James Patterson - Cat & Mouse

“All through grade-school days,” Christine said, “I was Dumbo-Gumbo. That’s what some of the other kids called me. I have big ears, you see. Like Dumbo the flying elephant.”

She pulled back her hair. “Look.”

“Very pretty,” I said to her.

She laughed. “Don’t blow your credibility. I do have big ears. And I do have this big smile, lots of teeth and gums.”

“So some smart-ass kid came up with Dumbo-Gumbo?”

“My brother, Dwight, did it to me. He also came up with ‘Gumbo Din.’ He still hasn’t said he’s sorry.”

“Well, I’m sorry for him. Your smile is dazzling, and your ears are just right.”

She laughed again. I loved to hear her laugh. I loved everything about her actually. I couldn’t have been happier with our first night out.

THE TIME flew by like nothing at all. We talked about charter schools, a national curriculum, a Gordon Parks exhibit at the Corcoran, lots of silly stuff, too. I would have guessed it was maybe nine-thirty when I happened to glance at my watch. It was actually ten to twelve.

“It’s a school night,” Christine said. “I have to go, Alex. I really do. My coach will turn into a pumpkin and all that.”

Her car was parked on Nineteenth Street and we walked there together. The streets were silent, empty, glittering under overhead lamps.

I felt as if I’d had a little too much to drink, but I knew I hadn’t. I was feeling carefree, remembering what it was like to be that way.

“I’d like to do this again sometime. How about tomorrow night?” I said and started to smile. God, I liked the way this was going.

Suddenly, something was wrong. I saw a look I didn’t like-sadness and concern. Christine peered into my eyes.

“I don’t think so, Alex. I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m really sorry. I thought I was ready, but I guess maybe I’m not. There’s a saying-scars grow with us.”

I sucked in a breath. I wasn’t expecting that. In fact, I don’t remember ever having been so wrong about how I was getting along with someone. It was like a sudden punch to the chest.

“Thanks for taking me to just about the nicest restaurant I’ve ever been to. I’m really, really sorry. It’s nothing that you did, Alex.”

Christine continued to look into my eyes. She seemed to be searching for something, and I guess not finding it.

She got into her car without saying another word. She seemed to efficient suddenly, so in control. She started it up and drove away. I stood in the empty street and watched until her car’s blazing brake lights disappeared.

It’s nothing that you did, Alex. I could hear her words repeating in my head.

BAD BOY was back in Wilmington, Delaware. He had work to do here. In some ways, this might even be best part.

Gary Soneji strolled the well-lit streets of Wilmington, seemingly without care in the world. Why should he worry? He was skillful enough at makeup and disguises to fool the stiffs living here in Wilmington. He’d fooled them in Washington, hadn’t he?

He stopped and stared at a huge, red-type-on-white poster near the train station. “ Wilmington – A Place to Be Somebody,” it read. What a terrific, unintentional joke, he thought.

So was a three-story mural of bloated whales and dolphins that looked as if it had been stolen from some beach town in Southern California. Somebody ought to hire the Wilmington town council to work on Saturday Night Live. They were good, real good.

He carried a duffel bag, but didn’t draw any attention to himself. The people he saw on his little walk looked as if they had outfitted themselves from the pages of the Sears catalog, circa 1961. Lots of twill that didn’t exactly flatter girth; putrid-colored plaid; comfortable brown shoes on everybody.

He heard the grating mid-Atlantic accent a few times, too. “I’ve got to phewn heum” (“I’ve got to phone home”). A plain and ugly dialect for plain and ugly thoughts.

Jesus, what a place to have lived. How the hell had he survived during those sterile years? Why had he bothered to come back now? Well, he knew the answer to that question. Soneji knew why he’d come back.

Revenge.

Payback time.

He turned off North Street and onto his old street, Central Avenue. He stopped across from a whitepainted brick house. He stared at the house for a long time. It was a modest Colonial, two stories. It had belonged to Missy’s grandparents originally, and that was why she hadn’t moved.

Click your heels together, Gary. Jesus, there’s no place like home.

He opened his duffel bag and took out his weapon of choice. He was especially proud of this one. He’d been waiting for a long time to use it.

Gary Soneji finally crossed the street. He marched up to the front door as if he owned the place, just as he had four years ago, the last time he’d been here, the day Alex Cross had barged into his life along with his partner, John Sampson.

The door was unlocked-how sweet-his wife and daughter were waiting up for him, eating Poppycock and watching Friends on television.

“Hi. Remember me?” Soneji said in a soft voice.

They both started to scream.

His own sweet wife, Missy.

His darling little girl, Roni.

Screaming like strangers, because they knew him so well, and because they had seen his weapon.

IF YOU ever began to face all the facts, you probably wouldn’t get up in the morning. The war room inside police headquarters was filled beyond capacity with ringing telephones, percolating computers, state-of-the-art surveillance equipment. I wasn’t fooled by all the activity or the noise. We were still nowhere on the shootings.

First thing, I was asked to give a briefing on Soneji. I was supposed to know him better than anyone else, yet somehow I felt that I didn’t know enough, especially now. We had what’s called a roundtable. Over the course of an hour, I shorthanded the details of his kidnapping of two children a few years earlier in Georgetown, his eventual capture, the dozens of interviews we’d had at Lorton Prison prior to his escape.

Once everybody on the task force was up to speed, I got back to work myself. I needed to find out who Soneji was, who he really was; and why he had decided to come back now; why he had returned to Washington.

I worked through lunch and never noticed the time. It look that long just to retrieve the mountain of data we had collected on Soneji. Around two in the afternoon, I found myself painfully aware of pushpins on the “big board,” where we were collecting “important” information.

A war room just isn’t war room without pushpin maps and a large bulletin board. At the very top of our board was the name that had been given to the case by the chief of detectives. He had chosen “Web,” since Soneji had already picked up the nickname “Spider” in police circles. Actually, I’d coined the nickname. It came out of the complex webs he was always able to spin.

One section of the big board was devoted to “civilian leads.” These were mostly reliable eyewitness accounts from the previous morning at Union Station. Another section was “police leads,” most of which were the detective’s reports from the train terminal.

Civilian leads are “untrained eye” reports; police leads are “trained eye.” The thread in all of the reports so far was that no one had a good description of what Gary Soneji looked like now. Since Soneji had demonstrated unusual skill with disguises in the past, the news wasn’t surprising, but it was disturbing to all of us.

Soneji’s personal history was displayed on another part of the board. A long, curling computer printout listed every jurisdiction where he had ever been charged with a crime, as well as several unsolved homicides that overlapped his early years in Princeton, New Jersey.