L Simon Lewis Conklin.
A Anthony Bruno.
I Inez Marquez.
S — — — — —?
It read: I MURDERED ISABELLA CALAIS.
He had made it so easy for us. He was taunting us from the very beginning. Pierce wanted to be stopped, wanted to be caught. So why the hell hadn’t he stopped himself? Why had the string of brutal murders gone on and on?
I MURDERED ISABELLA CALAIS.
The murders were a confession, and maybe Pierce was almost finished. Then what would happen? And who was S?
Was it Smith himself? Did S stand for Smith?
Would he symbolically murder Smith? Then Mr. Smith would disappear forever?
I called Kyle Craig and then Sampson, and I told them what I had found. It was past two in the morning, and neither of them was overjoyed to hear my voice or the news. They didn’t know what to do with the word jumble and neither did I.
“I’m not sure what it gives us,” Kyle said, “what it proves, Alex.”
“I don’t either. Not yet. It does tell us he’s going to kill someone with an S in his name.”
“George Steinbrenner,” Kyle mumbled. “Strom Thurmond. Sting.”
“Go back to sleep,” I said.
My head was doing loops. Sleep wasn’t an option for me. I half expected to get another message from Pierce, maybe even that night. He was mocking us. He had been from the beginning.
I wanted to get a message to him. Maybe I ought to communicate with Pierce through the newspapers or TV? We needed to get off the defensive and attack instead.
I lay in the darkness of my bedroom. Could S be Mr. Smith? I wondered. My head was throbbing. I was past being exhausted. I finally drifted off toward sleep. I was falling off the edge — when I grabbed hold.
I bolted up in bed. I was wide-awake now.
“S isn’t Smith.”
I knew who S was.
Chapter 125
THOMAS PIERCE was in Concord, Massachusetts.
Mr. Smith was here, too.
I was finally inside his head.
Sampson and I were ready on a cozy, picturesque side street near the house of Dr. Martin Straw, the man who had been Isabella’s lover. Martin Straw was S in the puzzle.
The FBI had a trap set for Pierce at the house. They didn’t bring huge numbers of agents this time. They were afraid of tipping off Pierce. Kyle Craig was gun-shy and he had every reason to be. Or maybe there was something else going on.
We waited for the better part of the morning and early afternoon. Concord was a self-contained, somewhat constrained town that seemed to be aging gracefully. The Thoreau and Alcott homes were here somewhere nearby. Every other house seemed to have a historical-looking plaque with a date on it.
We waited for Pierce. And then waited some more. The dreaded stakeout in Podunk dragged on and on. Maybe I was wrong about S.
A voice finally came over the radio in our car. It was Kyle. “We’ve spotted Pierce. He’s here. But something’s wrong, Alex. He’s headed back toward Route Two,” Kyle said. “He’s not going to Dr. Straw’s. He saw something he didn’t like.”