Джеймс Паттерсон - Cross the Line

“Thank you, Colonel,” I said, shaking his hand.

“Anytime, Detective Cross,” Whitaker said. “You know, now that I think about it, I’ve seen you on the nightly news with those shootings of the drug dealers. Is this about that?”

I smiled. “Again, Colonel, I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Oh, right, of course,” Whitaker said. “Well, have a nice day, Detectives.”

The colonel put his helmet on and started to get on his bike, but then he stopped, patting at his pockets.

“Forgot my keys again,” he said, hurrying by us. “You’d think someone who teaches military strategy could at least remember his keys.”

“Age happens to the best of us,” I said.

Whitaker waved his hand and trotted stiffly toward the heart of the Naval Academy. He’d disappeared from sight by the time we passed a sign saying god bless america and reached Radford Terrace, a lush, green quadrangle bustling with midshipmen and plebes during this, the first real week of classes.

“Stop,” Sampson said, and he gestured across Blake Road. “Isn’t that Condon right over there?”

I caught a fleeting glimpse of the sniper before he slipped inside the Naval Academy’s chapel, an imposing limestone structure with a weathered copper dome. We hurried across the street and followed Condon in.

The interior of the chapel was spectacular, with a towering arched ceiling, balconies, and brilliant stained-glass windows depicting maritime themes. There were at least fifty people inside, some plebes, others tourists taking in the sights. We didn’t spot Condon until he crossed below the dome and went through a door to the far right of the altar.

Trying to stay quiet while rushing through the hush of a famous church is no mean feat, but we managed it and followed him through the door. We found ourselves on a stair landing. There was a closed door ahead of us, and steps that led down.

We figured the door led to the sacristy and went down the stairs. We wandered around the basement hallways, not finding Condon but seeing the tomb of Admiral John Paul Jones before returning to our last point of contact.

Back on the landing, I stood for a moment wondering where he could have gone, and then I heard Condon’s distinctive voice raised in anger on the other side of the sacristy door.

“But they’re following me now, Jim,” Condon said. “This is persecution.”

That was enough for me to rap at the door, push it open, and say, “We’re not persecuting anyone.”

Condon and a chaplain stood in a well-appointed room with plush purple carpet and a clean, stark orderliness. The sniper’s face twisted in anger.

The chaplain said, “What is this? Who are you?”

“Really, Dr. Cross?” Condon said, taking a step toward us with his gloved hands clenched into fists. “You’d follow me in here? I thought better of you.”

“We just wanted to talk,” Sampson said. “And you ran. So we followed.”

“I didn’t run,” he said. “I was late for a meeting with the chaplain.”

“You saw us and played cat and mouse,” I said, dubious.

“Maybe,” Condon said. “But that was just entertainment.”

“What’s this about?” the chaplain asked, exasperated.

“You his spiritual adviser?” Sampson asked.

They glanced at each other before the chaplain said, “It’s a little more complicated than that, Detective...?”

“John Sampson,” he said, showing him his badge and credentials.

“Alex Cross,” I said, showing mine.

“Captain Jim Healey,” the chaplain said.

“What’s complicated, Captain Healey?” I asked.

“This is none of their business, Jim,” Condon said.

The chaplain put his hand on the sniper’s arm and said, “I am Nicholas’s spiritual adviser. I was also the father of his late fiancée, Paula.”

I didn’t expect that; I lost some of my confidence and stammered, “I’m — I’m sorry for your loss, Captain. For both of your losses.”

“We meet to talk about Paula once a week,” the chaplain said, and he smiled faintly at Condon. “It’s good for us.”

For a second I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry to have interrupted,” I finally told him. “We just wanted to talk to him for a few moments, Captain.”

“About what?” Condon said, pugnacious again. “I already told you I didn’t have anything to do with those killings.”

“You actually never answered our questions about that, but this is about six motorists shot by a lone motorcyclist within an hour’s drive of your house.”

“One of them just up the road from your place,” Sampson said. “Beyond Willow Grove.”

The sniper shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You own a forty-five-caliber handgun?” I asked.

“Somewhere,” he said.

“Would you let us test it?”

“Hell no,” Condon said, and then he cocked his head. “Wait, you think I shot these people from my Harley? For what?”

“Breaking traffic laws,” Sampson said. “Speeding. Driving and texting.”

“This is insane, Jim,” the sniper said to the chaplain, throwing up his hands. “Every time a nutcase appears on the scene, they come after me. Even when a cursory glance at my medical record would show that I am not capable of shooting a forty-five-caliber handgun from a motorcycle going fast or slow.”

“What are you talking about?” Sampson asked.

Condon looked over at the chaplain and then pulled off his gloves, revealing that he wore wrist braces. He tore those off too, revealing scars across his wrists.

Captain Healey said, “Nick shattered both wrists in a training exercise when he was with SEAL Team 6. He can still shoot a rifle better than any man on earth, but his wrists and hands are too weak to shoot a pistol with any accuracy. It was what got him his medical discharge.”

Sampson pulled up in front of my house just as the sun was setting.

“Don’t look so glum,” Sampson said. “We’ll come up with a new battle plan tomorrow.”

“I feel like we had preconceptions about Condon,” I said, opening the door. “He was the easy person to look to, so we did.”

“We had to look at him,” Sampson said. “It was our job.”

“But it wasn’t our job to insult a war hero and tarnish his reputation,” I said, climbing out.

“Did we do that?”

“In a roundabout way, yes.”

“Are we supposed to be dainty or something in a murder investigation?”

“I don’t know,” I said, rubbing my temples. “I just need food and some sleep before I try to learn something from today.”

“Me too, then. Best to the chief.”

“And to Billie,” I said and climbed up the porch steps.

When I went inside, I was blasted by the smell of curry and the sounds of home. Jannie was in the television room, her foot up and on ice.

“How’s it feel?”

“Like I could run on it,” she said.

“Don’t you dare. You heard the doctor.”

“I know.” She sighed. “But my legs are starting to ache from inactivity.”

“They said you can start pool therapy on Monday and the bike on Tuesday. In the meantime, stretch. Where is everyone?”

“Bree’s upstairs taking a shower,” she said. “Nana Mama’s in the kitchen with Ali. They’re working on a letter to Neil deGrasse Tyson.”

“He’s not going to give this up, is he?”

Jannie grinned. “He’s like someone else I know once he gets something going in his brain.”

“Ditto,” I said. I winked at her and went through the dining room to the new kitchen and great room we’d had put on the year before.

“God, it smells good in here,” I said, giving my grandmother a kiss as she stirred a simmering pot on the stove.