The Architect by Keith Ablow Page A

Anderson said. “Can’t wait to hear the rest.”
    “You will.”
    “Stay safe, man.”
    “You, too.”
    They hung up.
    The taxi dropped Clevenger off at the American Airlines terminal. He met McCormick at the gate.
    “I thought you were standing me up,” she said. “We’re about to board.”
    He kissed her on the cheek. “Not a chance.” He heard how forced the words sounded as he spoke them. He looked toward the line of passengers forming at the doortothejetway.
    She knew him well enough to know there was something wrong. “What’s going on?”
    “Nothing,” he said, barely glancing at her. “C’mon. Let’s go.”
    She didn’t move. “Tell me.”
    “It’s nothing.”
    “Frank.”
    He shrugged. “Billy, again. Big surprise, right? I mean, he’s fine, so far as I know. But he ... He made bail. He’s out.”
    The line of passengers started to move.
    “You said bail was twenty thousand dollars.”
    “His public defender got it reduced to five. Then some members of that gang in Chelsea—the Royals— paid it.”
    “They bailed him out? Where did he go?”
    “North has the Chelsea cops out looking for him. If he hears anything ...”
    McCormick squinted at him. “You can’t leave it to North. You need to go home.”
    “He’ll be fine for the night.” He looked at her, saw that she didn’t believe that any more than he did.
    She leaned and kissed him on the cheek. “Go home. Call me and let me know if you find him.”
    Clevenger’s throat tightened. He knew she was right. He knew his mind would be in Chelsea with Billy, even if he flew to D.C. with her. But he didn’t want it to be that way. He wanted to start giving her the time she deserved.
    She saw he was struggling. “I’m not upset,” she said.
    She didn’t sound upset, which, for some reason, made him feel even worse. “I am,” he said.
    “Call me tomorrow.” She leaned and kissed him on the cheek, again. “I have to go.” She walked away, headed toward the jetway.
    He waited to see if she would turn around after handing over her ticket. She didnt.

TWENTY-TWO
    West Crosse waited in his Thunder Bay, Ontario, compound for the Nightly News to begin. He had called Heather Rawlings and told her that he wanted to meet her there the next day to show her an early scale model of the Rawlingses’c Montana home. He asked her to keep her trip a secret, so he could surprise her husband by learning more about his life to incorporate in a final plan.
    He believed she would keep his confidence, but it probably didn’t matter if she violated it.
    Ken Rawlings would never tell the police.
    Crosse had always been careful to avoid suspicion. He was patient, pacing himself, sometimes waiting years after a building was constructed to complete his final design of the family that would occupy it. He cloaked his worjc in secrecy, serving only his Bones brothers and their extended families.
    Nonetheless, any of the men or women he had liberated could have focused on him as a suspect in the death of their “loved” one. None had. They were unconsciouslypartnered with him. He was expressing their hidden desires. To think of him as a killer would be to think the same of themselves.
    Wasn’t that, after all, the way most people lived, outsourcing the hardest parts of living? People who ate meat, but would not hunt. People who would want SWAT teams to rescue them if they were kidnapped, but would never own guns to protect themselves. People who liked premium gas in their SUVs, but would balk at going to war for it. People who liked their homeland safe, but didn’t have the stomach to torture terrorists plotting to destroy it.
    Was that not the lesson of Christ? Did he not die alone on a cross for doing God’s work alone?
    Ken Rawlings might know that his wife had met West Crosse the night she died, but he would keep that from the police, even if it meant forgetting what he knew. He would protect his friend, even grow closer to him, as close as a