James Patterson: London Bridges

As he watched-couldn't take his eyes away-the Daisy Cutter leveled everything within five hundred yards of the drop site. It also had the capacity to kill everything within an area that large, which it did. This was utter devastation. Up to ten miles away windows blew out of buildings. The ground and buildings shook in Elko, Nevada, about thirty-five miles away. The explosion was heard in the next state.

And actually, much farther away than that. Right there in Los Angeles, for instance. Because tiny Sunrise Valley, Nevada, was just a test run.

"This is just a warm-up," said the Wolf. "Just the beginning of something great. My masterpiece. My payback."

When everything started, I was blessedly out of the loop, on a four-day vacation to the West Coast, my first in over a year. First stop: Seattle, Washington.

Seattle is a beautiful, lively city that-in my opinion, anyway-nicely balances the funky old and the cyber new, with possibly a tip of a Microsoft cap to the future side of things. Under ordinary circumstances I would have looked forward to a visit there.

These were kind of shaky times, though, and I had only to look down at the small boy tightly holding on to my hand as we crossed Wallingford Avenue North to remember why.

I had only to listen to my heart.

The boy was my son Alex, and I was seeing him for the first time in four months. He and his mother lived in Seattle now. I lived in Washington, D.C., where I was an FBI agent. Alex's mom and I were involved in a "friendly" custody struggle over our son, at least it was evolving that way after a very stormy couple of encounters.

"You having fun?" I asked little Alex, who still carried around Moo, a spotted black-and-white cow that had been his favorite toy when he lived with me in Washington. He was almost three, but already a smooth talker and even smoother operator. God, I loved this little guy. His mother believed that he was a gifted child-high intelligence, high creativity-and since Christine was an elementary-school teacher, and an excellent one, she would probably know.

Christine's place was in the Wallingford area of Seattle, and because it's a pleasant walking neighborhood, Alex and I had decided to stay close to home. We started out playing in the backyard, which was bordered with Douglas firs and had plenty of room, not to mention a view of the Cascade Mountains.

I took several pictures of the Boy, per my instructions from Nana Mama. Alex wanted me to see his mother's vegetable garden, and as I expected, it was very well done, full of tomatoes, lettuce, and squash. The grass was neatly mown. Pots of rosemary and mint covered the kitchen windowsills. I took more pictures of Alex.

After our tour of the yard, we walked over to the Wallingford Playfield and had a catch-and-batting session, then it was the zoo, and then another hand-holding walk along nearby Green Lake. Alex was pumped up about the upcoming Seafair Kiddies Parade and didn't understand why I couldn't stay for it. I knew what was coming next and I tried to brace myself for it.

"Why do you always have to go away?" he asked, and I didn't have a good answer. Just a sudden, terrible ache in my chest that was all too familiar. I want to be with you every minute of every day, buddy, I wanted to say.

"I just do, buddy," I said. "But I'll be back soon. I promise. You know I keep my promises."

"Is it because you're a policeman?" he asked. "Why you have to go away?"

"Yes. Partly. That's my job. I have to make money to buy VCRs and Pop-Tarts."

"Why don't you get another job?" asked Alex.

"I'll think about it," I told him. Not a lie. I would. I had been thinking about my police career a lot lately. I'd even talked to my doctor about it, my head doctor.

Finally, about 2:30, we made our way back to his house, which is a restored Victorian, painted deep blue with white trim, in excellent condition. It's cozy and light and, I must admit, a nice place to grow up in-as is Seattle.

Little Alex even has a view of the Cascades from his room. What more could a boy ask for?

Maybe a father who is around more than once every few months? How about that?

Christine was waiting on the porch, and she welcomed us back warmly. This was such a switch from our last face-to-face in Washington. Could I trust Christine? I guess I had to.

Alex and I had a final couple of hugs on the sidewalk. I took a few more snapshots for Nana and the kids.

Then he and Christine disappeared inside, and I was on the outside, alone, walking back to my rental car with my hands stuffed deep in my pockets, wondering what it was all about, missing my small son already, missing him badly, wondering if it would always be as heartbreaking as this, knowing that it would be.

After the visit with Alex in Seattle I took a flight down to San Francisco to spend some time with Homicide Inspector Jamilla Hughes. She and I had been seeing each other for about a year. I missed Jam and needed to be with her. She was good at making things all right.

Most of the way I listened to the fine vocals of Erykah Badu, then Calvin Richardson. They were good at making things right, too. Better, anyway.

As the plane got close to San Francisco we were treated to a surprisingly clear view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the city's skyline. I spotted the Embarcadero and the Transamerica Building, and then I just let the scene wash over me. I couldn't wait to see Jam. We'd been close ever since we worked a murder investigation together. The only problem: the two of us lived on different coasts. We liked our respective cities, and our jobs, and hadn't figured out where to go with that yet.

On the other hand, we definitely enjoyed being together, and I could see the joy on Jamilla's face as I spotted her near an exit at busy San Francisco International Airport. She was in front of a North Beach Deli, grinning, clapping her hands over her head, then jumping up and down. She has that kind of spirit and can get away with it.

I smiled and felt better as soon as I saw her. She always has that effect on me. She was wearing a buttery soft leather car coat, light blue T, and black jeans and looked as though she'd come straight from work. But she looked good, really good.

She'd put on lipstick-and perfume, I discovered as I took her into my arms. "Oh yes," I said. "I missed you."

"Then hold me, hug me, kiss me," she said. "How was your boy? How was Alex?"

"He's getting big, smarter, funnier. He's pretty great. I love that little guy. I miss him already, Jamilla."

"I know you do. I know you do, baby. Give me that hug."

I picked Jam up off her feet and spun her around. She's five-nine and solid, and I love holding her in my arms. I noticed a few people watching us, and most were smiling. How could they not?

Then two of the spectators, a man and a woman in dark suits, walked up to us. Now what is this?

The woman held up her badge for me to see: FBI.

Oh no. No. Don't do this to me.

I groaned and gently set down Jamilla, as if we had been doing something wrong instead of something very right. All the good feelings inside me evaporated in a hurry. Just like that. Wham, bam! I needed a break-and this wasn't going to be it.

"I'm Agent Jean Matthews; this is Agent John Thompson," the woman said, gesturing to a thirty-something blond guy munching a Ghirardelli chocolate bar. "We hate to interrupt, to intrude, but we were sent out here to meet your plane. You're Alex Cross, sir?" she said, finally thinking to check.

"I'm Alex Cross. This is Inspector Hughes from the SFPD. You can talk in front of her," I said.

Agent Matthews shook her head. "No, sir, I'm afraid I can't."

Jamilla patted my arm. "It's okay." She walked away, leaving me with the two agents, which was the opposite of what I wanted to happen. I wanted them to walk away-far, far away.