Pop Goes the Weasel

home number; he asked me to call right away if I heard from Christine. Then he said my family and I would be in his prayers.
    At three, I was still up and pacing my hotel room on the third floor, and doing some praying myself. I had just gotten off the phone with Quantico. The FBI was cross-checking all of my homicide cases to see if anyone I’d investigated had any connection with Bermuda. The Bureau was now concentrating on the current series of unsolved murders in Southeast. I’d faxed them my profile on the Weasel.
    I didn’t have any logical reason to suspect that the killer might be here in Bermuda, and yet I feared he might be. It was just the kind of feeling that The Jefe had been rejecting about the murders in Southeast.
    I understood that the Bureau probably wouldn’t get back to me until later in the morning. I was tempted to call friends at Interpol, but I held off?. And then I called Interpol, too.
    The hotel room was filled with mahogany Queen Anne furniture and wicker, and had dusty-pink carpets. It seemed empty and lonely. I stood like a ghost before the tall, water-stained dormer windows, stared out at the shifting black shapes against the moonlit sky, and remembered how I held Christine in my arms. I felt incredibly helpless and alone without her. I also couldn’t believe this had happened.
    I hugged myself tightly and became aware of a terrible pain all around my heart. The tightening pain was like a solid column that went from my chest all the way up into my head. I could see her face, her beautiful smile. I remembered dancing with her one night at the Rainbow Room in New York, and dinners at Kinkead’s in Washington, and that one special night at her place when we’d laughed and thought maybe we’d made a baby. Was Christine out there somewhere on the island? She had to be. I prayed again that she was safe. She had to be safe. I refused to have any other thought for more than a couple of seconds.
    The telephone in the room rang, a short burst, at a little past four in the morning.
    My heart was stuck in my throat. My skin crawled, felt as if it were shrinking and no longer fit my body. I rushed across the room and grabbed the phone before the second ring. My hand was trembling.
    The strange, muffled voice scared me: “You have e-mail.”
    I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t think at all.
    I’d brought my laptop with me on vacation.
    Who knows that I have my computer here? Who could know a small detail like that about me? Who’s been watching me? Watching us?
    I yanked open the closet door, grabbed the computer, hooked it up, and logged on. I scrolled down the e-mail to the last message.
    It was short and very concise.
    SHE’S SAFE FOR NOW. WE HAVE HER.
    The curt, cold message was worse than anything I could imagine. Each word was branded into my brain, repeating over and over.
    “She’s safe for now .
    “We have her.”

Chapter 46
    SAMPSON ARRIVED at the Belmont Hotel the day after Christine disappeared. I hurried down to the small front lobby to meet him. He threw his large arms around me, clasping me tightly but gently, as if he were holding a child in his arms.
    “You okay? You holding up?” he asked.
    “Not even close,” I told him. “I spent half a day checking the e-mail address I got last night. It came from [email protected]. The address was falsified. Nothing is going right.”
    “We’ll get Christine back. We’ll find her.” He told me what he knew I wanted to hear, but I was sure that he also truly believed it in his heart. Sampson is the most positive human being I’ve ever met. He won’t be denied.
    “Thanks for coming. It means a lot to all of us. I can’t think straight about anything. I’m really rattled, John. I can’t even begin to imagine who could have done this. Maybe the Weasel — I don’t know.”
    “If you could think straight now,” John said, “I’d be more worried about you than usual. That’s why I’m here.”
    “I kind of knew you’d come.”
    “Of course you did. I’m Sampson. Occam’s razor and all that other deep philosophical shit at work here.”
    There were a half-dozen guests in the hotel lobby, and all of them looked our way. The hotel staff knew about Christine’s disappearance, and I’m sure that the guests at the Belmont knew as well, as did just about everybody else on the small, chatty island.
    “The story’s on the front page of the local newspaper,” Sampson said. “People were reading copies