FaceOff by Dennis Lehane, James Rollins, Ian Rankin, Michael Connelly, R. L. Stine, Heather Graham, Jeffery Deaver, Peter James, Steve Martini, Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child, Joseph Finder, Lee Child, Raymond Khoury, Linwood Barclay, Steve Berry, John Sandford, M. J. Rose, Lisa Gardner, F. Paul Wilson, T. Jefferson Parker, John Lescroart, Linda Fairstein
Authors: Dennis Lehane, James Rollins, Ian Rankin, Michael Connelly, R. L. Stine, Heather Graham, Jeffery Deaver, Peter James, Steve Martini, Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child, Joseph Finder, Lee Child, Raymond Khoury, Linwood Barclay, Steve Berry, John Sandford, M. J. Rose, Lisa Gardner, F. Paul Wilson, T. Jefferson Parker, John Lescroart, Linda Fairstein
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moved that the man had read Browning. He lived in a tip, yet clutched at beauty. How different might his life have been if . . . ?
If.
He caught John Rebus’s eye, and then Siobhan Clarke’s, and knew they were thinking the same thing—while Potting tried to examine Clarke’s legs without her noticing.
“We’d need to bring you to Edinburgh quickly,” Rebus was saying. “Could you fly up Monday?”
“Train might be less hassle,” Starr said. “Give me time to decide whether to spit in his face first or go straight for a punch.”
· · ·
Hospitals always made Roy Grace feel uncomfortable. Too many memories of visiting his dying father and, later, his dying mother. Late on Monday afternoon he followed Rebus and Clarke along the corridor of the Royal Infirmary. It looked new, no smells of boiled cabbage or disinfectant. Transport had been awaiting the group at Waverley Station, Clarke making sure the visitors glimpsed the famous castle before they headed to the outskirts of the city. As Rebus pushed open the doors to the ward, Grace glanced back in the direction of Potting and Starr. Neither man showed any emotion.
“Okay?” Grace checked, receiving two separate nods in reply.
Rebus, however, had come to a sudden stop, Grace almost colliding with him. The bed in the corner was empty, the table next to it bare.
“Shit,” Rebus muttered, eyes scanning the room. Plenty of patients, but no sign of the only one that mattered.
“Can I help?” a nurse asked, her face arranged into a professional smile.
“James King,” Rebus informed her. “Looks like we’re too late.”
“Oh dear, yes.”
“How long ago did he die?”
The smile was replaced with something more quizzical. “He’s not dead,” she explained. “He went into remission. It happens sometimes, and if I were the religious sort . . .” She shrugged. “Spontaneous and inexplicable, but there you are. Mr. King’s back home in the bosom of his family, happy as the proverbial Larry!”
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, REBUS KNOCKED on the door of the bungalow on Liberton Brae. Ella King answered, then stared stonily at the small entourage outside.
“My husband’s changed his mind,” she blurted out. “It was the drugs he was taking. They got him hallucinating.”
“Fine, then,” Rebus said, holding up his hands as if in surrender. “But could we come in a minute?”
She didn’t seem at all sure, but Rebus was already barging past her, stalking down the hall toward the living room, Grace and Clarke right behind him. James King was seated in a large armchair, horse-racing on the television. He was dressed in slacks and a polo shirt, a newspaper on his lap and a mug of tea by his side.
“You’ve heard the news?” he boomed. “They’re calling it a miracle, for want of any better explanation. And has Ella explained about the drugs? I must have been rambling, the time I talked to you.”
“Is that a fact, sir? Well, is there any chance you could ramble your way to the front door? There’s an old friend of yours waiting to see you.”
King’s face creased in confusion, but Rebus was gesturing for him to get up, and get up he did, shuffling toward the front door.
Norman Potting stood on the path outside, hands resting against the handles of Ollie Starr’s wheelchair.
“James King,” Rebus said, “meet Oliver Starr.”
