James Patterson - Cross

He was home again; he'd made it – and he took a nice big bow in front of his family, who, of course, cheered for their returning hero.

That's what he was, yeah, a hero.

" ALEX! HEY, YOU! How you been? Long time no see, big guy. You're looking good."

I waved to a petite, pretty woman named Malina Freeman and kept on running. Malina was a fixture in the neighborhood, kind of like me. She was around the same age as I was and owned the newspaper store where the two of us used to spend our allowances on candy and soda when we were kids. Rumor had it that she liked me. Hey, I liked Malina too, always had.

My flapping feet kept me headed north on Fifth Street like they knew the way, and the neighborhood scrolled by. Toward Seward Square, I hung a right and took the long way around. It didn't make logical sense to go that way, but I didn't do it for logical reasons.

The news about Maria's murderer was the one thing holding me back these days. Now I was avoiding the block where it had happened and, at the same time, working hard to remember Maria as I had known her, not as I had lost her. I was also spending time every day trying to track down her killer – now that I suspected he was still out there somewhere.

I turned right on Seventh, then headed toward the National Mall, pushing a little harder. When I got to my building at Indiana Avenue, I eked out just enough wind to take the four flights up, two steps at a time.

My new office was a converted studio apartment, one large room with a small bath and an alcove kitchen off to the side. Lots of natural light streamed in through a semicircle of windows in the turreted corner.

That's where I'd set up two comfortable chairs and a small couch for therapy sessions.

Just being here got me pretty excited. I'd put out my shingle, and I was ready to see my first patient.

Three stacks of case files were waiting on my desk, two from the Bureau and another sent over from DCPD. Most of the files represented possible consulting jobs. A few crimes to solve? An occasional dead body? I guess that was realistic.

The first file I looked at was a serial case in Georgia, someone the media had dubbed "the Midnight Caller." Three black men were dead already, with a successively shorter interval between each homicide. It was a decent case for me, except for the six hundred miles between DC and Atlanta.

I set the file aside.

The next case was closer to home. Two history professors at the University of Maryland, perhaps intimately involved, had been found dead in a classroom. The bodies had been hung from ceiling beams. Local police had a suspect but wanted to work up a profile before they went any further.

I put that file back on my desk with a yellow sticker attached.

Yellow, for maybe.

There was a knock on my door.

"It's open," I called out, and immediately became suspicious, paranoid, whatever it is that I am most of the time.

What had Nana said when I'd left the house earlier? Try not to get shot at.

OLD HABITS DIE HARD. But it wasn't Kyle Craig, or some other psychotic nutcase from my past come to visit.

It was my first patient.

The visitor took up most of the doorway where she now paused, as if scared to come in. Her face was turned down at the mouth, and her hand gripped the jamb while she tried to catch her breath, while keeping some dignity.

"You putting in an elevator anytime soon?" she asked between gasps.

"Sorry about all the stairs," I said. "You must be Kim Stafford. I'm Alex Cross. Please, come in. There's coffee, or I can get you water."

The very first patient of my new practice finally lumbered into my office. She was a heavyset woman, in her late twenties, I guessed, though she could have passed for forty. She was dressed very formally, in a dark skirt and white blouse that looked old but well made. A blue-and-lavender silk scarf was carefully tied under her chin.

"You said on the machine that Robert Hatfield referred you?" I asked. "I used to work with Robert on the police force. Is he a friend of yours?"

"Not really."

Okay, not a friend of Hatfield's. I waited for her to say more, but nothing came. She just stood in the middle of the office, seeming to quietly appraise everything in the room.

"We can sit over here," I prompted. She waited for me to sit first, so I did.

Kim finally sat down herself, perched tentatively on the forward edge of the chair. One of her hands fluttered nervously around the knot in her scarf. The other was clenched into a fist.

"I just need some help trying to understand someone," she began. "Someone who gets angry sometimes."

"Is this someone close to you?"

She stiffened. "I'm not giving you his name."

"No," I said. "The name isn't important. But is this a family member?"

"Fiance."

I nodded. "How long have you two been engaged? Is that all right to ask?"

"Four years," she said. "He wants me to lose some weight before we get married."

Maybe it was force of habit, but I was already working up a profile on the fiance. Everything was her fault in the relationship; he took no responsibility for his own actions; her weight was his escape hatch.

"Kim, when you say he gets angry a lot – can you tell me a little more about that?"

"Well, it's just…" She stopped to think, although I'm sure it was embarrassment and not a lack of clarity that held her back. Then tears pearled at the corners of her eyes.

"Has he been physically violent with you?" I asked.

" No," she said, a little too quickly. "Not violent. It's just… Well, yes. I guess so."

With one shaky breath, she seemed to give up on words. Instead, she untied the scarf around her neck and let it float down into her lap.

I hated what I saw. The welts were easy enough to make out. They ran like blurred stripes around her throat.

I'd seen those kinds of striated markings before. Usually they were on dead bodies.

I HAD TO REMIND MYSELF – the murders are behind you now; this is just a therapy session.

"Kim, how did you get those marks on your neck? Tell me whatever you can."

She winced as she tied the scarf back on. "If my cell phone rings, I have to answer it. He thinks I'm at my mother's house," she said.

A terrible look crossed her face, and I realized it was too early to ask her about specific incidences of abuse.

Still not looking at me, she unbuttoned the sleeve of her blouse. I wasn't sure what she was doing until I saw the angry red sore above the wrist on her forearm. It was just beginning to heal.

"Is that a burn mark?" I asked.

"He smokes cigars," she said.

I breathed in. She'd answered so matter-of-factly. "Have you called the police?"

She laughed bitterly. "No. I haven't."

Her hand went up to her mouth, and she looked away again. This man had obviously scared her into protecting him, no matter what.

A cell phone chirped inside her purse.

Without a word to me, she took out the phone, looked at the number, and answered.

"Hey, baby. What's up?" Her voice was soft and easygoing, and totally convincing. "No," she said. "Mom went out to get some milk. Of course I'm sure. I'll tell her you said hi."

It was fascinating to watch Kim's face as she spoke. She wasn't just acting for him. She was playing this part for herself. That's how she was getting by, wasn't it?

When she finally hung up, she looked at me with the most incongruous smile, as though no conversation had taken place at all. It lasted less than a few seconds. Then she broke up, all at once. A low moan turned into a sob that racked her body; she rocked forward, clutching herself around the middle.