Read Online The 6th Target by James Patterson, Maxine Paetro - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Patterson, Maxine Paetro
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she began to play a piece of classical music I didn’t recognize, but it was complicated and the child didn’t seem to make any mistakes.
She finished the piece with a flourish, stretching her arms as far as they could go down the keyboard, releasing the last notes to loud bravos and rousing applause.
Madison turned and said to the audience, “I’ll be able to do much better when my arms grow.”
Fond laughter bubbled over the speakers, and a boy of about nine came out from the wings and gave her a bouquet.
“Have the parents gotten a call?” I asked, tearing my eyes from the video of Madison Tyler.
“It’s still early, but no, they haven’t heard anything from anyone,” said Jacobi. “Not a single word. Nothing about a ransom so far.”
Chapter 31
CINDY THOMAS WAS WORKING from the home office she’d set up in the small second bedroom of her new apartment. CNN was providing ambient sound as she typed, immersed in the story she was writing about Alfred Brinkley’s upcoming trial. She thought of not answering the phone when it rang next to her elbow.
Then she glanced at the caller ID — and grabbed the phone off the hook.
“Mr. Tyler?”
she said.
Henry Tyler’s voice was eerily hollow, nearly unrecognizable. She almost thought he was playing a joke, but that wasn’t his style.
Listening hard, gasping and saying, “
No . . . oh, no
,” she tried hard to understand the man who was crying, losing his thoughts, and having to ask Cindy what he’d been saying.
“She was wearing a blue coat,” Cindy prompted.
“That’s right. A dark-blue coat, red sweater, blue pants, red shoes.”
“You’ll have copy in an hour,” Cindy said, “and by then you’ll have heard from those bastards saying how much you have to pay to get Maddy back. You
will
get her back.”
Cindy said good-bye to the
Chronicle
’s associate publisher, put down the receiver, and sat still for a moment, gripping the armrests, reeling from a sickening feeling of fear. She’d covered enough kidnappings to know that if the child wasn’t found today, the chances of finding her alive dropped by about half. It would drop by half again if she wasn’t found tomorrow.
She thought back to the last time she’d seen Madison, at the beginning of the summer when the little girl had come to the office with her father.
For about twenty minutes Madison had twirled around in the chair across from Cindy’s desk, scribbling on a steno pad, pretending that she was a reporter who was interviewing Cindy about her job.
“Why is it called a ‘
dead
line’? Do you ever get afraid when you’re writing about bad guys? What’s the dumbest story you ever wrote?”
Maddy was a delightful kid, funny and unspoiled, and Cindy had felt aggrieved when Tyler’s secretary had returned, saying, “Come on, Madison. Miss Thomas has work to do.”
Cindy had impetuously kissed the child on the cheek, saying, “You’re as cute as
ten
buttons, you know that?”
And Madison had flung her arms around her neck and returned the kiss.
“See you in the funny papers,” Cindy had called after her, and Madison Tyler had spun around, grinning. “That’s where I’ll be!”
Now Cindy turned her eyes to her blank computer screen, paralyzed with thoughts of Madison being held captive by people who didn’t love her, wondering if the girl was tied up inside a car trunk, if she’d been sexually molested, if she was already dead.
Cindy opened a new file on her computer and, after a few false starts, felt the story unspool under her fingers. “
The five-year-old daughter of
Chronicle
associate publisher Henry Tyler was abducted this morning only blocks from her house. . .
.”
She heard Henry Tyler in her head, his voice choked with misery: “Write the story, Cindy. And pray to God we’ll have Madison back before we run it.”
Chapter 32
YUKI CASTELLANO SAT three rows back in the gallery of Superior Court 22, waiting for the clerk to call the
She finished the piece with a flourish, stretching her arms as far as they could go down the keyboard, releasing the last notes to loud bravos and rousing applause.
Madison turned and said to the audience, “I’ll be able to do much better when my arms grow.”
Fond laughter bubbled over the speakers, and a boy of about nine came out from the wings and gave her a bouquet.
“Have the parents gotten a call?” I asked, tearing my eyes from the video of Madison Tyler.
“It’s still early, but no, they haven’t heard anything from anyone,” said Jacobi. “Not a single word. Nothing about a ransom so far.”
Chapter 31
CINDY THOMAS WAS WORKING from the home office she’d set up in the small second bedroom of her new apartment. CNN was providing ambient sound as she typed, immersed in the story she was writing about Alfred Brinkley’s upcoming trial. She thought of not answering the phone when it rang next to her elbow.
Then she glanced at the caller ID — and grabbed the phone off the hook.
“Mr. Tyler?”
she said.
Henry Tyler’s voice was eerily hollow, nearly unrecognizable. She almost thought he was playing a joke, but that wasn’t his style.
Listening hard, gasping and saying, “
No . . . oh, no
,” she tried hard to understand the man who was crying, losing his thoughts, and having to ask Cindy what he’d been saying.
“She was wearing a blue coat,” Cindy prompted.
“That’s right. A dark-blue coat, red sweater, blue pants, red shoes.”
“You’ll have copy in an hour,” Cindy said, “and by then you’ll have heard from those bastards saying how much you have to pay to get Maddy back. You
will
get her back.”
Cindy said good-bye to the
Chronicle
’s associate publisher, put down the receiver, and sat still for a moment, gripping the armrests, reeling from a sickening feeling of fear. She’d covered enough kidnappings to know that if the child wasn’t found today, the chances of finding her alive dropped by about half. It would drop by half again if she wasn’t found tomorrow.
She thought back to the last time she’d seen Madison, at the beginning of the summer when the little girl had come to the office with her father.
For about twenty minutes Madison had twirled around in the chair across from Cindy’s desk, scribbling on a steno pad, pretending that she was a reporter who was interviewing Cindy about her job.
“Why is it called a ‘
dead
line’? Do you ever get afraid when you’re writing about bad guys? What’s the dumbest story you ever wrote?”
Maddy was a delightful kid, funny and unspoiled, and Cindy had felt aggrieved when Tyler’s secretary had returned, saying, “Come on, Madison. Miss Thomas has work to do.”
Cindy had impetuously kissed the child on the cheek, saying, “You’re as cute as
ten
buttons, you know that?”
And Madison had flung her arms around her neck and returned the kiss.
“See you in the funny papers,” Cindy had called after her, and Madison Tyler had spun around, grinning. “That’s where I’ll be!”
Now Cindy turned her eyes to her blank computer screen, paralyzed with thoughts of Madison being held captive by people who didn’t love her, wondering if the girl was tied up inside a car trunk, if she’d been sexually molested, if she was already dead.
Cindy opened a new file on her computer and, after a few false starts, felt the story unspool under her fingers. “
The five-year-old daughter of
Chronicle
associate publisher Henry Tyler was abducted this morning only blocks from her house. . .
.”
She heard Henry Tyler in her head, his voice choked with misery: “Write the story, Cindy. And pray to God we’ll have Madison back before we run it.”
Chapter 32
YUKI CASTELLANO SAT three rows back in the gallery of Superior Court 22, waiting for the clerk to call the
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