Patterson, James - Alex Cross 3 - Jack and Jill

“This roll should do it,” Sam said, and he handed her the dice.

“Your turn. Six rolls for each of us. You do the honors, Sara.”

“Here we go, huh?”

“Yes, here we go again.”

Sara Rosen's heart began to thunder. She could feel it thump, thump under her blouse. She had the paralyzing thought that this single roll of the dice was like the murder itself. It was almost as if she were pulling the trigger right now.

Who was going to die next? It was all in her hand, wasn't it? Who would it be?

She squeezed the three dice incredibly tight. Then she shook them and let the dice go, watched them wobble and roll forward and then stop abruptly, as if someone had pulled an invisible string. She quickly added up the number of the roll -- nine.

Sara picked up the marker and counted off nine places, nine photographs.

She stared down at the face of the next target, the next celebrity to die. It was a woman!

It's for the cause, she told herself, but Sara Rosen's heart continued to beat loudly all the same.

The next victim was a very famous woman.

Washington, the whole world, would be shocked and outraged for a second time.

SAMPSON AND I walked into the fog-shrouded heart of Garfield Park, which borders the Anacostia River and the Eisenhower Freeway and isn't far from the Sojourner Truth School. The color of truth is gray, I was thinking as we entered the ground smog.

Always gray. We weren't out for an early-morning run -- we were hurrying to the place where Shanelle Green had actually been murdered, her skull crushed by some fiend.

Several uniforms, a captain, and another detective were already at the homicide scene. A dozen or so casual onlookers were on hand -- looky-loos. Search dogs originally brought in from Georgia had led a search party to the murder site. I could see Sixth Street from the thicket of evergreens where the killer had brutally savaged the little girl. I could almost see the Sojourner Truth School.

“Think he carried the body out of here to the school yard?”

Sampson asked. His tone of voice indicated he didn't believe it. Neither did I. So how did the little girl's body get to the school yard?

A bright red balloon floated a couple of feet above the overgrown bushes where the terrible murder had occurred.

“O marks the spot?” Sampson asked. “That balloon the marker?”

“I don't know... I wonder,” I muttered as I pushed aside the thick evergreen branches and made my way into the hideaway.

The smell of pine was heavy, even in the cold air. Reminded me that the Christmas season was here.

I could feel the presence of the killer inside the tree branches, challenging me. I sensed Shanelle's presence as well, as if she were trying to tell me something. I wanted to be alone in here for a moment or two.

It was a small clearing where the murder had actually taken place. Dried blood was on the ground and had even splashed across some of the branches. He lured her in here. How did he do that? She'd be suspicious, or scared, unless she knew him from the neighborhood. It suddenly struck me. The balloon! It was just a guess, but it seemed right to me. The red balloon could have been the lure, the killer bait for the little girl.

I crouched down and was very still inside the tent of trees.

The killer liked it in here, hiding in the darkness. He doesn't like himself much, though. Prefers the dark. He likes his mind, his thoughts, but not what he looks like. There probably something distinctive about him physically.

I didn't know any of that for sure, but it seemed right; it felt right as I crouched at the murder site.

He was hiding in here, probably because there something about him people might remember. If so, it was a good clue.

I could see Shanelie Green's battered face again. Then an image of my dead wife, Maria, came to me. I could feel the rage climbing from my gut to my throat, blowing and billowing inside me. I thought of Jannie and Damon.

I had one more thought about the child killer: anger usually implies an awareness of self-worth. Strange, but true. The killer was angry because he believed in himself much more than the world did.

Finally, I rose up and pushed my way back out of the hideaway. I'd had enough.

“Haul down that balloon,” I called to a patrolman. “Get that damn balloon out of the tree now. It's evidence.”

THERE WAS SOMETHING distinctive about him physically. I was almost certain of it. It was a place to start.

That afternoon Sampson and I were out on the street again, working near the Northfield Village projects. The Washington newspapers and TV hadn't bothered much about the murder of a little girl in Southeast. Instead, they were filled with stories about the killing of Senator Fitzpatrick by the so-called Jack and Jill stalkers. Shanelle Green didn't seem to matter very much.

Except to Sampson and me. We had seen Shanelle's broken body and met her heartbroken parents. Now we talked to our street sources, but also to our neighbors. We continued to let people see us working, walking the streets.

“I sure do love a good homicide. Love walking the mean streets in the dead cold of winter,” Sampson opined as we went past a local dealer's black-on-blackJeep. It was blaring rap, lots of bass.

“Love the suffering, the stench, the funky sounds.” His face was flat. Beyond angry. Philosophical.

He was wearing a familiar sweatshirt under his open topcoat.

The shirt had his message for the day:

I DON'T GIVE A SHIT

I DON'T TAKE ANY SHIT

I'M NOT IN THE SHIT BUSINESS

Concise. Accurate. Very much John Sampson.

Neither of us had felt much like talking for the past hour or so. It wasn't going all that well. That was The Job, though. It was like this more often than it wasn't.

Man Mountain and I arrived at the Capitol City Market about four in the afternoon. The Cap is a popular gyp joint on Eighth Street. It's just about the dingiest, most depressing bargain-basement store in Washington, D.C.- and that takes some doing.

The featured products are usually written in pink chalk on a gray blue cinder block wall in front. That day the specials were cold beer and soda pop, plantains, pork rinds, Tampax, and Lotto -- your basic complete-and-balanced breakfast.

A young brother with tight wraparound Wayfarer sunglasses, a shaved head, and small goatee caught our immediate attention in front of the minimart. He was standing next to another man who had a chocolate bar hanging from his mouth like a cigar.

The shaved head motioned to me that he wanted to talk to us, but not right there.

“You trust that rowdyass?” Sampson asked as we followed at a safe distance. “Alvin Jackson.”

“I trust everybody.” I winked. No wink came back from Sampson.

“You are badly fucked-up, Sugar,” he said. His eyes were still seriously hooded.

“Just trying to do the right thing.”

“Ah, yeah, you're trying too hard, then.”

“That's why you love me.”

“Yes, it is,” Sampson said and finally grinned. “If lovin' you is wrong, I don't want to be right,” he talk-sang a familiar lyric.

We met Roadrunner Alvin Jackson around the corner.

Sampson and I had occasionally used Alvin as a snitch. He wasn't a bad man, really, but he was living a dangerous life that could suddenly get much, much worse for him. He had been a decent high school track star who used to practice in the streets. Now he was running a little base and selling smoke as well. In many ways, Alvin Jackson was still a man-child. That was important to understand about a lot of these kids, even the most dangerous and powerful-looking ones.

“Thalilshanelle,” Alvin said as if the three words were one, “you still lookin' for information on who ice her and alladat?”