The Twelfth Card

but not only, from the cold.
    “When you look at it from their point of view,” the killer said, “you could say that it took forever.”

Chapter 2
7:01 A.M .
    What is that?
    From his squeaky chair in the warm office, the big man sipped coffee and squinted through the bright morning light toward the far end of the pier. He was the a.m. supervisor of the tugboat repair operation, located on the Hudson River just north of Greenwich Village. There was a Moran with a bum diesel due to dock in forty minutes, but at the moment, the pier was empty and the supervisor was enjoying the warmth of the shed, where he sat with his feet up on the desk, coffee cradled against his chest. He wiped some condensation off the window and looked again.
    What is it?
    A small black box sat by the edge of the pier, the side that faced Jersey. It hadn’t been there when the facilityclosed at six yesterday, and nobody would have docked after that. Had to come from the land side. There was a chain-link fence to prevent pedestrians and passersby from getting into the facility, but, as the man knew from the missing tools and trash drums (go figure), if somebody wanted to break in, they would.
    But why leave something?
    He stared for a while, thinking, It’s cold out, it’s windy, the coffee’s just right. Then he decided, Oh, hell, better check. He pulled on his thick gray jacket, gloves, and hat and, taking a last slug of coffee, stepped outside into the breathtaking air.
    The supervisor made his way through the wind along the pier, his watering eyes focused on the black box.
    The hell is it? The thing was rectangular, less than a foot high, and the low sunlight reflected off something on the front. He squinted against the glare. The white-capped water of the Hudson sloshed against the pilings below.
    Ten feet away from the box he paused, realizing what it was.
    A clock. An old-fashioned one, with those funny numbers—Roman numerals—and a moon face on the front. Looked expensive. He glanced at his watch and saw the clock was working; the time was accurate. Who’d leave a nice thing like that here? Well, all right, I got myself a present.
    As he stepped forward to pick it up, though, his legs went out from under him and he had a moment of pure panic, thinking he’d tumble into the river. But he went straight down on the patch of ice he hadn’t seen, and slid no farther.
    Wincing in pain, gasping, he pulled himself to his feet. The man glanced down and realized that this wasn’t normal ice. It was reddish brown.
    “Oh, Christ,” he whispered as he realized that he wasstaring at a huge patch of blood, which had pooled near the clock and frozen slick. He leaned forward, and his shock deepened when he realized how the blood had gotten there. He saw what looked like bloody fingernail marks on the wooden decking of the pier, as if someone with slashed fingers or wrists had been holding on to keep from falling into the churning waters of the river.
    He crept to the edge and looked down. No one was floating in the choppy water. He wasn’t surprised; if what he imagined was true, the frozen blood meant the poor bastard had been here a while ago, and if he hadn’t been saved, his body’d be halfway to Liberty Island by now.
    Fumbling for his cell phone, he backed away and pulled his glove off with his teeth. A final glance at the clock, then he hurried back to the shed, calling the police with a stubby, quaking finger.
    Before and After.
    The city was different now, after that morning in September, after the explosions, the huge tails of smoke, the buildings that disappeared.
    You couldn’t deny it. You could talk about the resilience, the mettle, the get-back-to-work attitude of New Yorkers and that was true. But people still paused when planes made that final approach to La Guardia and seemed a bit lower than normal. You crossed the street, wide, around an abandoned shopping bag. You weren’t surprised to see soldiers or police dressed in dark uniforms carrying black military-style machine guns.
    The Thanksgiving Day parade had come and gone without incident, and now Christmas was in full swing, crowds everywhere. But floating atop the festivities, like a reflection in a department store’s holiday window, was the persistent image of the towers that no longer were, the people no longer with us. And, of course, the big question: What would happen next?
    Lincoln Rhyme had his own Before and After and he understood this concept very