James Patterson - I, Alex Cross

I'm usually good in a crisis – it's what I do for a living – but I was barely holding it together. When Jannie came over to stand beside me, I didn't bother to try and hide the tears coming down my cheeks.

This wasn't just happening to Nana. It was happening to all of us.

And as we sat there watching Nana, a tear ran down her cheek.

"Nana," we all said at once. But she didn't speak back to us or even try to open her eyes.

There was just that single tear.

WHEN I WASN'T sleeping that night, or getting out of the nurses' way every few hours while they checked their patient, I was talking to Nana. At first, I stuck to the soft stuff – how much we loved her, how much we were pulling for her, and even just what was going on in the room.

But eventually it sank in for me that all Nana ever wanted was the truth, whatever that happened to be. So I started to tell her about my day. Just like we had always talked, never thinking about the reality that our talks would have to end eventually.

"I had to kill someone today," I said.

It seemed like there should have been more to say about that, once I'd said it out loud, but I just sat there quietly. I guess this was where Nana was supposed to come in.

And then she kind of did – a memory, anyway, from an earlier time when we had a similar conversation.

Did he have a family, Alex?

Nana had asked me that before anything else. I was twenty-eight at the time. It was an armed robbery, at a little grocery store in Southeast. I wasn't even on duty when it happened, just on my way home. The man's name, I'll never forget, was Eddie Clemmons. It was the first time anyone had ever shot at me, and the first time I'd ever fired in self-defense.

And yes, I told Nana, he had a wife, though he didn't live with her. And two children.

I remember standing there in the front hall on Fifth Street with my coat still on. Nana had been carrying a basket of wash when I came in, and we ended up sitting down on the stairs, folding clothes and talking about the shooting. I thought it was strange at first, how she kept handing me things to fold. Then, after a while, I realized that at some point, my life would start to feel normal again.

You're going to be fine, she had said to me. Maybe not quite the same, but still, just fine. You're a police officer.

She was right, of course. Maybe that was why I needed so badly to have the same conversation again now. It was strange, but all I really wanted was for her to tell me it was going to be okay.

I picked up her hand and kissed it and pressed it against my cheek – anything to connect with her, I guess.

"Everything's going to be all right, Nana," I said.

But I couldn't tell if that was the truth or not, or exactly whom I might be lying to.

I WOKE UP with a hand pressing on my shoulder and someone whispering close to my ear. "Time to go to work, sweetheart. Tia's here."

My aunt Tia set her big canvas knitting bag down at my feet. I'd been awake and then asleep again half a dozen times through the night; it was strange being here, with no windows and no real sense of time, and Nana so sick.

She looked about the same to me this a.m. I wasn't sure if that was good or bad. A little of both, maybe. "I'm going to wait for morning rounds," I told Tia.

"No, sweetheart, you're going to go." She nudged my arm to get me out of the chair. "There's not enough room in here, and Tia's calves are killing her. So go on. Go to work. Then you can come back and tell Nana all about it, just like you always do."

The knitting came out automatically, with the big colorful wooden needles she always used, and I saw a thermos and a USA Today in the bag too. The way she settled right in made me remember she'd been through this before, with my uncle, then with her younger sister, Anna. My aunt was almost a professional at caring for the very sick and dying.

"I was going to bring you some of that David Whyte you like," Tia said. At first I thought she was talking to me. "But then I thought no, let's keep you riled up, so I brought the newspaper instead. You know they're outsourcing the statue for Dr. King's memorial to China? China ? Do you believe that, Regina?"

Tia's not a sentimental woman, but in her own way, she's a saint. I also knew there was no chance she'd let Nana catch her crying, coma or no coma. I leaned down and kissed the top of Tia's head. Then I kissed Nana too.

"Bye, Tia, Nana. I'll see you both later."

My aunt kept right on chattering, but I heard Nana answer me. Another echo or memory or whatever these were.

Be good, she told me. And Alex, be careful.

Actually, I wouldn't be in any physical danger right away. Technically, I was on administrative leave after the previous day's shooting. Superintendent Davies kept it down to two days, which I appreciated, but even that was time I couldn't afford. I needed to talk with Tony Nicholson and Mara Kelly. Now. So I asked Sampson to set up some interviews under his name. Then I would just go along for the ride, be another set of ears and eyes.

THE DETENTION CENTER down in Alexandria is a big old redbrick building at the dead end of Mill Road.

It was where they held Zacarias Moussaoui until he was sentenced to the supermax facility in Florence, Colorado – - which, by coincidence, was the last known residence of Kyle Craig, a serial killer and major piece of unfinished business for me to get to one of these days. It's amazing how small and incestuous the world of major crime can start to feel once you've spent enough time immersed in it, as I had. Just thinking about Kyle Craig got me riled up inside.

Nicholson and Ms. Kelly were being held on the first and second floors, respectively. We had put them in separate interview rooms and then had to shuttle between the two by elevator.

At first, neither of them was willing to say anything except that they'd been the victims of kidnap and assault. I let that go on for a while, several hours, and even subtly let Mara Kelly know that her boyfriend was holding firm. I wanted to build up her trust in Nicholson before I tried to tear it down to nothing.

Next time into the room, I laid a photocopied page on the table in front of her.

"What's this?" she asked.

"See for yourself."

She leaned in, tucking in a loose strand of hair with a white-tipped fingernail. Even here in an interrogation room, Kelly had the kind of gentility that struck me as more practiced than real. She spoke of herself as an accountant, but she'd only finished a year of junior college.

"Plane tickets?" she said. "I don't understand. What are these for?"

Sampson hunkered low over the table. He's six nine and more than a little intimidating when he wants to be, which is most of the time when he's on the job.

" Montreal to Zurich, leaving last night. You read the ticket? You see the names?"

He tapped a finger on the page. "Anthony and Charlotte Nicholson. Your boyfriend was getting ready to run on you, Mara. He and his wife ."

She pushed the page away. "Yeah, I've got a computer and a color printer too."

I took out my cell phone and offered it. "There's a number for Swiss Air right there. You want to call and confirm the reservation, Mrs. Nicholson?"

When she didn't answer, I decided to give her a few minutes alone to stew. Actually, she was right – we had faked the tickets. By the time we came back, she was ready. I could see she'd been crying, and also that she'd tried to wipe away any sign of tears.

"What do you want to know?" she asked. Then her eyes narrowed. "What do I get for it?"