James Patterson - Cross

On the way, we stopped off for an out-of-this-world dinner and some congenial bullshit at my cousin Jimmy Parker's restaurant, the Red Hat, in Irvington, New York. Mmm, mmm good. Otherwise, this trip was all business. We went alone, with no backup. I still wasn't sure what I planned to do if I found the Butcher. If we found him; if he hadn't already fled.

We listened to some old Lauryn Hill and Erykah Badu tapes on the road and didn't discuss Michael Sullivan much, not until we reached the end of the Connecticut Turnpike and crossed over into Massachusetts.

"So what are we doing here, John?" I finally broke the ice on the subject.

"Chasing the bad guy, same as always," he said. "Nothing's changed, has it? Guy's a killer, a rapist. You're the Dragon Slayer. I'm along for the ride."

"Just me and you, huh? No call to the local police? No FBI in on this? You know, we just crossed a state line."

Sampson nodded. "I figure this time it's personal. Am I wrong about that? Plus, he deserves to die, if it comes to that, which it just might. Probably will."

"It's personal all right. It's never been more personal. This has been bubbling over for a long time. It needs to end. But -"

"No b uts, Alex. We need to put an end to him."

We rode along in silence for another few miles. But I had to talk this out a little more with Sampson. We had to set some kind of rules of engagement.

"I'm not going to just take him out – if he's up here. I'm not a vigilante, John."

"I know that," said Sampson. "I know who you are, Alex. If anybody does. Let's see how it plays. Maybe he's not even here."

We arrived in the town of Florida, Massachusetts, at around two that afternoon; then we went looking for the house where we hoped to find Michael Sullivan once and for all. I could feel the tension really building inside me now. It took us another half hour to locate the place, which was built on the side of a mountain overlooking a river. We watched the house, and nobody seemed to be there. Had someone tipped off Sullivan again?

If it had happened, who would have done it? The FBI? Was he in Witness Protection after all? Was the FBI watching his back? Were they the ones who told him we might be coming for him?

We drove into the town center and had lunch at a Denny's. Sampson and I didn't talk much over our eggs and potatoes, which was unusual for us.

"You all right?" he finally asked, once the coffee had arrived.

"If we get him, I'll be better. This has to end, though. You're right about that."

"Then let's go do it."

We went back to the house, and at a little past five a station wagon turned into the drive and parked right in front of the porch. Was this him? Finally, the Butcher? Three boys piled out of the back; then a pretty, dark-haired woman got out of the driver's side. It was obvious that she and the boys got along well. They roughhoused on the front lawn; then they trooped inside the house.

I had a picture of Caitlin Sullivan with me, but I didn't need to look at it. "That's definitely her," I told Sampson. "We're in the right place this time. That's Caitlin and the Butcher's boys."

"He'll spot us if we stay here," Sampson said. "This isn't Cops, and he's no dumb crackhead waiting to be caught."

"Yeah, I'm counting on it," I said.

MICHAEL SULLIVAN WASN'T ANYWHERE near the house in Western Massachusetts. At seven thirty that night, he entered a ten-bedroom home in Wellesley a wealthy suburb outside Boston.

He was a few steps behind Melinda Steiner, who had long legs and a sweet little tush to watch. Melinda knew it, too. She also understood how to be subtle and, at the same time, nicely provocative with her wiggle-walk.

A light was on in one of the rooms off the wide front hallway – which had three chandeliers in a courtly procession, courtesy of Melinda or her decorator, no doubt.

"Sweetie, I'm home!" Melinda called out as she dropped her travel bag loudly on the highly polished floor.

Not a hint of anything wrong in her voice. No alarm or warning, no edge, nothing but wifely bonhomie.

She's pretty damn good, Sullivan couldn't help thinking to himself. Glad I'm not married to her.

No greeting came back from the room where the TV was on. Not a peep.

"Honey?" she called again. "You in there? Honey? I'm home from the country. Jerry?"

This ought to surprise the bastard for sure. Honey, I'm home! Honey, I'm still alive!

A fatigued-looking man in a wrinkled pinstriped dress shirt, boxer shorts, and electric-blue flip-flops finally appeared in the doorway.

Now – he's a pretty good actor, too. Like nothing in the whole wide world could be wrong.

Until right about now, when he sees the Butcher walking stride for stride behind his beloved wife, whom he's just tried to murder at their country house.

"Hey, you. Who is this, Mel? What's going on?" Jerry asked as he saw Sullivan standing there in the hallway.

The Butcher already had his gun out, and it was pointed at the guy in his underwear, aimed at his balls, but then Sullivan moved it up to the heart, if the conniving bastard had one. Murder your wife? What kind of cold, cold shit was that?

"Change of plans," Sullivan said. "What can I tell you? It happens."

The husband, Jerry, put his hands up in the air without being asked. He was also coming wide awake – in kind of a big hurry.

"What are you talking about? What is this, Mel? Why is this man in our house? Who the hell is he?"

A classic line and a dynamite delivery.

Now it was Melinda's turn to say her piece, and she decided to shout her answer.

"He's the one who was supposed to kill me, Jerry! You paid to have me murdered, you miserable piece of shit! You are total worthless garbage, and you're a coward too. So I paid him more to have you hit. That's what this is, honey. I guess you could call him a switch-hitter," she said, and laughed at her own joke.

Nobody else did – not Jerry and not Sullivan. It was kind of funny actually, but not laugh-out-loud funny. Or maybe her delivery was wrong, a touch too harsh, a little too much of the truth in it.

The husband jumped back into the TV room and tried to pull shut the door, but it wasn't even a contest.

The Butcher was quick and had a foot, a work boot, wedged in the doorway. Then he put his shoulder to it and followed Jerry right inside.

Jerry, the original contractor, was a tall, potbellied CEO-or CFO-type dude who was balding up top. The den smelled of his body odor and a cigar smoldering in an ashtray by the couch. A two-ball putter and a couple of Titleist spheroids lay on the rug. A man's man, this guy who had paid to have his wife killed and now was practicing his putting to show he didn't have the yips.

"I'll pay you more than she can!" Jerry squealed. "Whatever that bitch paid, I'll double it! I swear to God! The money's there. It's yours."

Wow – this is getting better and better, thought Sullivan. It brought new meaning to a game like Jeopardy! – or Let's Make a Deal.

"You total piece of crap!" Melinda snarled at her husband from the doorway. Then she ran in and smacked him in the chops. Sullivan still thought that she was a cool lady in a lot of ways, though not in some others.

He looked at the husband again. Then he looked at Melinda. Interesting couple, to be sure.

"I agree with Melinda," said the Butcher. "But Jerry does have a point, Mel. Maybe we should have a little auction here. You think? Let's talk this out like adults. No more hitting or name-calling."

TWO HOURS LATER, the auction was complete, and Michael Sullivan was driving on the Massachusetts Turnpike in his Lexus. The car could move reasonably well, and the ride was smooth as a baby's ass, or maybe he was just feeling good.