Джеймс Паттерсон - Detective Cross

But it wasn’t Bree on my caller ID. Kate Williams was looking for me.

“Dinner in five minutes,” Nana said.

I walked out into the front hall. “Kate?”

“I think I’ve got him, Dr. Cross,” she said breathlessly. “I’m sitting on the bomber.”

“What? Where?”

“Veterans Affairs Medical Center. He’s in a support group meeting for IED-wounded vets until seven-fifty. I figure you have until eight to meet me at the bus stop at Brookland — CUA.”

The call ended. I stared at the phone.

Nana Mama called, “Dinner’s ready.”

“I’m sorry, Nana,” I said, grabbing my rain coat. “I’ve gotta go.”

Out the door and down the front stairs, I ran north in the pouring rain to Pennsylvania Avenue and hailed a cab. On the way I tried to reach Bree, but it kept going through to her voice mail.

I texted her what Kate had said, and that I was going to check it out. As smart and IED-savvy as my patient was, I wasn’t holding out real hope that she’d somehow identified the bomber. But I wasn’t going to ignore her, either.

In the rain, traffic was snarled, so I didn’t climb out of a cab at the Brookland — CUA Metro Station until two minutes past eight. Kate Williams stood at the bus stop shelter, leaning against a Plexiglas wall, smoking a cigarette and perusing People magazine.

Seeing me, she stubbed the butt out, flipped it into a trash can, and smiled.

“Means a lot that you came,” she said. She explained that she’d come back looking for me the night before and saw me in the D8 bus talking to Mr. Light.

Kate put two and two together, and spent most of the day riding the Circulator and the Hospital Center bus lines. Around six, she got on the Hospital Center bus at Union Station and saw a guy she recognized, sleeping in a seat near the back.

“I didn’t think much of him, beyond the fact that I’d seen him down around the Vietnam Memorial,” she said. “But when we got close to the hospital, he had some kind of nightmare, and yelled out something about getting blown up.”

I said, “I’m sure there are lots of guys who ride this bus and have flashbacks.”

“I’m sure they do,” she said. “But they don’t wear a blue rain jacket with a logo on the left chest that says... shit, here he comes. Half a block. Don’t look. Put your hood up. If he’s been watching the news, he’ll recognize you.”

The D8 bus pulled in.

“Get on before he does,” Kate said. “You’ll be behind him. Easier to control.”

I hesitated, but only for a beat. If it really was the bomber, being positioned behind him could be a good thing, especially in a confined space.

I pivoted away and climbed aboard. Gordon Light was driving. He recognized me and started to say something, but I held a finger to my lips as I ran my Metro card over the reader. I headed toward the rear of the semi-crowded bus but stood instead of taking a seat, holding on to a strap facing the side windows. When the doors shut and we started to move, I lowered my hood and glanced around.

Kate was standing in the aisle ten feet forward of me. Her eyes met mine, and she slightly tilted her head toward a man wearing a dark blue windbreaker, hood up. He was looking out the window, giving me no view of his face.

The seat beside him was empty. So was the entire seat behind him.

Kate sat next to him, blocking his exit, which caused him to pivot his head to glance at her.

What the hell is she thinking? I groaned to myself. And what the hell was I thinking, coming on this wild-goose chase?

Because I could now see that under a mop of frizzy brown hair was a bored, pimply, teenage boy, who turned away from Kate when she opened her magazine. Her right hand left the magazine and gestured behind her at the empty seat.

I wanted to get off at the next exit and head home. Maybe Nana had saved me a plate. But when the bus slowed for a red light, I thought, What the hell? Kate had led me this far. I slipped into the seat behind them.

When the bus started rolling again, Kate shut her magazine and said, “I have a friend who goes to your school.”

I kept a neutral expression. The kid didn’t respond at first, then looked over at her.

“What’s that?” he said, roused from thought.

“Benjamin Banneker High School,” she said. “It’s on your jacket.”

“Oh,” he said, without enthusiasm. “Yeah.”

“She runs track. Jannie Cross. You know her?”

The kid gave her a sidelong glance. “She’s in my chemistry class.”

Chemistry and in Jannie’s class. Now I was interested. Real interested.

“Nice girl, that Jannie,” Kate said. “What’s your name so I can tell her I met you?”

He hesitated, but then answered, “Mickey. Mickey Hawkes.”

“Kate Williams. Nice to meet you, Mickey Hawkes,” she said, and smiled.

We pulled over at a bus stop, and more people started to board.

Kate said, “Must have been scary there for a while yesterday.”

“Scary?” Mickey said.

“You know. The bomb threat?”

His posture stiffened. He said, “Oh, that. It was more boring than scary. We stood there for hours, waiting to see the school explode. I should have gone home.”

“So you were out there the entire time?”

“Yup. Like three solid hours.”

“Huh,” Kate said. She looked at him directly. “Mickey, it’s weird. I’m one of these people who remembers every face they see. And I distinctly remember seeing you come off the Circulator bus at the Vietnam Memorial, maybe twenty minutes after the school was evacuated.”

“What? No.”

“Yes. You were wearing that same windbreaker. You were excited, and looking at your cell phone. Probably at the news that the school had been evacuated, after you called Jannie Cross with the bomb threat.”

The kid locked up for two long beats, before turning fully toward her. He looked past her, over his shoulder to me. In a split second I saw recognition, fear, and resolution in his expression. This was our guy. But he’s just a kid, I thought.

Twisting away from us, he lurched to his feet and stepped onto his seat, holding his cell phone high overhead.

“I’m wearing a bomb vest!” he shouted. “Do what I say, or everyone dies!”

Passengers began to scream and scramble away from Mickey.

“Shut up and don’t move!” the teen yelled, shaking the cell phone at them. “Everyone shut up and sit down, or I will kill us all right now!”

The few passengers on their feet slowly sank into seats, and the bus quieted, save for a few frightened whimpers.

“Good,” the teenager said, and then called to Gordon Light. “No more stops, driver. Straight south now.”

I wished I had a gun. Lacking that, I eased my phone from my coat pocket.

“Where are we going?” Kate Williams said.

“You’ll see,” Mickey said, his head swiveling all around.

He looked at me, then back toward the front. When he did, I moved my hands and phone forward toward the back of his seat where I hoped he couldn’t see them. The second time his head swung away from me, I glanced down to text Bree and Mahoney: Bomber taken D-8 bus hostage. Headed south on—

“What are you doing?” Mickey yelled.

I looked up to see him glaring at me.

Unzipping his jacket and hoodie, he exposed the vest, festooned with wires leading into opaque green blocks of C-4 bulging from pocket sleeves.

“Do you think I’m kidding here?” he shrieked.

“Why are you doing this, Mickey?” I said, thumbing Send.

“You’ll see why,” he shouted. “Have a little patience. And keep your hands where I can see them.”