James PATTERSON: Cross Country

“Yes.”

“Yes what? Tell me what you are agreeing to.”

“You’ll tell me about my family. Let me sleep.”

“Provided that what?”

I don’t attack and kill you, you sonofabitch. Where there’s a will…

“Provided I answer your questions.”

“Very good. Would you like more water, hotshot?”

“Yes.”

The cloth hood was lifted halfway and the water bottle was returned to my lips. I drank as much as I wanted to, but then there was silence. It frightened the hell out of me. Had he gone away? The one who knew what had happened to my family? The one who had actually talked to me for a minute or so.

“I saw terrible things in Africa, especially in Sudan,” I said. “I don’t think any of that interests you. A family – the Tansis – were murdered. In Lagos. Maybe because they were talking to me. Or because of what Adanne wrote in the newspaper. You can get her articles.

“Are you there? You wanted me to talk, right? Are you listening now?

“Anyway, Adanne Tansi and I were taken to a prison,” I continued. “She was murdered there. I saw it happen. The Tiger killed her. I don’t know who the other men holding us were. I don’t know who the hell you are!

“Before we got to the prison, Adanne told me about a long piece she was writing – it was to appear in the London Guardian… the Guardian. Maybe some other papers. I’m not sure.

“She had learned that the United States might be manipulating factions in the Delta… to ensure the oil fields would stay in the right hands. Adanne had tapes of interviews. They were taken from her.

“Whoever captured us… must have them now. You have the tapes, don’t you?”

I stopped talking and waited for an answer, any kind of response.

But no one said anything. That was the technique – and guess what? It worked. I kept talking.

“Adanne told me the man known as the Tiger was also being paid by our government. I don’t know if that’s true. You probably know, don’t you?”

I stopped again, then went on. “By the CIA, maybe. The oil companies? By someone from here. Adanne wrote that, and she told another writer, named Ellie Cox. She was killed because of what she knew.

“That’s what I know. That’s what Adanne found out. That’s all of it.”

I stopped again. There was still no response, not a word from the interrogator.

I waited.

I waited.

I waited.

YOU THINK YOU know what’s going to happen in life. But you never do. And usually the surprises aren’t good ones either.

No one spoke to me for a long time, and I kept waiting for somebody to put a gun to my head, to finally pull the trigger.

Hours after I was interrogated, I heard footsteps in the room where I was being kept. More than one person. At least two.

I pulled myself away from the wall and moved forward. I stumbled and fell to my knees. I pushed myself back up and somebody grabbed my arm.

“Fucker can’t even walk by himself.”

I heard a door being slid open and then I felt cool air hit my face. I was pulled forward and then shoved inside some kind of van or truck.

“Let’s go!” said someone in the front. “We don’t have much time for this.”

For what?

What was happening now?

I had no idea where I was going now, but I knew the chances were good that I was going to die. At certain times in the past, I’d been pleasantly surprised that I’d lasted as long as I had. Still, it felt unreal that I would probably die in the next few minutes. I prayed for my family; and then I said a prayer for myself.

Good, moderately lapsed Christian that I am, I even said a prayer of contrition.

Then the van pulled to a stop. This was it. “End of the line!” I heard one of the bastards say.

I was pushed out and landed hard on the street, and then I heard the vehicle drive away, gravel crunching under spinning tires.

I crawled up and over a curb and then just lay there, partly on grass, partly on a sidewalk or walkway.

They hadn’t killed me.

I was still alive.

Finally I slept.

THEN I WAS awake; at least I thought I was.

“I’m Officer Maise, with the DC Metro police. Are you all right, sir?” The patrolman spoke to me even as he lifted the hood that covered my head.

“Why are your hands tied? What happened to you?” he asked next.

“I’m Alex Cross. I’m a detective with Major Crimes. I was kidnapped.”

He had the hood all the way off now, but I couldn’t see much of anything yet, not even his face. My eyes were slow to adjust to the light – to the streetlights mostly. It was dark outside. Night.

“Yes, sir, Detective Cross. We’ve all been looking for you,” patrolman Maise said. “Let me call it in.”

“How long… you been looking?”

“Three days.”

Finally, I could see his face, which showed concern but also surprise. He had found me. I was alive. I’d been missing for three days.

“Can you get these binds off?” I asked.

“I’ll call it in first. Then I’ll get the ropes off you.”

“No press,” I told him.

“Of course not. Why would I call the press?” the patrolman asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I’m not thinking straight yet.”

I WAS TAKEN home by Officer Maise. The house on Fifth Street was dark and obviously empty. Bree had been staying with us off and on, but she had kept her place, so I figured she was at her apartment tonight. Why would she stay here by herself?

I would call Bree soon, but I needed to go inside the house right now. I entered through the sunporch, passing the silent piano on my way, imagining playing it for the kids or, sometimes, just for myself.

No, I guess I was remembering.

The kitchen had been cleaned up since the last time I’d been there. Probably Bree had done it.

Now it was neat, as if nobody lived here.

I continued walking from room to room, everything quiet, and I felt unbearably sad. I turned on lights as I went, feeling like a visitor in my own house. Nothing about my life felt right, or even real. The world had become such a cruel, unsafe place. How had it happened?

How much blame should America take, and did accepting blame really help anybody? Wasn’t it time to stop offering criticism and start providing solutions? It was easy to be a critic; it took no imagination. Problem solving was the bitch.

I finally made it up to my office in the attic, and I sat at my desk, looking down on the street, wondering if there was anyone out there watching me.

Had the interrogators believed me? Did it matter? It struck me that I didn’t really know that much about the world, the larger picture, anyway. But who did these days?

None of us, maybe. That’s what made it so daunting and scary – and took away hope too. That’s what gave us a feeling that everything was out of our control. So who was in control? Somebody had to be – but who? Somebody had to have some answers. Somebody had just imprisoned and tortured me.

I continued to wander around the house. I needed to call people – Damon, who I hoped was still safely stashed away, and Bree and Sampson. But I couldn’t make the calls yet. I didn’t know what to tell any of them, or how to face them.

No, that wasn’t it exactly. The truth was, I didn’t want to put them in danger. Somebody out there might still think that I knew something, something dangerous and important, or maybe just embarrassing to them.

And the really scary part?

They were right.

I HAD TOLD my interrogators about the possible CIA and Tiger connection, but that wasn’t important to them. They’d let me go, hadn’t they? They could deny all that – and besides, the Tiger was dead. I had cleaned up that particular mess for them.