Patterson, James - Alex Cross 3 - Jack and Jill

Because maybe young Sumner was listening somewhere near in the house. Maybe the Sojourner Truth School killer was listening to us right now.

“He gets up half an hour to forty-five minutes later than we do. His bus comes at six-thirty Please? What is this about?”

“We need to talk to your son, Colonel Moore,” I said to him.

Keep it real simple for right now.

“You have to do better --” Colonel Moore started to say “No, ;ve don't have to do better,” Sampson interrupted him.

“We need to see your son right now. We're here on a homicide investigation, Colonel. Two small children have already been killed. Your son may be involved with the murders. We need to see your son.”

“Oh, dear God, Frank,” Mrs. Moore spoke up for the first time. Connie, I remembered her name. "This can't be happening.

Sumner couldn't have done anything."

Colonel Moore seemed even more confused than when we first burst in, but we had gotten his full attention. “I'll show you up to Sumner's room. Could you please holster your weapons, at least?”

“I'm afraid we can't do that,” I told him. The look in his eyes was inching closer to panic. I didn't even look at Mrs. Moore anymore.

“Please take us to the boy's bedroom now,” Sampson repeated.

“We need to go up there quietly. This is for Sumner's own protection. You understand what I'm saying?”

Colonel Moore nodded slowly His face was a sad, blank stare.

“Frank?” Mrs. Moore pleaded. She was very pale.

The three of us went upstairs. We proceeded in single file.

I went first, then Colonel Moore, followed by Sampson. I still hadn't ruled out Franklin Moore as a suspect, as a potential madman, as the killer.

“Which room is your son's?” Sampson asked in a whisper.

His voice barely made a sound. Last of the Masai warriors. On a capital-murder case in Washington, D.C.

“It's the second door on the left. promise you, Sumner hasn't done anything. He's thirteen years old. He's first in his class.”

“Is there a lock on the bedroom door?” I asked.

“No... I don't think so... there might be a hook. I'm not sure. He's a good boy, Detective.”

Sampson and I positioned ourselves on either side on the closed bedroom door. We understood that a murderer might be waiting inside. Their good boy might be a child killer. Times two.

Colonel Moore and his wife might have no idea about their son, and what he was truly all about.

Thirteen years old. I was still slightly stunned by that. Could a thirteen-year-old have committed the two vicious child murders?

That might explain the amateurness at the crime scenes.

But the rage, the relentless violence? The hatred?

He's a good boy, Detective.

There was no lock, no hook, on the boy's door. Here we go. Here we go. Sampson and I burst into the bedroom, our guns drawn.

The room was a regular teenager's hideout, only with more computer and audio equipment than most I'd seen. A gray cadet dress uniform hung on the open closet door. Someone had slashed it to shreds!

Sumner Moore wasn't in his bedroom. He wasn't catching an extra half-hour of sleep that morning.

The room was empty.

There was a typewritten note on the crumpled bedsheets, where it couldn't be missed.

The note simply said Nobody is gone.

“What is this?” Colonel Moore muttered when he read it.

“What is going on? What is going on? Can somebody please explain? What's happening here?”

I thought that I got it, that I understood the boy's note. Sumner Moore was Nobody -- that was how he felt. And now, Nobody was gone.

An article of clothing lying beside the note was the second part of the message to whoever came to his room first. He had left behind Shanelle Green's missing blouse. The tiny electric-blue blouse was covered with blood.

A thirteen-year-old boy was the Truth School killer. He was in a state of total rage. And he was on the loose somewhere in Washington.

Nobody was gone.

THE SOJOURNER TRUTH SCHOOL killer traipsed along M Street reading the Washington Post from cover to cover, looking to see if he was famous yet. He had been panhandling all morning and had made about ten bucks. Life be good!

He had the newspaper spread wide open, and he wasn't much looking where he was going, so he bumped into various assholes on his way. The Post was full of stories about goddamn Jack and Jill, but nothing about him. Not a paragraph, not a single word, about what he'd done. What a frigging joke newspapers were.

They just lied their asses off, but everybody was supposed to believe them, right?

Suddenly, he was feeling so bad, so confused, that he wanted to just lie down on the sidewalk and cry. He shouldn't have killed those little kids, and he probably wouldn't have if he'd stayed on his medication. But the Depakote made him feel dopey, and he hated it as if it were strychnine.

So now his life was completely ruined. He was a goner. His whole life was over before it had really begun.

He was on the mean streets, and thinking about living out here permanently. Nobody is here. And nobody can stop Nobody.

He had come to visit the Sojourner Truth School again. Alex Cross's son went there and he was pissed as hell at Cross. The detective didn't think much of him, did he? He hadn't even come to the Teddy Roosevelt School with Sampson. Cross had dissed him again and again.

It was approaching the noon recess at the Truth School and he decided to stroll by, maybe to stand up close to the fenced yard where they had found Shanelie Green. Where he had brought the body. Maybe it was time to tempt the fates. See if there was a God in heaven. Whatever.

Rock-and-roll music was pounding nonstop in his head now.

Nine Inch Nails, Green Day, Oasis. He heard “Black Hole Sun” and “Like Suicide” from Soundgarden. Then “Chump” and “Basket Case” from Green Day's Dookie.

He caught himself, pulled himself back from the outer edge.

Man, he had gone ya-ya for a couple of minutes there. He had completely zoned out. How long had he been out of it? he wondered.

This was getting bad now. Or was it getting very good? Maybe he ought to take just a wee bit of the old Depakote. See if it brought him back anywhere near our solar system.

Suddenly, he spotted the black bitch Amazon woman coming toward him. It was already too late to move out of the way of the cyclone.

He recognized her right away She was the high-and-mighty principal from the Sojourner Truth School. She had a bead on him, had him in her sights. Man, she should have been wearing a o FVR T-shirt to play that kind of game. You put the bead on me -- then I'll put the bead on you, lady. You don't want my bead on you. Trust me on that, partner.

She was yelling, raising her voice anyway “Where do you go to school? Why aren't you there now? You can't stand around here.” She called loudly as she kept walking straight toward him.

FUCK YOU, BLACK BITCH. MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS.

WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE TALKING TO?

YOU... TALKIN'... TO... ME?

"Do you hear me, mister? You deaf or something? This is a drug-free area, so move on. Now. There's absolutely no loitering near this school. That means you, in the fatigue jacket! Move on.

Go on, get out of here."

Just fuck you, all right? I'll move on when I'm good and ready.

She came right up to him, and she was big. A lot bigger than he was, anyway

“Move it or lose it. I won't take any crap from you. None at all. Now get out of here. You heard me.”

Well, hell. He moved on without giving her the satisfaction of word one. When he got up the block, he saw all the schoolkids being let outside into the yard with the high fence that didn't mean squat in terms of protection. Can't keep me out, he thought.