Run for Your Life - James Patterson [28]
His telephone and answering machine sat on top of it. Lately, he’d hardly been bothering to check his messages. But when he glanced at the machine, he blinked in astonishment. Thirty-six messages? That couldn’t be right.
Then he remembered where he was supposed to have been earlier that morning. Ah, yes, it made sense now. That appointment had seemed so infinitely important when he’d first made it. But since he’d had his Epiphany, he couldn’t have cared less about it.
That thought improved his mood. Smiling, he deleted the messages without listening to them and stepped back into his bedroom. He popped a relaxation CD into the player beside the weight bench and hit Play.
The sound of waves washing gently against the shore and the soft caw of seagulls drowned out the rap from across the street. He stretched out on the bench again, jerked up the crushing weight, and lowered it toward his chest.
Chapter 23
THE TEACHER AWOKE, completely starved, a little after ten p.m. He went into the kitchen, turned on the oven, and took a brown paper–wrapped package out of the fridge.
Twenty minutes later, baby lamb chops were sizzling in a port-rosemary demi-glace. He touched the hot meat with a fingertip to test it and smiled at the just-so give. Almost there, he thought. He drained the pommes frites and drizzled them with truffle oil.
After plating, he brought the steaming dish to the linen-covered table in the apartment’s small dining room. He opened the $450 bottle of ’95 Château Mouton-Rothschild with a pop, chucked the cork over his shoulder, and poured himself a healthy glass.
The lamb practically melted in his mouth as he slowly chewed the first bite, then chased it with a sip of the exquisite Cabernet. Tight tannins, floral nose, tastes of cassis and licorice in the finish. It probably could have used another six months to mellow to absolute perfection, but he couldn’t wait another six months.
He closed his eyes as he ate, savoring the truffle oil and Parmesan fries, the succulent meat, the kick-ass Cab. He’d eaten at pretty much every fine restaurant in New York and Paris, and this was as good a meal as he’d ever had. Or was it because of all the work he’d accomplished today? Did it matter? This was gastronomic nirvana. He’d truly nailed it.
He stretched the meal out as long as he could, but at last, regrettably, it was done. He drained the wine bottle into his balloon glass and took that into the darkened living room. There, he dropped onto the couch, found the remote, and flipped on the sixty-inch Sony plasma on the wall.
The crystal-clear image of a CNN anchor, Roz Abrams, appeared with her mouth going at full speed. There was a flu going around the city, she informed her audience. No shit. As if he cared.
He put up with a couple more minutes of inanities and commercials before she came back to the day’s main story.
There was also a killer on the loose.
Really, Rozzy baby? You don’t fucking say. How’s that for some real news?
He leaned forward as she spoke and listened intently to the coverage. There was still confusion about the two shootings. The police weren’t sure if they were related, either to each other or to a bizarre incident where a young woman had been pushed in front of a subway. They didn’t know if they were looking for a single suspect or more than one. They were fearful that terrorists might be to blame.
The Teacher sat back and relaxed, smiling. The police and the media were still scratching their heads—exactly how he wanted it.
There was no mention of the mission statement that he’d sent to the Times. He wondered if that was a cop trick—withholding information from the public for some reason—or if there was some other explanation. Maybe the newspapers simply hadn’t made the connection yet. No matter. They would, soon enough.
When the report about the killings was over,