Free The Manhattan Hunt Club by John Saul

question. “Mary? Where are you?”
    “I’m at home,” Mary began. “But—”
    “Stay there,” Keith told her. “I’ll be over in ten minutes. I just got off the expressway.”
    Mary’s voice rose, taking on a querulous edge. “Tell me now, Keith. I’ve been calling you for hours, but your phone—”
    “My phone’s been off,” Keith said. “Just try to stay calm, Mary.”
    “I
am
calm,” Mary said, her voice rising another notch. “But what do you expect, telling me—oh, there’s another call coming in. Let me get rid of them and—”
    “Take the other call, Mary. I’ll be there by the time you get done.” He snapped the phone closed before she could say anything else, and in two minutes less than the ten he’d promised, he slid his truck into an empty space in front of the art gallery on Hoquaquogue Road and was hurrying down the narrow path that led to Mary’s little apartment. The open door framed his wife, whose face was ashen.
    “He’s dead!” she said. “And you didn’t even tell me!” He reached out to put his arms around her, but she pulled away. “What happened?” she asked. “They said it was some kind of an accident.”
    “That’s what they told me, too,” Keith replied, reaching out again and gripping her shoulders. “They were taking him up to Rikers Island, and a couple of blocks before they got on the Williamsburg Bridge, a car hit the van. And the van caught fire.” Keith felt Mary stiffen as she braced herself for his next words: “They couldn’t get him out.”
    “God’s retribution,” Mary breathed. “It’s God’s—”
    “It’s not God’s retribution!” Keith cut in. “God didn’t have anything to do with it!” Mary recoiled as if he’d slapped her, but he ignored it, adding, “And there’s something else, too. When I saw him—”
    Mary drew back, her eyes wide. “You
saw
him?” she demanded. “What are you talking about?”
    “I had to talk to them,” he said. “I had to find out what happened and I—” He hesitated, then went on. “I had to see him for myself.”
    For the first time, Mary reached out and touched Keith, her fingers resting for a moment on his arm. “You should have taken me with you,” she said. “I should have been with you.”
    Remembering the terrible visage he had forced himself to look upon—the charred flesh and ruined features—Keith shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice rough as he struggled to control his emotions. “No one should have to see what I saw. But . . .” His voice trailed off. He’d been about to tell her about the tattoo and the doubt that it had created, but now he wondered if he should. If he told her and he was wrong— His thoughts were cut short by the ringing of his cell phone.
    “I just heard what happened,” Heather Randall said on the line, her voice shaking. “Daddy called me—he said it was some kind of accident, but—I can’t—I just can’t believe it—not Jeff! He—”
    “Heather, listen to me,” Keith cut in. “Do you remember Jeff’s tattoo?”
    “His tattoo?” she said, sounding dazed, as if she hadn’t quite understood his words.
    “The pyramid. The pyramid and the sun.”
    There was a moment of silence, as if she still hadn’t understood, but then she said, “Of course I remember it.”
    As his wife regarded him with curiosity, Keith’s pulse quickened, as it had in the truck a little while ago. “And he still had it?”
    “Still had it?” Heather echoed, puzzled. “Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he?”
    Keith kept his voice carefully neutral. “People have them removed sometimes.”
    “Not Jeff. He loves his tattoo.”
    “And you’re sure he still had it?” Keith pressed.
    “Well, of course I’m sure,” Heather replied. “I mean—Mr. Converse, what’s going on? Why is Jeff’s tattoo so important?”
    Keith hesitated, part of him wanting to tell Heather about the idea that had taken root in his mind, but an equally strong part