James PATTERSON - The Big Bad Wolf

‘You seeing the President?’ Grimaldi asked.

The Russian laughed. ‘No. He can’t get anything done. He’s all stronzate . Why should I see him? He should see me about Bin Laden and the terrorists. I get things done.’

‘Tell me something,’ Grimaldi asked, before the Wolf left. ‘The story about Palumbo out in the max-security prison in Colorado. You did that?’

The Wolf shook his head. ‘A complete fairy tale. I am a businessman, not a low-life, not some butcher. Don’t believe everything you hear about me.’

The Mafia head watched the unpredictable Russian leave the steakhouse, and he was almost certain the man had killed Palumbo, and also that the President ought to contact the Wolf about Al Qaeda.

Around midnight, the Wolf got out of a black Dodge Viper in Potomac Park. He could see the outline of an SUV across Ohio Drive. The roof light blinked on and a single passenger got out. Come to me, pigeon , he whispered.

The man who approached him in Potomac Park was FBI and worked in the Hoover Building. His carriage was stiff and herky-jerky like that of so many government functionaries. There was no confident G-man swagger. The Wolf had been warned that he couldn’t buy a useful agent, and then he couldn’t trust the information if he did. But he hadn’t believed that. Money always bought things, and it always bought people – especially if they had been passed over for promotions and raises; this was as true in America as it had been in Russia. If anything, it was more true here where cynicism and bitterness were becoming the national pastimes.

‘So is anybody talking about me up on the fifth floor of the Hoover?’ he asked.

‘I don’t want to meet like this. Next time, you run an ad in the Washington Times .’

The Wolf smiled, but then he jabbed a finger into the federal agent’s jaw. ‘I asked you a question. Is anybody talking about me?’

The agent shook his head. ‘Not yet, but they will. They’ve connected the murdered couple on Long Island to Atlanta, and to the King of Prussia Mall.’

The Wolf nodded. ‘Of course they have. I understand that these people of yours aren’t stupid. They’re just very limited.’

‘Don’t underestimate them,’ the agent warned. ‘The Bureau is changing. They’re going to come after you with everything they have.’

‘It won’t be enough,’ said the Wolf. ‘And besides, maybe I’ll come after them – with everything I have. I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow their house down.’

The next night I got home before six o’clock. I had a sit-down dinner with Nana and the kids, who were surprised, but clearly thrilled that I was home so early.

The telephone rang toward the end of the meal. I didn’t want to answer it. Maybe somebody else had been grabbed, but I didn’t want to deal with it. Not tonight.

‘I’ll get it,’ said Damon. ‘It’s probably for me. Some girlfriend .’ He snatched the ringing telephone off the kitchen wall, flipped it from one hand to the other.

‘You wish it was a girl,’ taunted Jannie from the table. ‘Dinnertime. It’s probably somebody selling insurance or a bank loan. They always call at dinner.’

Then Damon was pointing at me, and he wasn’t smiling. He didn’t look so good either, as if he’d suddenly gotten a little sick to his stomach. ‘ Dad ,’ he said in a low voice, ‘it’s for you.’

I got up from the table and took the phone from him.

‘You okay?’ I asked.

‘ It’s Mrs Johnson ,’ Damon whispered.

My throat felt constricted as I took the receiver. Now I was the one who felt a little sick, but also confused. ‘Hello? This is Alex,’ I said.

‘It’s Christine, Alex. I’m in Washington. For a few days. I’d like to see little Alex while I’m here,’ she said, and I almost felt it was a prepared speech.

I felt my face flush. Why are you calling here? Why now? I wanted to say, but didn’t. ‘Do you want to come over tonight? It’s a little late, but we could keep him up.’

She hesitated. ‘Actually, I was thinking about tomorrow. Maybe around eight-thirty, quarter to nine in the morning? Would that be all right?’

I hesitated, then I said, ‘That would be fine, Christine. I’ll be here.’

‘Oh,’ she said, then fumbled her words a little. ‘You don’t have to stay home for me. I heard you were working for the FBI.’

My stomach clenched. Christine Johnson and I had split up over a year ago, mainly because of the nature of the murder cases I worked. She had actually been abducted because of my work. We finally found her in a shack in a remote area of Jamaica. Alex was born there. We were never the same after that. I never knew Christine was pregnant at the time. I felt it was my fault. Several months ago she’d moved to Seattle. It had been Christine’s idea that Alex stay with me. She’d been seeing a psychiatrist, and said she wasn’t emotionally fit to be his mother. Now she was in D.C. ‘ for a few days ’.

‘What brings you back to Washington?’ I finally asked.

‘I wanted to see our son,’ she said, her voice going very soft. ‘And some other friends of mine.’ I remembered how much I had loved her, and probably still did on some level, but I was resigned to the fact that we wouldn’t be together. Christine couldn’t stand my life as a cop; and I couldn’t seem to give it up.

‘All right, well, I’ll be over at around eight-thirty tomorrow,’ she said.

‘I’ll be here,’ I said.

Eight-thirty on the button.

A shiny silver Taurus, a rental car from Hertz, pulled up in front of our house on Fifth Street.

Christine Johnson got out, and though she looked a little severe with her hair pulled back in a tight bun, I had to admit that she was still a beautiful woman. Tall and slender, with distinct, sculpted features that I couldn’t make myself forget. Seeing her again made my heart catch in spite of what had happened between us.

Suddenly I was edgy, but also tired. Why was that? I wondered how much energy I’d lost in the past year and a half. A doctor friend from Johns Hopkins has a half-serious theory that our lifelines are written on the palms of our hands. He swears he can chart stress, illnesses, general health. I visited him a few weeks ago and Bernie Stringer said I was in excellent physical shape, but that my lifelines had taken a beating in the last year. That was partly because of Christine, our relationship, and the eventual break-up.

I was standing behind the protective screen of the front door, with Alex in my arms. I stepped outside as Christine approached the house. I saw that she was wearing heels and a dark blue suit.

‘Say hi,’ I said to Alex and waved one of his arms at his mother.

It was so strange, so completely unnerving to see Christine like this again. We had such a complicated history. Much of it was good, but what was bad, was very bad. Her husband had been killed in her house during a case I was working on. I had nearly been responsible for her death. Now we were living thousands of miles apart. Why was she in D.C. again? To see little Alex of course. But what else had brought her?

‘Hello, Alex,’ she said and smiled, and for a dizzying instant, it was as if nothing had changed between us. I remembered the first time I had seen her, when she was still the principal at the Sojourner Truth School. She’d taken my breath away. Unfortunately, I guess, she still did.

Christine knelt at the foot of the stairs, and spread her arms. ‘Hi, you handsome guy,’ she said to little Alex.

I set him down and let him decide what to do next. He looked up at me, and laughed. Then he chose Christine’s beckoning smile, chose her warmth and charm – and ran right into her arms.