He thought for a second, maybe trying to slow this down a little. Or maybe concocting a lie?

“I haven’t, and they aren’t,” he said then. “This Patriot character is a bit pedestrian for me. But that other one, with the numbers? Much more interesting. I’ll admit, I wouldn’t mind a little tête-à-tête with that chap.”

“So you don’t know who either of them are,” I said.

There was another long pause. Then he laughed, as heartily as I’d ever heard from Kyle.

“Alex Cross, are you asking me for advice?”

“You used to be a good agent,” I said. “Remember? You used to advise me.”

“Of course. They were the second-worst years of my life. The first being my time in that so-called Supermax out in Florence — which I have you to thank for.” He stopped, and I heard another long, slow breath. “Which also brings us full circle, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does,” I said. “Your whole life seems to revolve around paying me back for that.”

“Something along those lines.”

“So why all the running around, playing games, Kyle? What are you waiting for?”

“The right inspiration, I suppose,” he said without a trace of irony. “That’s the beauty of creation and imagination. Remaining open to what comes. The more seasoned the artist, the more capable he is of responding in the moment.”

“So you’re an artist now?”

“I suppose that I always have been,” he told me. “I’m just getting better at it, that’s all. It would be foolish to quit while I’m in my prime. But I will tell you one thing, my friend.”

“What’s that?” I said.

“When the end comes — trust me — we’ll both know it.”

Book Four

FINAL TARGET, FINAL STRATEGIES

Chapter 72

LEAVING DC in the old white Suburban that morning, Denny had seen in the side mirror vapor trails coming out of the exhaust, but he didn’t think too much about it. With a rig as old as this one, he couldn’t bother himself over every mechanical hiccup.

Now, three and a half hours from home, the hiccup had turned into something more like a death rattle. There was a familiar dry clank coming from the engine.

As they pulled over to the side of Route 70, Mitch looked up from the Penthouse he’d nabbed off the rack at their last pit stop. “What’s going on, Denny? That doesn’t sound right.”

“Can’t you hear the head gasket going?” Denny said. It was amazing how observant Mitch could be with a rifle in his hand, considering how dim he was about most of the rest of his life.

A quick check under the hood told Denny what he already knew, but he waited until they were limping back up the highway to say anything more about it to Mitch.