So Cole must entertain, for a moment, at least, the possibility that Noah truly did detect evidence of this crime in Cole’s very presence. His bearing, his mood. Perhaps, given who he is and where he’s been, Noah Turlington can detect the scent of murder the way a former smoker can smell a lit cigarette from a block away.
Or he made a wild guess.
If that’s the case, the length of time it’s taken Cole to respond has let Noah know he scored a direct hit. That’s for sure. Cole’s face is hot. He forces himself to maintain eye contact until Noah’s smile becomes cartoonish.
“Have a nice flight, Noah.” He starts walking toward the awaiting SUV. “And get to work.”
He makes them drive the Suburban out of the hangar before Noah’s boarded the jet. Then, once they’re a short distance away, he makes them pull over and park. That’s where they stay until the 737 taxis into the desert night, taillights winking against the dark curtain of mountains on the horizon. They wait until the plane charges down the runway and rises into the star-filled night sky.
It’s relief he feels when the plane banks and then vanishes from view. Contradictory, ironic relief, and, if examined too closely, it will fall apart. Out of sight, out of mind is a preposterous phrase to apply to Noah Turlington. The man’s done his worst while being both. But still, Cole feels like he’s finally banishing Noah, and both versions of Dylan, to a distant island prison where his mad genius will be channeled and contained.
Maybe the relief comes from somewhere else.
From the day he took the reins of his father’s company, Cole knew he’d one day take a life. His father had been preparing him for this since he was a young boy. True, most likely he’d do it in service of some noble, world-changing endeavor, but no matter the reason, Cole never thought he’d have to pull the trigger himself. And yet, in a way, he has. Which shouldn’t surprise him, either.
Eventually he’d have to kill. He’s known this his whole life.
Maybe he’s just relieved to finally have it out of the way.
43
The last thing he can remember is the satisfying sound of his tannery blowing skyward, followed by dark shadows leaping forward out of the wood like spirits released by the explosion. But while swift, their motions were purely human as they raced toward him with firelight at their backs. And they brought darkness with them. A darkness so total it hasn’t left him, even though a cascade of physical sensations is now alerting him to the fact that he’s suddenly awake.
His throat is raw and burning. Both of his nostrils are full of something rubbery. Fiery pinpricks run down both of his exposed arms. He has no real sense of where his body ends or begins, save for those parts of it that feel like they’ve been invaded by inanimate objects.
Then, very slowly, light appears. First, a vague halo, right in front of his vision. Then the halo begins to spread, like a time lapse of ice melting from a windowpane. He’s blinking what feels like layers of sand from his eyes. But he doesn’t feel any on his cheeks. His eyes are just terribly dry; that’s when he realizes he must have been out for some time.
He’s only been on a plane a few times in his life, but he has no trouble recognizing the low thrum of jet engines beneath him. Then a face appears just on the other side of the suddenly translucent glass. A face like Superman. Impossibly handsome, studying him with cheerful curiosity. The man’s eyes meet his. The man smiles.
“You and I,” the man shouts, just loud enough to be audible, “are going to have a lot of fun together, Richard.”
The glass starts to turn opaque again. But the impossibly handsome man keeps smiling. As the window shrinks, what he glimpsed of the man beyond the window gives him a sudden sense of space and perspective that makes him realize how confined he is. He’s not floating in some dreamlike space; he’s naked and stuck full of IV lines and trapped inside some vessel he doesn’t understand. Immobilized and helpless inside something that has the shape of a coffin. And that’s when he starts to scream.
Richard Davies screams until there’s a burning sensation inside one of the IV lines feeding into his arm. A sharp, acrid smell fills the mask covering his nose and mouth. He starts to lose consciousness, knows he’s no longer making a sound, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s already screaming in his dreams.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Liz Pearsons of Thomas & Mercer and Caitlin Alexander offered this book wonderful editorial direction, making the writing of Charlotte’s second adventure a supremely gratifying endeavor. Also, big thank-yous to my agents, Lynn Nesbit at Janklow & Nesbit and Elizabeth Newman at CAA, and my attorney, Christine Cuddy.
A huge thank-you to Dennelle Catlett with Thomas & Mercer publicity and the wonderful team at Little Bird, namely Sarah Burmingham and Claire McLaughlin. Kyla Pigoni and Gabrielle Guarnero are the best marketing team ever, and they also have great taste in macaroons. And, of course, Grace Doyle, Thomas & Mercer editorial director, who’s given her full support to this series from day one. Barbara Peters at Poisoned Pen in Scottsdale, Arizona, and Bea and Leah Koch at the Ripped Bodice in Los Angeles were both very supportive of the first book in this series, and I thank them for that.
For research help, a big thank-you to Kim Ullrich for putting me in touch with her brother, Jeff, who helped me navigate some of the complex science around tunnel engineering and construction. Also thanks to engineer Cory Haeder for providing additional resources. Any embellishments or errors relating to these topics belong to me alone and not these highly skilled experts.