Patterson, James - Alex Cross 3 - Jack and Jill

He was in total control. He was mission control. He could be as big and important as Jack and Jill. Hell, he could be bigger and better than those trippy assholes. He knew that he could. He could stomp Jack and Jill's asses.

He felt around on the floor for his trusty backpack. Where the hell is his stuff?... Okay. There it is. Everything is cool. He fumbled inside -- located his flashlight. He flicked the ON switch.

“Let there be light,” he whispered. “Wah-lah!”

Awhh, too bad sports fans -- he was definitely in the attic of his home. This wasn't a dream. He was the Truth School killer, after all. He shined the bright light down on his wristwatch. It was a twelfth-birthday present. It was the kind of sophisticated watch that pilots wore. Wow, he was so damn impressed! Maybe he could study to be a jet pilot after this was all behind him. Learn to fly an F-16.

It was 4:00 A.a. on the jet pilot's watch! Must be 4:00 ,.M., then.

“The hour of the werewolf,” he whispered softly It was time to come down out of the attic. It was time to continue to make his mark in the world. Something cool and amazing had to happen now.

Perfect murders.

Had to, had to, had to.

HE LET the bulky foldaway stairs drop down very slowly to the second floor of the house. His house. If his foster parents happened to get up for a pee right now- BIG PROBLEMS FOR HIM.

BIG SURPRISE FOR THEM, THOUGH.

MAJOR SHITSTORM FOR EVERYBODY CON CERNED.

He was having a little trouble with his breathing. None of this was easy now. He needed to set the heavy, unwieldy stairs down quietly on the second floor, but there was a little thud right at the end.

“Damn you. Loser,” he whispered.

He still couldn't exactly catch his breath. His body was covered with a thick coat of sweat, the kind horses break on a morning workout. He had seen that phenomenon on his grandparents' farm. Never forgot it: sweat that almost turned into this frothy cream, right before your eyes.

“Pusillanimous,” he whispered, mocking his own cowardice.

“Chickenshit bastard. Punk of the month. Loser, man.” His theme song again.

He tried to let some of the icy panic and nervousness pass.

He took long, slow, deep breaths as he paused at the top of the folding stairs. This was so freaky It was helter fucking skelter, in real life, in real time.

He finally began to climb down the wobbly wooden stairway, on wobbly wooden legs that felt like stilts. He was being as careful and quiet as he could be.

He felt a little better as he got to the bottom. Terra firma.

He walked on his tiptoes down the upstairs hallway to the door of the master bedroom. He opened the door and was immediately struck with a blast of really cold air.

His foster father kept the window open, even in December, even when it fucking snowed. He would. The arctic cold probably kept his silver-blond crew cut short. Saved him on haircuts.

What a superjerk-off the guy was.

“Do you screw her in the cold dark?” he whispered under his breath. That sounded about right, too.

He walked up real close to their king-size bed. Real close. He stood at their altar of love, their sacred throne.

How many times had he imagined a moment like this? This very moment.

How many other kids had imagined this same scene a thousand thousand times? But then done nothing about it. Losers!

The world was full of them.

He was on the verge of one of his worst rages, a real bad one. The hair on the back of his neck was standing at attention.

TEN-SHUN. It felt like it, anyway.

He could see red everywhere in the bedroom. kike this misting red. It was almost as if he were viewing the room through a nightscope.

He... was... just.. about... to... go.. off... wasn't.. he?

He could feel himself... exploding... into.. a... billion...

pieces.

Suddenly, he screamed at the top of his voice. “Wake up and smell the fucking Folgerk coffee!”

He was sobbing now, too. For what reason, he didn't know. He couldn't remember crying like this since he was a real little kid, real little.

His chest hurt as if he'd been punched hard. Or hit with an eighteen-inch ballbat. He realized that he was starting to wimp out. Mister Softee was coming back. He felt like Holden Caulfield. Repentant. Always triple-thinking every goddamn move both before and after he made it.

“POW,” he screamed at the top of his voice.

“POW,” he screamed the word again.

"?OW.

"?OW.

"POW.

"POW.

"POW.

“POW ”POW.

"POW.

"POW.

“POW.”

And with every bloodcurdling yell, he pulled the trigger of the Smith & Wesson. He put another 9mm bullet into the two sleeping figures. Twelve shots, if he was counting correctly, and he was counting everything very correctly Twelve shots, just like Jose and Kitty Menendez got.

The Roosevelt military education finally came in handy, he couldn't help thinking. His teachers had been right, after all.

Colonel Wilson at the school would have been proud of the marksmanship- but most of all, the firm resolve, the very simple and clear plan, the extraordinary courage he had shown tonight.

His foster parents were annihilated, completely vanquished, almost disintegrated by all the firepower he'd brought to the task.

He felt nothing -- except maybe pride in what he had done, in his fine workmanship.

Nobody was here. Nobody did this, man.

He wrote it in their blood.

Then he ran outside to play in the snow. He got blood all over the yard, all over everything. He could, you know. He could do anything he wanted to now. There was no one to stop Nobody ANOTHER MURDERED CHILD has been discovered.

A male. Less than an hour ago.

John Sampson got the news about seven o'clock in the evening.

He couldn't believe it. Could not, would not, accept what he had just been told. Friday the thirteenth. Was the date deliberate?

Another child murdered in Garfield Park. At least, the body was left there. He wanted Sumner Moore bad, and he wanted him now.

Sampson parked on Sixth Street and began the short walk into the desolate and dreary park. This is getting worse, he thought as he walked toward the red and yellow emergency lights flashing brightly up ahead.

“Detective Sampson. Let me through,” he said as he pushed his way inside a circle of police uniforms.

One of the uniforms was helding a gray-and-white yapping mutt on a leash. It was a weird touch at a weird scene. Sampson addressed the patrolman. “What's with the dog? Whose dog?”

“Dog uncovered the victim's body Owner let it loose for a run after she got home from work. Somebody covered up the dead kid with tree branches. Not much else. Like he wanted somebody to find it.”

Sampson nodded at what he'd heard so far. Then he moved on, stepped closer to the body The victim was clearly older than either Vernon Wheatley or Shanelle Green. Sumner Moore had graduated from murdering very small children. The creepy little ghoul was on a full rampage now.

A police photographer was taking pictures of the body, the camera's harsh flashes dramatic against the blanket of snow covering the park.

The boy's mouth and nose were wrapped with silver duct tape.

Sampson took a deep breath before he stooped down low next to the medical examiner, a woman he knew named Esther Lee.

“How long you think he's been dead?” Sampson asked the M.E.

“Hard to say Maybe thirty-six hours. Decomposition is slowed a lot in this cold weather. I'll know more after the autopsy The boy took a brutal beating. Lead pipe, wrench, something nasty and heavy like that. He tried to fight the killer off. You can see defensive bruises on both hands, on his arms. I feel so bad for this boy”

“I know, Esther. Me, too.”