The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [60]
His face flushed, Stefanovitch began to push himself off the back porch. “I have to go, Sarah.”
Everything was coming apart in his head. He thought he might be sick…
But mostly it was one thing, one impossible problem that he couldn’t begin to deal with… He liked Sarah too much—and he understood in his heart that it could never work between them.
He couldn’t stand that. Maybe people had to be stuck in a wheelchair to understand. Probably they did. But that was the way it was. He had to get out of there right away. The feeling had come over him like waves of claustrophobia in a crawl space. It was unbearable. Impossible to explain to Sarah or his parents.
Sarah might have stopped him, physically stopped him, but she didn’t even try.
She let Stef take his things out to the van. She watched him say good-bye to his parents, apologizing for leaving so suddenly. It was all so weird, and so intense. Real life could be like that: the daily soap operas most families learned to live with.
She stayed on at the farmhouse for the night. She wanted to talk to Isabelle and Charles about their life out in Pennsylvania. She needed the background for the book, she told herself. Getting back to New York would be easy enough in the morning.
“I know John too well,” Isabelle Stefanovitch finally said to her in the brightly lit kitchen, where the two of them had talked for hours, sipping port wine. “He would never hurt your feelings like this, not unless he couldn’t help it. He would never purposely hurt your feelings, Sarah. He’s very tense now.”
“I know that,” Sarah said. She thought that she understood what had happened. She could imagine his state of mind.
Her feelings were hurt, though. She couldn’t help that either. That was reality, too.
Somewhere out on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, meanwhile, Stefanovitch drove with his foot pressed all the way down to the floor. The foot in his mind.
He was falling in love, and he couldn’t bear it…
Stefanovitch forced himself to dwell on the Midnight Club the rest of the way back to Manhattan. The horrible screams he had heard in Atlantic City became background noise for the long ride home.
Who had ordered the massacre? What had happened to the Midnight Club?
Those were the questions he had to answer. That was the maddening puzzle he still seemed no closer to solving.
PART THREE
The Midnight Club
59
Kennedy International Airport; Six A.M.
EVERYTHING THAT COULD change changed at six o’clock on the morning of July 11, a Monday.
All that had transpired since the first murders at Allure was suddenly redefined for everyone, especially the public, who would hear and greedily read about the new twists and turns the following morning at the latest.
The passenger tunnel inside the Air France terminal at Kennedy Airport was thickly carpeted, camouflaged in bright vermilion and blue. It was luxurious by most airport standards, reminiscent of the nouveau riche travelers it served. The long corridor was all serenity as it filled with well-dressed passengers exiting from the Concorde. The two-hour-and-fifty-minute flight from Paris had been a thing of perfection.
Among the final passengers to deboard the crowded jetliner was one who couldn’t possibly be on the flight…
Alexandre St.-Germain exited the plane.
The Grave Dancer was very much alive.
His dress was elegant, befitting his businessman image. A beige suit and salmon shirt were hand-tailored; his black half boots were soft Italian leather, as was the briefcase he carried. St-Germain’s face was deeply sun-bronzed, his wavy blond hair meticulously combed back. Nor did his eyes betray any physical or emotional discomfort. They were dark, shiny stones that gave away nothing of what went on behind them.
A black Bell helicopter with gold racing stripes was waiting for him at the New York airport. He had to stoop low as he climbed into the close quarters of the cockpit. His eyes rapidly brushed over the repository of glass and shiny metal instruments inside