James Patterson - I, Alex Cross

After my meeting with Cormorant, I ran out to get a new one and used it to call Sam Pinkerton at the Washington Post .

Sam and I originally met at the gym where we both work out. He's more into Shotokan, whereas I'm straight boxing, but we'd spar anyway, and have a drink once in a while too. So it wasn't completely out of left field for me to call and ask if he felt like grabbing a quick one at Union Pub after work.

I spent the rest of the afternoon chasing Tony Nicholson's shadow and pretty much getting nowhere that I hadn't been before.

Then, just after five, I walked up Louisiana and along Columbus Circle to meet with Sam.

Over a beer, we shot the breeze and played catch-up, about how our kids were doing, what we thought of the DC school budget fiasco, even the weather. It felt good to sit and have a seminormal conversation for a little while. My days had been too crowded for regular life lately.

On the second round, things heated up and got a whole lot more pointed.

"So what do you have brewing at work these days?" I asked.

He leaned back in the booth and tilted his head at me. "Did this meeting just start?"

"Yeah. I've got a case going, and I'm trying to take the temperature on a few things out there."

"As in, over there? " He pointed in the general direction of the White House, which was his beat, and only a few blocks from the bar. "Are we talking about legislation or something else? I think I already know the answer."

"Something else," I said.

"I assume you don't mean the president's sixtieth-birthday thing?"

"Sam."

"'Cause I can get you in if you want. The grub's going to be pretty good. You like Norah Jones? She'll be performing. And Mary Blige."

He knew he was doing me a favor, and he wasn't going to let it go by without busting on me a little.

"Okay, here's something," he said. "You know the blog Jenna Knows? I get a call the other day from Jenna herself. Now, you've got to consider the source on something like this, but suffice to say she had some pretty wild shit. I can't go into any detail right now. You might want to buy me another drink in about two days." He drained his glass. "Unless you want to tell me what the hell you're working on."

"No comment. Not just yet," I told him. And I also thought, Mission accomplished . Whatever else happened, this thing was at least set in motion, with or without me.

"There is one other thing, though," I said. "It's a little unconventional."

"My favorite convention," he said, and spun his finger in the air at the waitress for another round.

"Off the record. If anything happens to me in the next few days or weeks, I want you to look into it."

Sam went still and stared at me. "Jesus Christ, Alex."

"I know it's a strange thing to say. More than a little, I guess."

"Don't you have – I don't know – an entire police department looking after you?"

"It depends on how you mean that," I said, as the next round came to the table. "Let's just say I'm calling for backup."

TWO WEEKS AGO, hell, last week, Tony Nicholson had been popping five-hundred-dollar bottles of champagne when he was thirsty. Now here he was, huddled in the rain at a filthy I-95 truck stop like some third world alien on the run.

Mara waited inside, watching through the plate glass window of the Landmark Diner. When he looked back, she tapped her wrist and shrugged, like maybe he'd forgotten they had somewhere else to be.

He knew, he knew.

The alternative to this had been no alternative at all – rotting in a cell at the Alexandria Detention Center. At least now there was the promise of passports, plane tickets, and enough cash to get them off this plasticized continent for good.

But his contact was late, and Nicholson felt a little more paranoid with every passing minute. On top of it all, his bad knee was only getting worse in the rain and cold, and it throbbed like a sonofabitch from standing too long.

Finally, another five minutes later, there was movement in his line of vision.

A panel truck of some kind flashed its lights from across the front parking lot. Nicholson looked over, and the driver motioned him to come that way.

He motioned again – more urgently.

Nicholson's heart jumped into his throat. Something was off . It was supposed to have been a car, not a truck, and the meeting point was supposed to be right here, where people could see. Where nothing funny could happen.

Too late. When he looked back at the diner again, Mara was gone. A little boy stood where she'd been, hands cupped around his face behind the glass, looking out at him like this was a remake of Village of the Damned .

Pulse racing, Nicholson motioned to the driver that he'd be right back, and gimped toward the door at what he hoped was a natural enough pace.

Inside, the restaurant and newsstand were mostly empty, with Mara nowhere in sight.

A quick check of the deserted ladies' room told him what he already knew: This had just officially become an individual sport. He continued out the back door by the loos and kept moving.

The rear lot was quiet and looked empty. He'd parked the rental maybe fifty yards away, which right now seemed like fifty too many. When he checked over his shoulder, someone was coming out the same door he'd just used – maybe the truck driver, maybe not; it was hard to tell in the blowing mist and rain.

He broke into an excruciating, lopsided run, but now he could hear faster steps than his own slapping the wet pavement behind him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the panel truck again, skirting the lot. Pete's Meats, it said on the side, and even now some part of his brain registered the irony.

Mother of God, I'm dead. So's Mara. Maybe she is already.

He got as far as one hand on the rental-car door. A calloused palm slapped over his mouth, absorbing any scream he had to offer. The man's arms were massive, and Nicholson felt himself twisted around as though he were a small child.

For a split second, he felt sure his neck was about to be broken. Instead, something stabbed up under his chin, creating a stomach-churning flash of pain and disorientation.

His vision fluttered. Parking lot, sky, and car all swam together in a blur, until the curtain came down for Tony Nicholson and everything went far, far away.

NICHOLSON WOKE UP in the dark, on cold ground, but at least he was alive. He was completely naked, he realized, and his wrists and ankles were bound.

A horrible ache blazed up in his neck when he tried to look around. But he was still in the game, which was all that really counted now, wasn't it?

There was a building of some kind behind him, dimly lit from the inside. Everything else was just shadows and trees. A stack of firewood, maybe. Machinery of some kind near the building. What? A snowblower? Lawn mower?

"He's waking up," a voice said, not far away from him.

Nicholson heard footfalls and the sound of sloshing water. As the steps came closer, a flashlight beam lit the ground in front of him. He saw a pair of feet in dark cordovans.

"Welcome back, Tony. Thought we lost you back there. Here you go!"

When the splash of water hit, it jolted him like an electric shock. His whole body seized with the cold, and his breath came in crazy accordion gasps he couldn't control.

"Get him up," someone else said.

They hoisted him under the arms until his bare ass landed on a wooden chair. The flashlight caught just glints of things – a face, a stump, a flash of silver in someone's hand. Gun? Phone?

"Where's Mara?" he slurred, as she suddenly came to mind.