Page 122 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

“Yes, though, in a different direction. Verum?”

“The conspiracy theorist, the crank. Do you know him?”

With what Whittaker believed was a modicum of pride, she said, “Iamhim.”

“Jo … no! You don’t believe that crap.”

She scoffed. “And you don’t believe that stories about secret love children and the vice president’s grandfather helping Lee Harvey Oswald kill John Kennedy belong on a front page. But there they are. And that made you a very wealthy man.”

“It’s different,” he raged.

“You’re right, Averell. I’m the next generation.”

“Fah … Father …” Kitt was more aware now. He glanced at his wrists strapped to the wheelchair arms. He shook his head, took a breath. “Father?” His head drooped.

Joanna walked to her fiancé and was speaking to him. She appeared impatient.

Whittaker couldn’t hear what they were saying exactly.Sheapparently had killed the security guard, and it was now Kemp’s task to murder Whittaker and Kitt. But he was balking. Her face was filled with contempt.

He’d check pulses and eyes, he’d corroborate stories, but he wasn’t going to wield the blade.

“Martin,” Whittaker called.

But when the man looked his way, a pathetic expression on his face, and appeared about to speak, Joanna snapped her fingers and he fell silent.

She looked at him with disgust and, using a bloody plastic bag, picked up the knife that she’d used to kill Alicia. Striding across the sumptuous carpet to where he sat, she studied him, as if deciding to slash the left side of his neck or the right.

Whittaker slumped in the fake Chippendale chair, which he and Mary had bought in New England and refinished together after taking a class in doing trompe l’oeil and faux painting furniture. It had been a happy weeklong project.

Whittaker called in a weak voice, “Kitt?” Louder, “Kitt?”

His son opened his eyes.

Joanna stood over him and Whittaker, who looked up, expecting to see a hint of regret in that face, which bore a passing resemblance to that of his brother.

But there was none. Only regal impatience.

“Just let me say one thing,” Whittaker whispered, wincing as he shifted a few inches.

She paused and cocked her head toward him.

“I’m sorry, son.”

Kitt blinked slowly.

Averell Whittaker grabbed his cane in both hands—he’d been feigning injury to his shoulder—and swung the top, the brass head, with all his strength into his niece’s face.

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Joanna was on her knees, howling in rage and pain.

She was still gripping the knife and slashing toward Whittaker’s legs as he rose. The blade did not connect and he launched his foot into her belly, doubling her over.

He turned to face Kemp, who was ashen white. The man had picked up another kitchen knife. He was advancing slowly. But his terror vastly outweighed his aggression.

Please, God, for the next ten minutes give me whatever strength You can. Let me save my son and then You can take me …

Brandishing the cane, Averell Whittaker strode across the room to meet Kemp head-on.

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