James Patterson - Kill Alex Cross

“— kicking my ass, and I don’t need to tell you—”

“Ned,” I said. “It’s me.”

“Alex?”

“Sorry about this.”

“Jesus, you’re killing me here.”

“Then it’s mutual,” I said. “Just tell me I’m in the dark on the Coyle case for a good reason. I’ll trust your word. But I’m lost here, and there are plenty of other places I could be today.”

“Yeah, like someone else’s house,” he said.

“Ned, Washington is in the middle of an emergency. My kids are home from school. It’s scary as hell. They got to the water supply. Maybe to the president’s kids.”

At first he didn’t answer. Then it was just “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Not exactly what I was looking for,” I said. “I need you to tell me something , Ned.”

“Alex, what do you want me to say? They’re compartmentalizing the shit out of this thing,” he said. “I doubt I’ve got much more intel than you do at this point.”

Ned and I have known each other a long time. We’ve been through some impossible situations, and done some off-the-record favors for each other, too. So it was strange, and kind of hurtful, trying to gain his trust now. I told him as much.

There was a pause. I heard Ned take a deep breath on the other end. This whole thing was making me feel bad. Talking to him this way. Coming out to his house. Using Amy.

“Listen, I’ve got to go,” he said. “I have a conference call waiting.”

“Ned!”

“Just hang in there.”

“Don’t hang up!” I said, but he already had. If it had been my own phone in my hand, it probably would have gone sailing.

When I turned around, Amy was staring, looking like she might start to cry. “You looked like you wanted to reach right through the phone and strangle him,” she said.

“No,” I said. “Don’t mind me. I just...” Why was I ready to punch a hole in my friend’s wall? What was it that I wanted to do here?

“I just want those kids to be found,” I said. “That’s all I care about, Amy.”

He was definitely going to write a big, fat book on this someday, when it was all far, far behind him. And not the way everyone and his brother-in-law says they’re going to write a book “someday.” He was really going to do it.

Record .

“It wasn’t that Zoe and Ethan did anything wrong, themselves. They just happened to be born into the wrong family, at the wrong time. None of this was their fault, any more than it’s your fault, or mine. Maybe it goes without saying, but someone has to play the sacrificial lamb. History tells us that much. Every tragedy has repercussions.”

Stop .

That actually sounded half-decent to him. Important. Had a ring of truth. He was getting the hang of this now. Maybe there was even a title in there. Sacrificial Lambs? Possibly, although he still kind of liked Suffer the Little Children , as in, “those who come unto me.”

But that wasn’t a decision he had to make today. The book wasn’t even written yet. Hell, the story wasn’t even told yet, wasn’t finished. There was still plenty of time for the peripheral details to work themselves out. So far, he had the beginning — and he had the end.

Record .

“The juice boxes come in a three-pack for a dollar ninety-nine at the Safeway, two blocks from my house. The Rohypnol’s a little harder to come by, of course, but not impossible if you know where to look. Two milligrams every twelve hours seems to do the trick beautifully. They’re so out of it, I’m not even sure they know what’s going on.”

Stop .

Maybe nobody would care about the Safeway part, but whatever. Tape was cheap as dirt. He’d just keep throwing everything down and sift through it later. The blank cassettes could live in the glove compartment of his vehicle. The used ones, he kept where no one would ever find them. Just like Ethan and Zoe.

Meanwhile, the light was getting long outside. He needed to start moving — if he wanted to be back to the car by dark, which he definitely did.

From the seat next to him, he pocketed two of the juice boxes, the ones with Scotch tape covering the tiny hole the syringe had left. The third box he’d drink on the way. It was an hour through the woods, and an hour back to his house, if he kept up a good strong pace, which he would. He was in excellent physical shape.

He got out and took the recurve bow from the trunk, along with a leather quiver of arrows. Deer season was still six weeks off, but rabbits and squirrels were always fair game. More than that, the hunting thing was a good excuse for being all the way out here in the first place. Not that anyone came around these woods much, but it didn’t cost anything extra to be careful.

Record .

“That’s another thing. The FBI hasn’t said word one about my little note. So just in case it’s not already clear, none of this has ever been about money. Not taking the kids, and not the book, either. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to be able to collect royalties when this thing is done. I’ll just have to buy it at the Barnes and Noble or Walmart like everybody else.”

Stop .

Record .

“It’s going to be one hell of a story. It really is. Just you wait and see.”

Stop .

“At five hundred and fifty-five feet, the Washington monument towers majestically over the National Mall. Completed in December of 1884, it was formally dedicated on...”

Hala tried to tune out the tremendously irritating, prerecorded propaganda and other drivel as their tour bus rolled down Independence Avenue. It sounded like the tires of the bus were sticking to the littered street. Everything seemed dirty. What a disgusting city! And yet everywhere you looked, there was another hulking monument to American arrogance and power.

It was ironic, really. She hadn’t learned to truly hate this country until she’d come here for her education. Four years at Penn, and what had it taught her? Only that the United States was just about the biggest failed experiment in human history.

“As we cross the bridge toward Arlington, you can look back and see the Tidal Basin and the Jefferson Memorial...”

She looked down instead at the Tourmobile brochure on her lap. It had been slipped under their hotel room door with a few instructions. When the tour bus reached Arlington National Cemetery, they were to get off. And guess what? Here they were.

Tariq stood in the aisle, shifting from foot to foot. He looked odd, but oddly handsome this morning, with a Baltimore Ravens cap shading his freshly clean-shaven face. Hala’s own hair was now in a blunt cut around the nape of her neck and dyed as close to auburn as she’d been able to get it. She was still pretty, though, and she did like that about herself. Absolutely no ball cap for her.

“Please watch your step, and enjoy your visit to Arlington National Cemetery!”

They milled off the bus with the other tourists, onto a plaza in front of the white stucco and limestone Visitors Center. Hala looked around, unsure about what to expect next. Almost right away, a familiar face emerged from out of the crowd. It was the hippie girl from the museum. She was carrying the same brightly colored woven bag. Probably so that Hala would recognize her right away.

There was no dance this time, no slow approach. As soon as they’d seen each other, the girl came over and stood next to them, as if they were all waiting for the same bus.

“Hey, could I borrow your map for a sec?” she asked.

“Of course. No bother.”