The 6th Target - James Patterson [91]
Then he fumbled in his jacket pocket and took out a jeweler’s box, black velvet, about two inches on all sides.
“Something I want you to have, Lindsay.”
He put aside the vase of sweetheart roses that was between us on the table and handed the box to me.
“Open it. Please.”
“I don’t think I can,” I said.
“Just lift up the lid. There’s a hinge at the back.”
I laughed at his joke, but I’m pretty sure I stopped breathing as I did what he said. Inside, nestled on velvet, was a platinum ring with three large diamonds and a small one on each side sparkling up at me.
I finally sucked in my breath. I had to. The ring was a “gasper.” And then I looked across the table into Joe’s eyes. It was almost like gazing into my own, that’s how well I knew him.
“I love you, Lindsay. Will you marry me? Will you be my wife?”
The waiter came by and, without saying a word, sailed off. I closed the box. It made a dull little click, and I could swear that the light in the room dimmed.
I swallowed hard, because I didn’t know what to say. The wheels inside my head were still spinning, and I was feeling the room spin, too.
Joe and I had both been married.
And we’d both been divorced.
Was I ready to take a chance again?
“Linds?”
I finally choked out, “I love you, too, Joe, and I’m . . . I’m overwhelmed.” My voice cracked as I struggled to speak.
“I need some time to do some deep thinking of my own. I need to be absolutely sure. Will you hold on to this, please?” I said, pushing the small box back across the table.
“Let’s see how we do for a while. Just doing normal things,” I said to Joe. “The laundry. The movies. Weekends that don’t end with you getting into a car and heading to the airport.”
Disappointment was written all over Joe’s face, and it hurt me terribly to see it. He seemed lost for a moment, then turned my hand over, put the box in my palm, and closed my fingers around it.
“You keep this, Lindsay. I’m not changing my mind. I’m committed to you no matter how much laundry we have to do. No matter how many times we wash the car and take out the garbage and even fight about whose turn it is to do whatever. I’m really looking forward to all of that.” He grinned.
Unbelievable how the room brightened again.
Joe was smiling, holding both my hands in his. He said, “When you’re ready, let me know so I can put this ring on your finger. And tell my folks that we’re going to have a big Italian wedding.”
Chapter 129
IT WAS JUNE 6 when Jacobi called me and Rich into his office. He looked really pissed off, as bad as I’d ever seen him.
“I got some bad news. Alfred Brinkley escaped,” he said.
My jaw dropped.
Nobody got out of Atascadero. It was a mental institution for the criminally insane, and that meant it was a maximum-security prison more than a hospital.
“How’d it happen?” Conklin asked.
“Bashed his head against the wall of his cell . . .”
“Wasn’t he medicated? And under a suicide watch?”
Jacobi shrugged. “Dunno. Anyway, the doc usually comes to the cell block, but this doc named Carter insists that the prisoner be brought to his office. Under guard. In the minimum-security wing.”
“Oh, no,” I said, seeing it happen without being told. “The guard had a gun.”
Jacobi explained to Conklin, “The guards wear their guns only when moving prisoners from one wing to another. So the doc says Brinkley has to be unshackled so he can give him the neuro test.”
Jacobi went on to say that Brinkley had grabbed a scalpel, disarmed the guard, snatched the gun. That he’d put on the doctor’s clothes, used the guard’s keys to get out, and took the doctor’s car.
“It happened two hours ago,” said Jacobi. “There’s an APB out on Dr. Carter’s blue Subaru Outback. L.L.Bean edition.”
“Probably dumped the car by now,” Conklin said.
“Yeah,” said Jacobi. “I don’t know what this is worth,” he added, “but according to the warden, Brinkley was all cranked up about this serial killer he read about, Edmund Kemper.”
Conklin nodded. “Killed about six