Patterson, James - Alex Cross 3 - Jack and Jill

Once again, nobody was sitting at the desk in the outer office.

The multiracial dolls on the desk looked abandoned. So did some “face doodles” and a couple of Goosebump books. The hea/ wooden door into the main office was shut tight.

I couldn't hear anyone inside, but I knocked anyway I heard a drawer bang shut, then footsteps. The door opened. It wasn't locked.

Christine Johnson had on a cashmere jacket and long wool skirt. Her hair was pulled back and tied with a yellow bow.

She was wearing her glasses. Working barefoot. I thought of a line- from Dorothy Parker, I think- Men seldom make passes/At girls who wear glasses.

Seeing her lifted my spirits, brought me up immediately I didn't know exactly why, but it did.

It occurred to me that she worked late at the school a lot. That was her business, but I wondered why she spent so much time here.

“Yes, I'm working late again. You caught me in the act. Red-handed, guilty as charged. A friend of yours dropped by the school this morning,” she said. “A detective John Sampson.”

“He's in charge of the case,” I said.

“He seems very dedicated and concerned. Surprising in a lot of ways. He's reading Camus,” she said.

I wondered how he had worked that into their conversation.

Among other noble pursuits, Sampson is dedicated to meeting interesting and attractive women, like Christine Johnson. It wouldn't bother him that she was married, unless it bothered her.

Sampson can be chivalrous to a fault, but only if it's appreciated.

“Sampson reads a lot, always has since I've known him. My grandmother taught him in school, before I met him, actually He's the original Pagemaster.”

Christine Johnson smiled, showed me all those beautiful teeth of hers. “You're familiar with the movie Pagemaster? I guess you must see them all.”

“I do see them all. Anything the kids 'have to, have to see, Daddy!” We gave Pagemaster a six. But we're not as down on Master Macauley Culkin as some people seem to be."

She continued to smile and seemed to be an extremely nice person. Smart enough to do many things- patient and concerned enough to do this difficult job in the city. I envied her students.

I got right down to the business I had at the school. “The reason I stopped by is that there's a possible ID on the killer -- a start, anyway. I heard about it this afternoon, not too long ago.”

Christine Johnson listened closely to what I had to say. Her brow furrowed deeply Her brown eyes were intense. She was a good listener, which, if I remembered correctly, was unusual for a school principal.

“An older man, a white man, was seen in the vicinity of where Shanelle Green was originally abducted in Garfield Park. He was described as a street person. Possibly a homeless man. Not very big, with a full white beard, wearing a brown or black poncho.”

“Should I tell that to the teachers? What about the children?” she asked as I finished the description.

“I'd like to have someone stop by here tomorrow morning to talk to the teachers again,” I said. “We don't know if this lead is anything, but it could be important. It's the best thing we have so far.”

“An ounce of prevention,” she said, then smiled. Actually, she laughed at herself. “That's what is known, derogatively, as 'teacher talk.” You can catch a dose of it if you hang around here too much. Too many clichs. You sometimes find yourself talking to other adults as if they were five or six years old. It drives my husband crazy."

“Is your husband a teacher, too?” I asked. It just came out. Shit.

She shook her head and seemed amused for some reason.

“No, no. George is a lawyer. He'S a lobbyist on Capitol Hill, actually Fortunately, he's only trying to push the interests of energy businesses. Occidental Petroleum, Pepco Energy Company, the Edison Electric Institute. I can live with that.” She laughed.

“Well, most of the time I can.” Her look was innocent, but not naive. Maybe just a little conspiratorial.

“Well, I wanted to pass on the news about our suspect. Maybe we have a real suspect this time,” I said. “I've got to run.”

“Don't,” Christine Johnson said, and I stopped short, startled a little.

Then she smiled that knowing smile of hers. Quietly dazzling and appealing as could be.

“Absolutely no running in the halls,” she winked at me.

“Gotcha!” Cute.

I laughed and was on my merry way, back to work after a brief moment of sweetness and light. I did like her quite a lot. Who wouldn't? Maybe we could be friends somehow, someway, but probably not.

Nothing was coming out right; nothing was working very well.

An old homeless white man was the best we could do. It wasn't bad police work, but it wasn't enough. Not even close. Two impossible cases. Jesus!

I pulled my car way down the street and watched the Truth School for a couple of hours that night. My son's school. Maybe a homeless white man would come by -- but one didn't.

I left the stakeout about half an hour after Christine Johnson left hers.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK of our magic carpet ride so far? On a scale of one to eleven?” Jack asked Jill, Sam asked Sara. They were floating high over the Maryland countryside.

"It's absolutely beautiful. It's as thrilling as can be. Unbelievable.

The simple joy of flying like a bird."

"Hard to imagine that this is work. But it is, Monkey Face.

This could be important for us, for everything we're doing, for the game."

“I know that, Sam. I'm paying attention.”

“I know you are. Always so diligent.”

The two of them were sitting close together inside the tiny cockpit of a Blanik L-23 sailplane. They had flown the sailplane out of Frederick Municipal Airport in Maryland, about an hour from downtown Washington. It was the perfect treat for herl Sara couldn't help thinking. The perfect metaphor. The gimp was flying. Unbelievable. Her entire life was that way now.

Down below, she could see Frederick, with its many examples of German Colonial architecture. She could actually make out several of the cutesy-pie shops on Antique Walk in town. The sky was filled with cumulus, like cotton balls moving lightly over a calm sea. Sara had told Sam that she'd gone up in a sail-plane once, and it was “just about the best thing I've ever done.”

He'd said, “We'll go tomorrow afternoon. I know just the place, Monkey Face. Perfect! I want to fly over Camp David, where the President goes to stay I want to look down on President Byrnes's retreat. I want to drop an imaginary bomb on his ass.”

Sam Harrison already knew a great deal about Camp David, but the view from the air could be useful anyhow. An attack on the presidential retreat was a very real possibility in the future -- especially if the Secret Service continued to keep President Byrnes tightly under wraps, as they had for the past few days.

Everything about Jack and Jill was so much harder now, but he had expected that. It was why they had several plans, not just one. The President of the United States was going to die -- it was just a matter of when and where. The how had already been decided. Soon the when and where would be taken care of as well.

“Isn't this risky, flying so close to Camp David?” Sara asked.

He smiled at the question. He knew that she had been biting her tongue as they floated north from Frederick, inching closer and closer to the presidential outpost, closer and closer to danger, maybe even disaster.

"So far, it's not too risky. Sailplanes and hot-air balloons do it all the time. Catch a distant peek at where the President stays.

He's not here right now, so they're not as paranoid on the ground.

We can't get too close, though. Ever since that plane landed at the White House, this airspace is protected with missiles. I doubt they'd shoot down a sailplane, but who knows?"