“But we’ve never met. I . . . I don’t know him. What’s this all about?”
“You know me, all right,” Starr snarled, his whole body writhing as if a current were passing through it. “Your bread knife’s still in an evidence locker in Brighton. Did your mum never ask you what happened to it?”
Grace watched King’s face. It was as if the man had been slapped.
“What’s going on?” his wife asked, voice trembling.
“A man did die that day,” Clarke explained. “But not the man your husband attacked. When he saw it reported, he jumped to conclusions.”
“Is this the man
If.
He caught John Rebus’s eye, and then Siobhan Clarke’s, and knew they were thinking the same thing—while Potting tried to examine Clarke’s legs without her noticing.
“We’d need to bring you to Edinburgh quickly,” Rebus was saying. “Could you fly up Monday?”
“Train might be less hassle,” Starr said. “Give me time to decide whether to spit in his face first or go straight for a punch.”
· · ·
Hospitals always made Roy Grace feel uncomfortable. Too many memories of visiting his dying father and, later, his dying mother. Late on Monday afternoon he followed Rebus and Clarke along the corridor of the Royal Infirmary. It looked new, no smells of boiled cabbage or disinfectant. Transport had been awaiting the group at Waverley Station, Clarke making sure the visitors glimpsed the famous castle before they headed to the outskirts of the city. As Rebus pushed open the doors to the ward, Grace glanced back in the direction of Potting and Starr. Neither man showed any emotion.
“Okay?” Grace checked, receiving two separate nods in reply.
Rebus, however, had come to a sudden stop, Grace almost colliding with him. The bed in the corner was empty, the table next to it bare.
“Shit,” Rebus muttered, eyes scanning the room. Plenty of patients, but no sign of the only one that mattered.
“Can I help?” a nurse asked, her face arranged into a professional smile.
“James King,” Rebus informed her. “Looks like we’re too late.”
“Oh dear, yes.”
“How long ago did he die?”
The smile was replaced with something more quizzical. “He’s not dead,” she explained. “He went into remission. It happens sometimes, and if I were the religious sort . . .” She shrugged. “Spontaneous and inexplicable, but there you are. Mr. King’s back home in the bosom of his family, happy as the proverbial Larry!”
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, REBUS KNOCKED on the door of the bungalow on Liberton Brae. Ella King answered, then stared stonily at the small entourage outside.
“My husband’s changed his mind,” she blurted out. “It was the drugs he was taking. They got him hallucinating.”
“Fine, then,” Rebus said, holding up his hands as if in surrender. “But could we come in a minute?”
She didn’t seem at all sure, but Rebus was already barging past her, stalking down the hall toward the living room, Grace and Clarke right behind him. James King was seated in a large armchair, horse-racing on the television. He was dressed in slacks and a polo shirt, a newspaper on his lap and a mug of tea by his side.
“You’ve heard the news?” he boomed. “They’re calling it a miracle, for want of any better explanation. And has Ella explained about the drugs? I must have been rambling, the time I talked to you.”
“Is that a fact, sir? Well, is there any chance you could ramble your way to the front door? There’s an old friend of yours waiting to see you.”
King’s face creased in confusion, but Rebus was gesturing for him to get up, and get up he did, shuffling toward the front door.
Norman Potting stood on the path outside, hands resting against the handles of Ollie Starr’s wheelchair.
“James King,” Rebus said, “meet Oliver Starr.”
“But we’ve never met. I . . . I don’t know him. What’s this all about?”
“You know me, all right,” Starr snarled, his whole body writhing as if a current were passing through it. “Your bread knife’s still in an evidence locker in Brighton. Did your mum never ask you what happened to it?”
Grace watched King’s face. It was as if the man had been slapped.
“What’s going on?” his wife asked, voice trembling.
“A man did die that day,” Clarke explained. “But not the man your husband attacked. When he saw it reported, he jumped to conclusions.”
“Is this the man
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