sorry. That's the date on the original bill of sale, so that's what I think of as the year of manufacture. I mean the year twelve in the French revolutionary calendar. After the monarchy fell, the republic declared a new calendar, starting in seventeen ninety-two. It was a curious concept. The weeks had ten days, and each month had thirty. Every six years was a leap year devoted exclusively to sports. For some reason, the government thought the calendar would be more egalitarian than the traditional one. But it was too unwieldy. It only lasted fourteen years. Like a lot of revolutionary ideas--they seem good on paper but they're not very practical."

Duncan studied the golden disk with affection. "I like watches from that era. Back then a watch was power. Not many people could afford one. The owner of a watch was a man who controlled time. You came to him and you waited until the time he'd set for the meeting. Chains and fobs were invented so that even when a man carried a watch in his pocket, you still could see he owned one. Watchmakers were gods in those days." Duncan paused. "I was speaking figuratively, but in a way it's true."

Vincent cocked an eyebrow.

"There was a philosophical movement in the eighteenth century that used the watch as a metaphor. It held that God created the mechanism of the universe, then wound it up and started it running. Sort of a perpetual clock. God was called the 'Great Watchmaker.' Whether you believe it or not, the philosophy had a lot of followers. It gave watchmakers an almost priestlike status."

Another glance at the Breguet. He put it away. "We should go," Duncan said, nodding at the women. "They'll be leaving soon."

He put the car in gear, signaled and pulled into the street, leaving behind their victim, about to lose her life to one man and, soon after, her dignity to another. They couldn't take her tonight, though, because Duncan had learned that she had a husband who worked odd hours and could be home at any moment.

Vincent was breathing deeply, trying to keep the hunger at bay. He ate a pack of chips. He asked, "How are you going to do it? Kill her, I mean."

Duncan was silent for a few moments. "You asked me a question earlier. About how long it took the first two victims to die."

Vincent nodded.

"Well, it's going to take Lucy a long time." Although they'd lost the book on torture, Duncan had apparently memorized much of it. He now described the technique he'd use to murder her. It was called water boarding. You suspend the victim on her back with her feet up. Then you tape her mouth shut and pour water up her nose. You can take as long as you like to kill the person if you give her air from time to time.

"I'm going to try to keep her going for a half hour. Or forty minutes, if I can."

"She deserves it, hm?" Vincent asked.

Duncan paused. "The question you're really asking is why am I killing these particular people."

"Well . . ." It was true.

"I've never told you."

"No, you haven't."

Trust is nearly as precious as time. . . .

Duncan glanced at Vincent then back to the street. "You know, we're all on earth for a certain period of time. Maybe only days or months. Many years, we hope."

"Right."

"It's as if God--or whatever you believe in--has a huge list of everybody on earth. When the hands of His clock hit a certain time, that's it. They're gone. . . . Well, I have my own list."

"Ten people."

"Ten people. . . . The difference is that God doesn't have any good reason for killing them. I do."