Second Honeymoon

Chapter 92

IT DIDN’T TAKE long for the deal Dan Driesen and the Bureau struck with the New York Times to fall apart. Disintegrate might be a better word.

The paper had agreed to sit on the story of the Honeymoon Murderer so we could set the trap for him. In return, they were to receive an exclusive on what should’ve been his capture. Should’ve been.

Unfortunately, life doesn’t always go as planned.

Now the story was right there on the front page—in the far right column, above the fold—for all the world to see.

“Don’t do it, O’Hara. Don’t beat yourself up,” said Driesen. Sarah and I were in his office at Quantico. Flags were at half-mast. Spirits were even lower. “It’s not your fault.”

Sarah had already told me the same thing—a few times over, in fact. I answered Driesen the same way I answered her.

“It was my idea,” I said. How could it not be my fault?

The only names mentioned in the article were those of the dead. The number stood at ten; the three newlywed couples plus the four agents. As for the paragraph on Agent Carver, it said he was married with two boys. The older one was thirteen, the same age as John Jr.

While I was getting my shoulder stitched up at Shenandoah Memorial Hospital it occurred to me that the very last word Carver ever spoke was help. If only I could have. I knew I’d be haunted by that forever.

Driesen leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. He blinked slowly, his chin dipping toward his chest. I was pretty sure what he was thinking as he looked at me. What the hell am I going to do with this guy?

He and I had only met face-to-face a few days earlier, but he’d read my file. He’d been briefed on me. I was John O’Hara, the agent so overcome with thoughts of avenging my wife’s death that I got myself suspended by the Bureau—only to then become the target of a serial killer stemming from an old case that had nearly gotten me fired because I slept with the suspect.

But wait. Tip of the iceberg, folks. There’s more.

While on suspension I got hired freelance to solve the murder of Warner Breslow’s son and his new bride, only to stumble upon yet another serial killer who ended up killing four agents in a plan I devised that went terribly, horribly, and downright appallingly wrong.

Hell, were it not actually happening to me I never would’ve believed it myself.

The worst part—and this, too, I’m sure Driesen was aware of—was that now, in addition to being obsessed with revenge, I was consumed by guilt. That’s a one-two punch from which a lot of people don’t get up.

Was I one of those people? Was I down for the count? Lost?

That’s what Driesen surely wanted to know.

“Tell me something, John,” he said. Before he could continue, however, the phone on his desk buzzed. His secretary apologized for interrupting, but there was a call she thought he needed to take.

“Who is it?” asked Driesen.

“Detective Brian Harris with the NYPD,” she said.

Driesen’s eyes narrowed. Clearly, he didn’t know who that was. He picked up. “Dan Driesen,” he said.

I watched as he listened. Whoever this Detective Harris was, it didn’t take long for him to prove that, yes, this was a call Driesen wanted to take. In fact, Driesen reached for a pen so fast he nearly knocked over his coffee mug.

I couldn’t see what he was writing, but as he glanced up and nodded with a slight smile I knew one thing for sure.

He was no longer wondering what the hell to do with me.