James Patterson - Cat & Mouse

It took Sampson and me half an hour before we had a shallow ditch stretching toward the ancient oak tree in the Murphy yard. The sprawling tree had been mentioned several times in Gary ’s recounting of his dreams.

I had almost expected Walter Murphy to call the local police on us, but it didn’t happen. I half expected Soneji to suddenly appear. That didn’t happen either.

“Too bad old Gary didn’t just leave us a map.” Sampson grunted and groaned under the hot, beating sun.

“He was very specific about his dream. I think he wanted Alex to come out here. Alex, or somebody else.”

“Somebody else did. The two of us. Hot shit, there’s something down here. Something under my feet,” Sampson said.

I moved around toward his spot in the trench. The two of us continued to dig, picking up the pace. We worked side by side, sweating profusely. Data, I reminded myself. It’s all just data on the way to an answer. The beginning of a solution.

And then I recognized the fragments we had uncovered in the shallow grave, in Gary ’s hiding place near the fireplace.

“Jesus Christ, I don’t believe it. Oh God, Jesus!” Sampson said.

“Animal bones. Looks like the skull and upper thigh bone of a medium-sized dog,” I said to Sampson.

“Lots of bones!” he added.

We continued to dig even faster. Our breathing was harsh and labored. We had been digging in the summer heat for nearly an hour. It was in the nineties, sticky-hot, and claustrophobic. We were in a hole up to our waists.

“Shit! Here we go again. You recognize this from any of your med-school anatomy classes?” Sampson asked.

We were looking down at fragments from a human skeleton. “It’s the scapula and mandible. It could be a young boy or girl,” I told him.

“So this is the handiwork of young Gary? This Gary ’s first kill? Another kid?”

“I don’t know for sure. Let’s not forget about Grandpa Walter. Let’s keep looking. If it is Gary, maybe he left a sign. These would be his earliest souvenirs. They would have been precious to him.”

We kept on digging and, minutes later, we found another cache. Only the sound of our labored breathing broke the silence.

There were more bones, possibly from a large animal, possibly a deer, but probably human.

And there was something else, a definite sign from young Gary. It had been wrapped in tinfoil, which I now carefully removed.

It was a Lionel locomotive, undoubtedly the one he had stolen from his stepbrother.

The toy train that launched a hundred deaths.

CHRISTINE JOHNSON knew she had to go to the Sojourner Truth School, but once she got there, she wasn’t sure she was ready for work yet. She was nervous, distracted, and not herself. Maybe school would help to get her mind off Alex, though.

She stopped at Laura Dixon’s first-grade class on her morning walk. Laura was one of her best friends in the world, and her classes were stimulating and fun. Besides, first graders were so damn cute to be around. “Laura’s babies,” she called them. Or, “Laura’s cuddly kittens and perky puppies.”

“Oh, look who it is, look who’s come to visit. Aren’t we the luckiest first-grade class in the whole world!” the teacher cried when she spotted Christine at the door.

Laura was just a smidgen over five foot tall, but she was still a very big girl, large at the hips and breasts. Christine couldn’t keep from smiling at her friend’s greeting. Trouble was, she was also incredibly close to tears. She realized she wasn’t ready for school.

“Good morning, Ms. Johnson!” the first graders chorused like a practiced glee club. God, they were wonderful! So bright and enthusiastic, sweet and good.

“Good morning back at you.” Christine beamed. There, she felt a little better. A big letter B was scrawled on the blackboard, as well as Laura’s sketches of a Bumblebee Buzzing around Batman and a Big Blue Boat.

“Don’t let me interrupt progress,” she said. “I’m just here for a little refresher course. B is for Beautiful Beginnings, Babies.”

The class laughed, and she felt connected with them, thank God. It was at times like this when she dearly wished she had kids of her own. She loved the first graders, loved kids, and, at thirty-two, it was definitely time.

Then, out of nowhere, an image flashed from the terrible scene a few days earlier. Alex being moved from his house on Fifth Street to one of the ambulances! She had been called to the scene by neighbors, friends of hers. Alex was conscious. He said, “Christine, you look so beautiful. Always.” And then they took him away from her.

The image from that morning and his final words made her shiver to remember. The Chinese had a saying that had been in her mind for a while, troubling her: Society prepares the crime; the criminal only commits it.

“Are you all right?” Laura Dixon was at her side, had seen Christine falter at the door.

“Excuse us, ladies and gentlemen,” she said to her class. “Ms. Johnson and I have to chat for a minute right outside the door. You may chat as well. Quietly. Like the ladies and gentlemen that you are, I trust.”

Then Laura took Christine’s arm and walked her out into the deserted hallway.

“Do I look that bad?” Christine asked. “Does it show all over my face, Laura?”

Laura hugged her tightly and the heat from her friend’s ample body felt good. Laura was good.

“Don’t you try to be so goddamn strong, don’t try to be so brave,” Laura said. “Have you heard anything more, sweetheart? Tell Laura. Talk to me.”

Christine mumbled into Laura’s hair. It felt so good to hold her, to hold on to someone. “Still listed as critical. Still no visitors. Unless you happen to be high up in the Metro police or the FBI.”

“Christine, Christine,” Laura whispered softly. “What am I going to do with you?”

“What, Laura? I’m okay now. I really am.”

“You are so strong, girl. You are about the best person I have ever met. I love you dearly. That’s all I’ll say for right now.”

“That’s enough. Thank you,” Christine said. She felt a little better, not quite so hollowed out and empty, but the feeling didn’t last very long.

She started to walk back to her office.

As she turned down the east corridor, she spotted the FBI’s Kyle Craig waiting for her near her office. She hurried down the hallway toward him. This is not good, she told herself. Oh dear God, no. Why is Kyle here? What does he have to tell me?

“Kyle, what is it?” Her voice trembled and nearly went out of control.

“I have to talk to you,” he said, taking her hand. “Please, just listen. Come inside your office, Christine.”

THAT NIGHT, back in my room at the Marriott in Princeton, I couldn’t sleep again. It was two cases, both running concurrently in my mind. I skimmed several chapters from a rather pedestrian book about trains, just to gather data.

I was starting to familiarize myself with the vocabulary of trains: vestibules, step boxes, roomettes, annunciators, the deadman control. I knew that trains were a key part to the mystery I had been asked to solve.

What part had Gary Soneji played in the attack at Alex Cross’s house?

Who was his partner?

I went to work at my PowerBook, which I’d had set up on the hotel room desk. As I would later relate to Kyle Craig, I no sooner sat down than the specially designed alarm in the computer started to beep. A fax was waiting for me.

I knew instantly what it was-Smith was calling. He had been contacting me for over a year, on a regular basis. Who was tracking whom? I sometimes asked myself.

The fax message was classic Smith. I read it line by line.