James Patterson - Double Cross

“But I’m free, free at last!” he shouted to the high rafters of the Colorado house. “And I have important things to do. I have so many promises to keep.”

WHEN HE CAME BACK downstairs to say good-bye to his mom, he had discarded the rubber mask. He’d worn it on most of the drive from Florence to Aspen, but it probably wasn’t wise to push his luck too far. The same could be said for being here at the house-except that few people knew his mother stayed here-and he did need the money after all, needed it for his plan, to make all his nightmares come true.

He snuck up on Miriam, whom he had hog-tied to his father’s old lounge chair in the family room. Right in front of the twelve-foot-high fireplace. God, how many memories were here-his father screaming at him until his veins looked like they would burst, the general striking him so many times he lost count. And Miriam-never saying a word, pretending that she didn’t know about the beatings, the tongue-lashings, the years of constant abuse.

“Boo-Mommy!” Kyle said as he popped up behind the old girl. He wondered if she remembered how he used to do this when he was just a little boy, five or six years old at the most. Boo-Mommy! Pay attention to me, please?

“Well, I’m through with the bulk of my business here in Colorado. I’m a wanted man, y’know, so I’d best hit the road. Oh dear, you’re shaking like a leaf. Listen, sweetie, you’re perfectly safe here in this house, this fortress of yours. Alarms everywhere. Even a snowmelt system on the walk and driveway.”

He leaned in close to her-smelled lavender, and it was like reliving a nightmare of things past, things gone terribly, terribly wrong in his life.

“I’m not going to murder you, for God’s sake. Is that what you were thinking? No! No! No! I want you to watch what I do from now on. You’re an important witness for me. I’m working to heap honor on you and Dad too.

“Speaking of which, tell me one thing-did you know that he struck me almost every day when I was a boy? Did you know that? Tell me that one thing. It will stay between the two of us. I won’t tell Oprah or anything like that. No memoirs for me. I’m no James Frey or Augusten Burroughs.”

It took her nearly a minute to get the words out. “Kyle… I didn’t, I didn’t know. What are you talking about, anyway? You always made things up.”

He smiled down at her. “Ahhh. That’s a relief.”

Then he pulled out a Beretta, one of the guns Mason Wainwright had left for him in his car.

“Changed my mind, Mom. Sorry. I’ve wanted to do this for so long. I’ve ached to do it. Now watch this. Watch the little black hole at the end of the barrel. You see that? Tiny eternal abyss? Watch the hole, watch the hole, watch the abyss, and -”

Bang!

He shot his mother right between the eyes. Shot her a couple of times for good measure. Then he left a few clues behind for the investigators who would show up at the house eventually.

Clue #1: In the kitchen-a half-finished bottle of Arthur Bryant’s barbecue sauce.

Clue #2: Propped on the bedroom dresser, a Hallmark card with no handwritten message.

Not easy clues but clues all the same. Something for the hunters to go on.

If they were any good at their jobs.

If Alex Cross was one of those hot on his trail, anyway.

“Catch me if you can, Dr. Detective. Figure out all the puzzles, and the murders will stop. But I doubt that’s what is going to happen. I could be wrong, but I don’t think anybody could catch me twice.”

WHEN BREE STONE ARRIVED at work on Monday morning, the phone on her desk was already ringing. She set down an empty Slim-Fast can-she’d downed two on the way to the office-and snatched up the receiver. She’d been thinking about Alex, but now that nice thought was gone.

“Bree, it’s Brian Kitzmiller. Listen, I have something pretty neat to show you.”

“Something pretty neat , Kitz? What might that be? A new game for your Wii? You are a piece of work, you know that?”

She shrugged her work bag back onto her shoulder. “I can be there in a few minutes.”

“Not necessary. Stay right where you are. Do you happen to be near a computer?”

“Of course I am. Who isn’t nowadays?”

As soon as she was online, Kitz directed her to a site called SerialTimes.net. Bree rolled her eyes as she brought up the site. What now ? The home page was a crowded and sloppy-looking collection of thumbnail images, “unofficial” updates, and actual news items. Really sick, gross stuff. Right up there with the worst she’d seen.

The most prominent item was a red-bordered box with the headline

Exclusive! Don’t miss this!

Message from DCAK!

Click here.

“And I’m supposed to believe this is for real?” she asked, then added, “ Is it , Kitz?”

“Just click it. Then you tell me.”

The next window had a black background with a short message in the same white typewriter font as the killer’s original blog, which was one of hundreds of leads she had followed that didn’t seem to go anywhere.

The familiar look of the site wasn’t what definitely answered Bree’s question, though. It was the two images pasted in at the top of the screen: a small Iraqi flag and a bright-green X-Files X -symbols from the first two homicides.

Yeah, they seemed to say, it’s me.

“Those two items aren’t public knowledge yet, are they?” Kitzmiller asked. “Am I right?”

Bree shook her head as if he could see her, then mumbled, “No, they aren’t, Kitz. We’ve kept them to ourselves.” She was already reading the message below. The latest mindblower.

“Imitation is the sincerest of flattery.”-Charles Caleb Colton

I’m setting the record straight for everybody who cares, or ought to care, about these things. That piece of shit work out at the George Washington Memorial Parkway? Someone else did that, not me. I’ll take the flattery, but don’t try to pin that one here, ’cause I don’t want it. I mean, “Nixon” just copycatted what I did at the Riverwalk! Didn’t even have the nerve to show his face. Plus, the work itself was amateurish. Not worthy of me or those I model myself on.

FedExField-that one was yours truly. Took some balls to get in and out of there. Imagine making a kill in a closed-in public area like that.

Make no mistake. There is only one DCAK. When it’s me, you’ll know it. You’ll know because I’ll tell you.

And the work will be done with some imagination and flair. Give me a little respect. I think I’ve earned that much.

At least now the police have someone they can catch-this imitator! Isn’t that right, Detective Bree Stone? ’Cause you’re not even close to catching me, are you?

Keep on living, fuckers.

– DCAK

For the next few seconds, Bree stood there, shaking her head back and forth. Alex had been right about the parkway murders… and probably everything else.

PLUS, DCAK HAD USED HER NAME.

Bree finally sat back in her chair and tried to process that little nugget. She couldn’t believe how brazen and arrogant this prick was, and how completely messed up. And scary.

“Bree? You still there?” Brian Kitzmiller asked over the phone.

“Yeah. I’m here. Just having a depressed-cop moment. That was pretty neat, all right.”

“You okay? Other than the obvious?”

She focused on her hands, which were shaking only a little bit. “Yeah, Kitz. Thanks for asking. It’s creepy, but it makes sense to me. He’s probably a total junkie for his own coverage. Of course he knows who I am. And of course he knows about Alex. He’s watching us, Kitz.”