The Cold Moon
Contents (10)
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Contents
Epigraph
Part I: 12:02 A.M. Tuesday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Part II: 9:02 A.M. Wednesday
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Part III: 8:32 A.M. Thursday
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Part IV: 12:48 P.M. Monday
Chapter 43
Author’s Note
About Jeffery Deaver
You can’t see me, but I’m always present.
Run as fast as you can, but you’ll never escape me.
Fight me with all your strength, but you’ll never defeat me.
I kill when I wish, but can never be brought to justice. Who am I?
Old Man Time.
I
12:02 A.M. TUESDAY
Time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.
—WILLIAM FAULKNER
Chapter 1
“How long did it take them to die?”
The man this question was posed to didn’t seem to hear it. He looked in the rearview mirror again and concentrated on his driving. The hour was just past midnight and the streets in lower Manhattan were icy. A cold front had swept the sky clear and turned an earlier snow to slick glaze on the asphalt and concrete. The two men were in the rattling Band-Aid-mobile, as Clever Vincent had dubbed the tan SUV. It was a few years old; the brakes needed servicing and the tires replacing. But taking a stolen vehicle in for work would not be a wise idea, especially since two of its recent passengers were now murder victims.
The driver—a lean man in his fifties, with trim black hair—made a careful turn down a side street and continued his journey, never speeding, making precise turns, perfectly centered in his lane. He’d drive the same whether the streets were slippery or dry, whether the vehicle had just been involved in murder or not.
Careful, meticulous.
How long did it take?
Big Vincent—Vincent with long, sausage fingers, always damp, and a taut brown belt stretching the first hole—shivered hard. He’d been waiting on the street corner after his night shift as a word-processing temp. It was bitterly cold but Vincent didn’t like the lobby of his building. The light was greenish and the walls were covered with big mirrors in which he could see his oval body from all angles. So he’d stepped into the clear, cold December air and paced and ate a candy bar. Okay, two.