Patterson, James - Alex Cross 3 - Jack and Jill

They made a vegetarian gumbo together and opened a bottle of Chardonnay. They had barely finished supper in front of the TV when the front doorbell rang. It was a little before nine, and they weren't expecting anyone, but sometimes neighbors dropped in.

CNN was covering the scene at New York University Hospital, where the President had been rushed after the shooting.

Alex Cross had appeared with various other officers who had been at the scene of the shooting, but he wouldn't say much to the media. Alex looked upset, spent, but also, well-noble.

Christine didn't mention to George that she knew him.

She wondered why. She hadn't told George about Alex's visit to their house late one night. He had slept right through it; but that was George.

Before he could get up off the couch, the doorbell rang a second time. Then, a third ring. Whoever it was wouldn't go away.

“I'll get it, Chrissie,” he said. “Don't know who in hell that could be, this time of night. Do you?”

“I don't, either.”

“All right, already,” he snapped. Christine found herself smiling.

George the Impatient was back.

"I'm coming for Christmas' sake. I'm coming, I'm coming.

Hold your water, I'm coming," he said as he hobbled toward the door in his stockinged feet.

He peered through the peephole, then turned to look at Christine with a questioning scowl on his face.

“It's some white kid.”

DANNY BOUDREAUX stood on the shiny, white-painted porch of the schoolteacher's house. He was dressed in an oversized army-green rain poncho that made him look bigger than he actually was, somewhat more impressive. The Sojourner Truth School killer in the flesh! He was in his glory now. But even in his megahyper mood, he sensed that something was wrong with him now.

He didn't feel good, and he was getting sad- kind of depressed as hell, actually. The machine was breaking down. The doctors couldn't figure whether he was a bipolar disorder or conduct disorder. If they couldn't, how the hell was he supposed to?

So what if he was a little impulsive, had huge mood swings, was a social misfit? The fuse was litHe was ready to blow. kike, who cared?

He had stopped his dosages ofDepakote. Just say no, right? He was humming the “Mmm mm mm” song over and over. Crash Test Dummies. Sad, angry music that just wouldn't stop playing in his head like MTV Muzak.

His “mad button” seemed to be stuck -- permanently.

He was mad at Jack and Jill. Real mad at Alex Cross. Mad at the principal of the Truth School. Mad at just about everybody on the planet. He was even mad at himself now. He was such a goddamn screwup. Always had been, always would be.

I'm a loser, baby.

So why don't you kill me?

He snapped back to semireality when a black fucker wearing a blue pinstriped shirt, suit trousers, and mellow-yellow suspenders answered the door. Hey, welcome to the Cyburbs!

At first, Danny Boudreaux didn't understand who the hell the round-faced black dude was. He'd been expecting the big-deal school principal Mrs. Johnson, or maybe even Alex Cross, if Cross hadn't gone to New York. He had seen Cross and the principal together on three different occasions. He guessed they were getting it on.

He didn't know why that made him mad, but it did. Cross was just like his goddamn father, his real father. Another fuck-up cop who had deserted him, who didn't think he was worth dogshit.

And now Cross was humping this teacher on the side.

Wait, wait, hold on, Danny Boudreaux suddenly got something clear. A flash. This self-righteous Kunta Kinte dude has to be her husband, right ? Of course he was.

“Yes? Can I help you with something?” George Johnson asked the strange-looking and disheveled young man on the porch.

He didn't know the paper-delivery boy in the neighborhood, but maybe this was he. For some strange reason, the white boy reminded him of a disturbing movie called Kids that he'd watched with Christine. The boy looked as if he had some trouble in his life right now.

In Danny Boudreaux's humble opinion, the black guy seemed real unfriendly and uppity as hell. Especially for the nobody husband of some nobody schoolteacher. That pissed him off even more. Made him see about twelve different shades of red. Put him over the edge.

He felt one of the worst rages coming on. Hurricane Daniel was about to strike in Mitchellville.

“Noooooo!” he nearly yelled at the man. “You can't even help yourself. You sure as shit can't help me!”

Danny Boudreaux suddenly yanked out his semiautomatic.

George Johnson looked at the gun in disbelief. He stepped back quickly from the door. He threw up both his arms in self-defense.

“Without any hesitation, Boudreaux fired twice. ”Take that, you silly black rabbit!" he yelled, letting the voices come as they may The two bullets hit George Johnson 4n the chest.

He flew back through the open door as if he'd been struck with a sledgehammer. He bounced once off the cream marble floor.

The cat was DOA for sure. Blood was surging from the two holes in his chest.

The Sojourner Truth School killer then walked right into the teacher's house. He stepped over the fallen body as if it were worth nothing. He was feeling nothing.

“I'll just go ahead in, thanks,” he said to the dead man on the floor. “You've been most helpful.”

Christine Johnson had risen from the couch in the living room when she heard the shots. He had forgotten how goddamn tall she was. Danny Boudreaux could see her from the front hallway She could see him and her husband's body as well.

She didn't look so almighty-in-charge anymore. He had knocked her ass down a peg real quick. She deserved it, too. She'd hurt his feelings the first time they met. She probably didn't even remember the incident.

“Remember me?” he called to her. “Remember hassling me, bitch? At the Truth School? You remember me, don't you?”

“Oh, my God. Oh, George. Oh, God, George,” she moaned the words. A dry sob was shaking her body She looked as if she might collapse. He saw that fucking Jack and Jill was on the tube.

Goddamnit. They were always trying to one-up him. Even here, even now Danny Boudreaux could tell that the schoolteacher wanted to run real bad. There was nowhere to go, though. Not unless she went right through the picture window and out onto her lawn.

She had her hand up to her mouth. Her hand looked as if it were stuck there with Velcro. Probably in shock.

“Don't yell anymore,” he warned her in a high-pitched scream of his own. “Don't scream again or I'll shoot you, too. I can and I will. I'll shoot you dead as the doorman.”

He closed in on her now. He kept the Smith & Wesson pointed out in front of him. He wanted her to see that he was very comfortable with the weapon, very expert with firearms -- which he was, thanks to the Teddy Roosevelt School His hand was shaking some, but so what? He wouldn't miss her at this distance.

“Hi there, Mrs. Johnson,” he said and gave her his best spooky-guy grin. "I'm the one who killed Shanelie Green and Vernon Wheatley. Everybody's been looking all over for me.

Well, I guess you found me,“ he told her. ”Congratulations, babe.

Nice work."

Danny Boudreaux was crying now, and he couldn't remember why he was so sad. All he knew for sure was that he was furiously angry. With everybody. Everybody had fucked up real bad this time. This was about the worst so far.

No happy, happy. No joy, joy.

“I'm the Truth School killer,” he repeated. "You believe that?

You got it? It's a true tale. Tale of heartbreak and woe. Don't you even remember me? Am I that forgettable? I sure remember you."

I RUSHED BACK to the Washington, D.C., area that night about eleven o'clock. The Sojourner Truth School killer was rampaging. I had predicted he was going to go off, but being right held no rewards for me. Stopping the explosion might.