The Stone Monkey by Jeffery Deaver Read Free Book Online Page B

surface roads in a few miles. I may have to slow up for some of the red lights.”
    “ ‘May’?” the ESU cop muttered.
    “Any survivors, Rhyme?” Sachs asked.
    “Nothing further,” he answered. “The Coast Guard can only confirm two rafts. Looks like most people didn’t get off.”
    Sachs said to the criminalist, “I hear that tone, Rhyme. It’s not your fault.”
    “Appreciate the sentiment, Sachs. That’s not an issue. Now, you driving carefully?”
    “Oh, yeah,” she said, calmly steering into the spin that took the car forty degrees off center, her heart rate rising not a single digit. The Camaro straightened as if it were onguy wires and continued down the expressway, its speed goosed up to 140. The ESU cop closed his eyes.
    “It’s going to be close, Sachs. Keep your weapon handy.”
    “It always is.” Another brief skid.
    “We’re getting calls from the Coast Guard cutter, Sachs. I’ve got to go.” He paused for a moment. Then said, “Search well but watch your back.”
    She laughed. “I like that. We need to print it up on T-shirts for the Crime Scene Unit.”
    They hung up.
    The expressway ended and she skidded off onto a smaller highway. Twenty-five miles to Easton, where the lifeboats would land. She’d never been there; city-girl Sachs wondered what the topography was like. Would it be a beach? Rocky cliffs? Would she have to climb? Her arthritis had been bad lately and this thick humidity doubled the pain and stiffness.
    Wondering too: If the Ghost was still at the beach, were there plenty of hiding places for him to snipe from?
    She glanced down at the speedometer.
    Ease back?
    But the treads on her wheels were true and the only moisture on her palms was from the rain that had drenched her back at Port Jefferson. She kept her foot near the floor.
    •   •   •
    As the launch smashed through the water, closer to the shore, the rocks grew more distinct.
    And more jagged.
    Sam Chang squinted through the rain and spray. There were some short stretches of beach ahead, covered with pebbles and dirty sand, but much of the shoreline was dark rock and bluffs well over their heads. And to reach a portion of beach where they could land he’d haveto maneuver through an obstacle course of jutting stone.
    “He’s still there, behind us,” Wu shouted.
    Chang looked back and could see the tiny orange dot of the Ghost’s raft. It was heading directly for them but was making slower progress than theirs. The Ghost was hampered by the way he handled the raft. He aimed right toward the shore and fought the waves, which slowed his progress. But Chang, true to his Taoist leanings, piloted his craft differently; he sought the natural flow of the water, not fighting it but steering around the stronger crests in a serpentine pattern and using the shore-bound waves to speed them forward more quickly. The distance between them and the snakehead was increasing.
    Before the Ghost landed, there should be enough time to find the trucks that were waiting to take them to Chinatown, Chang estimated. The truck drivers wouldn’t know about the sinking but Chang would tell them that the Coast Guard was after them and order the men to leave immediately. If they insisted on waiting, Chang and Wu and the others would overpower them and drive the trucks themselves.
    He studied the shoreline and beyond—past the beach were trees and grass. It was hard to see in the windblown rain and mist but he detected what looked like a road. Some lights too, not far away. A cluster of them: a small village, it seemed.
    Wiping the stinging seawater from his eyes, Chang watched the people at his feet, falling silent as they gazed at the shore ahead of them, the turbulent currents here, riptides and whirlpools, the approaching rocks, sharp as knives, dark as dried blood.
    Then, just ahead of them, under the surface of the water, appeared a bank of rock. Chang throttled back fastand turned hard to the side, just missing the