Read Online Break Point: BookShots by James Patterson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Patterson
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been proud.
Keller wiped her face with her wristband as she approached the fans hanging over the green hoardings, waiting for a chance for an autograph. A forest of hands reached out as she came near. They held out oversized tennis balls and programmes to sign. She grabbed at what they gave quickly and mechanically, wanting to please as many people as she could before her muscles started to tighten. A hand thrust through the crowd, close to hers. More insistent than the others. As she reached out instinctively, she felt something drop into her outstretched palm. Her blood froze as she looked down. It was a delicate silver chain. The last time she had seen it was around Maria Rosario’s neck. She looked up in horror, trying to identify Rosario’s killer in the tangle of human flesh. But the hand slipped back into the crowd like a recoiling serpent and vanished from sight.
Seeking out the face in the crowd, for a second she caught the briefest glance of two eyes glinting malevolently at her. They were angry and bitter; dark pools of hate and unbridled rage. She turned, panicking, searching for Foster as more fans crowded in for autographs. Her stomach twisted, not from the fear, but from the sudden and complete understanding that someone had killed Maria and that somehow it was all because of her. A guilt she couldn’t rationalise flooded through her and synapses fired in her brain, trying to comprehend what she might have done to cause this man to hate her. Who could hate her enough to kill her friend?
She searched the faces of the crowd again, but the malevolent eyes were gone, and although she saw the back of a man break from the pressing crowd and slip through a nearby exit, it could have been anyone.
CHAPTER 20
FOSTER GUIDED KIRSTEN Keller quickly up the glass-and-steel stairs that led to Wimbledon’s Press Room.
‘You can shower back at the hotel,’ he told her. ‘Until then, we stay together.’
They were walking shoulder-to-shoulder, Keller vibrant and alert after winning her match, Foster vigilant and attentive, as Abbot followed two steps behind.
‘He’s getting closer,’ Keller said. ‘So why hasn’t he attacked me?’
‘He’s biding his time and getting a kick out of scaring you,’ Foster said. ‘The question is: how long will he wait?’
At the top of the stairs they reached a security door. Foster knocked firmly and a few seconds later a nervous-looking runner appeared. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt, with a headset hanging around his neck. He had the air of a man who was drowning. He stared at Foster’s looming frame with a mixture of annoyance and alarm and was about to speak, when he saw Kirsten Keller next to him.
‘Oh, Christ!’ he said. ‘Did we book you? I don’t think we’re expecting you …’
His voice tailed off as he started thumbing through reams of running orders on his clipboard.
‘She’s not scheduled,’ Foster said, ‘but I’m guessing you’d like to interview her?’
‘God, yes.’
‘I need to see your recordings of today’s match,’ Foster said. ‘Specifically the moments immediately after the match, when Kirsten was signing autographs. You give me that, and Kirsten will give you three minutes on air. Can you do it?’
The runner stuck his headphones over his ears and spoke into the microphone. He glanced at Keller a couple of times, and after a moment he looked back at Foster and said, ‘Five minutes – and you’ve got a deal.’
‘Three minutes,’ Foster said. ‘And every second you negotiate is a second less on air.’
The young runner’s eyes widened slightly and he relayed the message to his producer, as he beckoned them through the doors. The wall immediately in front of them was completely covered in flat screens showing different courts and different players, with the same verdant turf wallpapering every shot. The screens were angled inwards at the top and the bottom, giving the impression that they were inside a giant goldfish
Keller wiped her face with her wristband as she approached the fans hanging over the green hoardings, waiting for a chance for an autograph. A forest of hands reached out as she came near. They held out oversized tennis balls and programmes to sign. She grabbed at what they gave quickly and mechanically, wanting to please as many people as she could before her muscles started to tighten. A hand thrust through the crowd, close to hers. More insistent than the others. As she reached out instinctively, she felt something drop into her outstretched palm. Her blood froze as she looked down. It was a delicate silver chain. The last time she had seen it was around Maria Rosario’s neck. She looked up in horror, trying to identify Rosario’s killer in the tangle of human flesh. But the hand slipped back into the crowd like a recoiling serpent and vanished from sight.
Seeking out the face in the crowd, for a second she caught the briefest glance of two eyes glinting malevolently at her. They were angry and bitter; dark pools of hate and unbridled rage. She turned, panicking, searching for Foster as more fans crowded in for autographs. Her stomach twisted, not from the fear, but from the sudden and complete understanding that someone had killed Maria and that somehow it was all because of her. A guilt she couldn’t rationalise flooded through her and synapses fired in her brain, trying to comprehend what she might have done to cause this man to hate her. Who could hate her enough to kill her friend?
She searched the faces of the crowd again, but the malevolent eyes were gone, and although she saw the back of a man break from the pressing crowd and slip through a nearby exit, it could have been anyone.
CHAPTER 20
FOSTER GUIDED KIRSTEN Keller quickly up the glass-and-steel stairs that led to Wimbledon’s Press Room.
‘You can shower back at the hotel,’ he told her. ‘Until then, we stay together.’
They were walking shoulder-to-shoulder, Keller vibrant and alert after winning her match, Foster vigilant and attentive, as Abbot followed two steps behind.
‘He’s getting closer,’ Keller said. ‘So why hasn’t he attacked me?’
‘He’s biding his time and getting a kick out of scaring you,’ Foster said. ‘The question is: how long will he wait?’
At the top of the stairs they reached a security door. Foster knocked firmly and a few seconds later a nervous-looking runner appeared. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt, with a headset hanging around his neck. He had the air of a man who was drowning. He stared at Foster’s looming frame with a mixture of annoyance and alarm and was about to speak, when he saw Kirsten Keller next to him.
‘Oh, Christ!’ he said. ‘Did we book you? I don’t think we’re expecting you …’
His voice tailed off as he started thumbing through reams of running orders on his clipboard.
‘She’s not scheduled,’ Foster said, ‘but I’m guessing you’d like to interview her?’
‘God, yes.’
‘I need to see your recordings of today’s match,’ Foster said. ‘Specifically the moments immediately after the match, when Kirsten was signing autographs. You give me that, and Kirsten will give you three minutes on air. Can you do it?’
The runner stuck his headphones over his ears and spoke into the microphone. He glanced at Keller a couple of times, and after a moment he looked back at Foster and said, ‘Five minutes – and you’ve got a deal.’
‘Three minutes,’ Foster said. ‘And every second you negotiate is a second less on air.’
The young runner’s eyes widened slightly and he relayed the message to his producer, as he beckoned them through the doors. The wall immediately in front of them was completely covered in flat screens showing different courts and different players, with the same verdant turf wallpapering every shot. The screens were angled inwards at the top and the bottom, giving the impression that they were inside a giant goldfish
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