James Patterson - Merry Christmas, Alex Cross

“She’s gone to bed.”

“Which is where you should also be.”

“Do you think I could possibly sleep, Alex?”

I sighed. “Bree, you of all people know how this works.”

“I know how it works for you,” she said. “I can say no to the job but you can’t, Alex. That’s not good for you or your family. Especially at Christmas.”

“Sometimes you can’t say no, even if it is Christmas,” I said. “Sometimes you have a lunatic meth head who decides that the holiday is a perfect time for him to take his ex-wife, their three kids, and her new husband hostage.”

Bree hugged herself, looked away, and said, “You have a family who all feel like other families in a crisis come first for you.”

“That’s not fair, Bree.”

“Maybe not,” she said, looking back at me. “But I thought it was important that you know that your children think that.”

My head felt heavy. So did my chest. I said, “I am sad beyond words to hear that, Bree. And there is nothing I want more at this moment than to go home right now and then get up in the morning tomorrow and unwrap presents. But I honestly don’t know how I’d live with myself if I did that and then heard that this guy murdered his entire family when I might have been able to prevent it.”

Bree gazed at me; she reached up and touched my cheek with her chilled fingers. “You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. I just want you to remember that there are consequences to everything.”

I nodded, wondering if our relationship was starting to suffer the consequences of me being me. “I love you,” I said. “And I have to go back to work so I have a chance of being with my family on Christmas morning.”

My wife’s eyes were filled with a mixture of understanding and resignation. She touched my cheek again. Then she turned away and left the shelter. I went out into the storm and called after her, “Be careful driving.”

She called back over her shoulder, “I’ll pray for you, Alex. It’s all I can do.”

Bree kept walking and disappeared behind the police barrier into the storm. I stood there, staring after her, my mind whirling with thoughts of my family.

What was I doing? Ramiro and Nu and McGoey were all first-rate at their jobs. The deputy chief had called me in part, I guessed, as a way to calm down the congressman. But did I really have to be present? Couldn’t I leave this situation in their capable hands and follow Bree home?

“Alex!” McGoey called.

I turned, squinted into the wind and the snow, and saw him standing at the flaps of the tent.

“It’s Fowler,” he said. “He picked up. He wants to talk to you.”

“Me?” I replied, already moving toward him, already compartmentalizing.

“He didn’t ask for you exactly,” McGoey said. “Just anyone but Ramiro.”

I walked through the shelter, brushing the snow off my hat and jacket, and climbed into the van, trying to fully move on from my conversation with Bree. I had to completely divorce myself from the sadness and anxiety she’d stirred in me. If I didn’t, I’d be in no condition to negotiate with a madman.

Ramiro handed me his phone.

“Henry Fowler?” I said.

He coughed. “Who’s this?”

“My name is Alex Cross,” I said.

There was a long pause before he said, “I’ve heard of you.”

“And I’ve heard of you,” I said. “You’re an impressive man, Mr. Fowler.”

He laughed acidly at that. “I’m a fucking loser, Cross. Let’s call it what it is, because I am, in no way, the man I was.”

“If you say so,” I replied, then paused. “So what are we doing here?”

“We?” Fowler said. “There’s no we here. There’s just you, Cross, and all your well-armed friends out there, the members of the jury, looking to spoil my fun.”

Fun. I shut my eyes. That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. It meant that he planned to toy with his hostages and us. He would enjoy that, so he would try to draw out the experience. This was looking like it was going to be a long Christmas Eve night.

“Is that what this is, a game?” I asked. “Or a trial?”

“Both,” he said in a reasonable tone. “That’s what a trial is, isn’t it? A game played with deadly intent?”

“I suppose.”

“You suppose. Before we move on, Cross, a word of advice.”

“Yes?”

Fowler began screaming: “Don’t fuck with me! Don’t lie to me! And don’t try to game me. If you try to game me in my courtroom, you will lose!”

I kept my voice steady. “I hear your concerns, Mr. Fowler. And I will not lie to you or try to game you. But here’s a word of advice back at you. You can talk. And I promise I’ll listen. I’ll really listen. But now…here’s the important part…I’ll listen up to a point. ”

“When do we get to that point?” he asked, calmer now.

“When I say so,” I said, taking a chance with my answer. It was actually not my call when negotiations would be broken off and an assault authorized. But I wanted Fowler to believe that I had that power. I wanted him to believe that he was talking directly to the man in charge.

A silence, and then Fowler spoke again.

“Okay, Alex Cross. We’ve got the start of a deal,” Fowler said. “You’re going to be my jury foreman.”

Before I could reply to that, Fowler apparently pulled the phone away from his mouth because he sounded farther off as he began to scream, “I swear, this snot-nosed kid better shut up, Diana. Shut her up! Now! ”

I could hear Chloe crying hysterically. I could also hear Diana Fowler Nicholson saying, “Henry, for God’s sake, she’s scared, she’s tired, she’s hungry.”

Without missing a beat, and with cold sarcasm in his voice, Fowler said, “If she’s hungry, tell her to eat the sandwich I brought.” Then he let go with a sickening snicker. “PB and J, little Trey’s favorite. Don’t worry, I’ll save him one.”

Diana again. “Henry-”

“Shut the hell up, Diana! ” Fowler screamed. “I have no reason and, frankly, no desire to talk to you!” Then two gunshots.

In his calm voice, Fowler said, “There goes your precious Ming vase and your cute little Swarovski crystal cigarette box, Diana. I just want you to fully understand the reality now: this room, your life, they are nothing but a great big shooting gallery to-”

Dr. Nicholson’s voice cut him off. “What’s wrong with you, Fowler? You’re nothing but-”

Another gunshot. Sweat was pouring off my brow. Children crying, but no other sounds. Then Fowler returned to his crazy screaming voice. “Listen, you pathetic quack! You’re the one I most want to put in the grave. Do you understand that? You’re the one I want to kill. Do you understand that?”

There was no answer from the doctor.

Then Fowler screamed, “Do you understand that, Barry?”

“Listen to him, Barry. Please listen,” Diana begged.

“I’m listening,” said the doctor, barely audibly. “And of course I understand.”

Now Fowler spoke with quiet and controlled rage. “No one in this room should have anything to say, not anything. Not a word. But that’s especially true of you, quackster. So listen to me very carefully. If you say one more word, just one…more…word-if you make any sound at all, even a cough or a hiccup-I’m going to kill you. Nod your head yes if you understand the rules.”

I assumed that Dr. Nicholson nodded, because Fowler’s voice came back to me as if he were returning to a business call he’d put on hold. “Hey, Cross. Sorry to keep you like that. You know how tough a courtroom can be.”