Page 120 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

It seemed inconceivable that he was the psychopath the police said he was.

Yet there was no doubt about his son’s resentment for him. An idealist all his life, Kitt never liked the brand of journalism that Whittaker Media hawked.

Of course, that alone wasn’t enough. It was also his father’s neglect.

But how could I do otherwise? Fifteen-hour days keeping the business going, weathering the storms all media is subject to. A world Kitt didn’t want and was unsuited for. He was collateral damage.

And, of course, there was that terrible incident with Mary’s passing.

Dying without her husband by her side.

3/2/17.

He thought: But it was so important for the family. I had to buy the TV station, and it had to be done that day, or the option would have lapsed and …

He gave a hollow laugh. Even now I’m making excuses.

And, yes, I did it for the family … but mostly I did it for myself.

He looked out over the vast city, today muted by a milky complexion, the vast, bristling horizon foreshortened.

And now his son was a criminal … and, the police said, a threat to him and others.

At least in making his statement to—and about—his father, he’d done nothing more thanupsetseveral people. Whittaker prayed the police would find him before he actually hurt someone.

Or himself.

Oh, Kitt. I’m sorry …

He heard another scrape from outside.

Who was there?

He stood and, assisted by his cane, hobbled across the carpet. How he hated the accessory, a sign of dependency, a sign of weakness.

Pushing through the doorway, saying, “Hello, who’s—”

Averell Whittaker froze at the sight of the tableau before him.

“Kitt!”

His son sat in a wheelchair. The young man’s head lolled and he stared straight ahead. He seemed drunk or drugged. Behind him, gripping the handles, was Martin Kemp. The baby-faced man was swallowing and looking typically uncertain. And on the floor just inside the living room lay the Alicia Roberts her throat cut. Ample blood was drenching the blue and gold rug Mary had bought in Jordan so many years ago.

“No …”

Then he heard a sound from behind him and as he turned, his niece stepped forward and shoved him down the low stairs that led to the living room. He stumbled and fell hard onto the marble, crying out in pain.

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My shoulder,” he moaned. “It’s broken …”

Whittaker climbed unsteadily to his feet and, grimacing, struggled to a chair. His head drooped and he was breathing heavily. “The pain …”

Joanna paid no attention to her uncle. She looked toward Kemp. “Is she dead?” She was impatient.

“Well, I mean …” He gestured at the still body, the soak of blood.

She scoffed. “Check and see? All right?”