I got to the house on Fifth Street at four on a Monday afternoon. The home front looked a little worn but also comfortable. I made a mental note that I had to paint the outside. The gutters needed work. Actually, I looked forward to it.
Nobody was home. Nobody was there. I’d been away for fourteen days.
I had wanted to surprise the kids, but I guess that was another bad idea. They seemed to be coming in clusters lately.
I wandered around the house, taking it all in, noting little things that were different since I had left. The kids’ all-the-rage Razor scooter had a broken back wheel. Damon’s white choral robe, sheathed in a plastic dry-cleaning bag, hung over the banister.
I was feeling guilty as it was, and the quiet, empty house didn’t help. I looked at a few framed photos on the walls. My wedding photo with Maria. School portraits of Damon and Jannie. Snapshots of little Alex. A formal picture of the Boys’ Choir taken by me at the National Cathedral.
“‘Daddy’s home, Daddy’s home,’” I sang an old sixties tune as I peeked into the upstairs bedrooms. “Shep and the Limelites,” I muttered.
Nobody was around to care that I was singing old rock and roll tunes and trying to lighten the mood. The Capitol and the Library of Congress were within walking distance, and I knew Nana liked to take the kids there sometimes. Maybe that’s where they were?
I sighed and wondered once again whether it was time for me to get the hell out of police work. There was one catch: I was still passionate about the work. Even though I’d failed on the West Coast, I usually got some kind of results. I had saved some lives in the past few years. The FBI brought me in on some of their toughest cases. I figured this was my bruised ego talking, so I stopped the internal bullshit, cut it right off.
I took a hot shower, then I changed into a Men’s March T-shirt and jeans, flip-flops. I felt a lot more comfortable, like I was back in my own skin. I could almost make myself believe that the lurid vampire killers were gone from my life for good. I think that’s what I wanted to happen. Just let them crawl back into their hole.
I went down to the kitchen and grabbed a Coke from the fridge. Nana had taped a couple of the kids’ masterpieces to the door. “Inner Galactic Encounter” by Damon, and “Marina Scurry Saves the Day—Again” by Janelle.
A book was laid out on the kitchen table. 10 Bad Choices That Ruin Black Women’s Lives. Nana was doing a little light reading again. I peeked inside to see if I was one of the ten bad choices.
I wandered out to the sunporch. Rosie the Cat was asleep on Nana’s rocker. She yawned when she saw me but didn’t get up to rub against my legs. I had been away too long.
“Traitor,” I said to Rosie. I went over and scratched her neck, and she was okay with it.
I heard footsteps on the front porch. I walked to the foyer and opened the front door. Light of my life.
Jannie and Damon looked at me and screeched, “Who are you? What are you doing in our house?”
“Very funny,” I said. “Come give your daddy a big hug. Hurry, hurry.”
They ran into my arms, and it felt so good. I was home, and there was no place like it. And then I had a thought I didn’t want to have: Did the Mastermind know that I was here? Was our house safe anymore?
Chapter 37
AT ITS best, life can be so simple and good. As it should be. On Saturday morning, Nana and I packed up the kids and we headed over to their favorite place in all of Washington, the huge and wonderful and occasionally elevating Smithsonian complex. We were all in agreement that the Smithsonian, or “Smitty,” as Jannie has called it since she was a very little girl, was where we wanted to be today.
The only issue was where to go once we got there.
Since Nana would be there for only a few hours with little Alex, we let her pick the day’s first stop.
“Let me guess,” Jannie said, and rolled her eyes. “The Museum of African Art?”
Nana Mama shook a finger at Jannie. “No, Ms. Wisenheimer. Actually, I’d like to go to the Arts and Industries Building. That’s my choice for today, young lady. Surprised? Shocked that Nana isn’t the creature of habit you thought she was?”
Damon piped up. “Nana wants to see the history of black photographers. I heard about it at our school. They got cool black cowboy pictures. Isn’t that right, Nana?”
“And much, much more,” said Nana. “You’ll see, Damon. You’ll be proud and amazed, and maybe stimulated to take a few more photographs than you do. You too, Jannie. And Alex as well. Nobody takes pictures in this family except me.”
So we went to the Arts and Industries Building first, and it was very good, as it always is. Inside, the dull roar of air-conditioning and the cries of a gospel album mixed nicely. We saw the black cowboys, and also a lot of exceptional photos from the Harlem Renaissance.
We stood in front of a twelve-foot photo of ambitious-looking black men in suits, ties, and top hats taken from a bird’s-eye view. A stunning shot that would be hard to forget.
“If I saw that scene on the street,” Jannie said, “I would definitely take the picture.”
After Arts and Industries we appeased Jannie and went to the Einstein Planetarium, where we watched “And a Star to Steer Her By” for the fourth or fifth time, or maybe the sixth or seventh time, but who’s counting? Nana took little Alex home for his nap then, and we trekked around the rest of the Air and Space Museum. This was the portion of our journey that Jannie called “Damon’s macho planes-and-trains trip.”
But even Jannie enjoyed Air and Space. The Wright brothers’ plane floated high above us, suspended by long wires, and it was magnificent. Light spruce beams and stretched white sheets of canvas. To its right, the Breitling Orbiter 3, another important page from aeronautic history—the first nonstop balloon flight around the world. And then—“One small step for man”—the thirteen-thousand-pound Apollo 11 command module. You can be cynical about all this—or go with it. I choose to go with it. Makes life a lot easier and more rewarding.
After we had studied several of the aeronautic miracles, Damon insisted we catch Mission to Mir on the IMAX screen at the Langley Theater.
“I’m going to outer space one day,” he announced.
“I have news,” Jannie said. “You’re already there.”
In honor of Nana, we stopped at the Museum of African Art, and the kids got a kick out of the masks and ceremonial clothes, but especially the old currency exhibit—cowrie shells, bracelets, and rings. It was incredibly quiet inside, spacious, colorful, cool as could be. The last stop of the day was to see the Dinosaur Hall at the Museum of Natural History. But then both Jannie and Damon said we had to see the tarantula feeding at the Orkin Insect Zoo. There was a sign we read on walls painted to resemble a rain forest: “Insects won’t inherit the earth—they own it now.”
“You’re in luck,” Jannie teased her brother. “Your kind rules.”
Finally, at around six, we crossed Madison Drive to the Mall. The kids were quiet, tired, and hungry by then—and so was I. We ate a picnic supper under spreading shade trees at the foot of the Capitol.
It was the best day I’d had in weeks.
No calls from anybody.
Chapter 38
AS HE had done so many times before, probably a dozen times by now, the Mastermind watched Alex Cross and his family.
Love equals hate, he thought. What an incredible equation, but so true, absolutely true. It made the world go round, and that was a lesson Alex Cross needed to learn. Christ, he was such a fucking optimist. It was infuriating.
If anyone had cared enough to study his past carefully they would have discovered the keys to everything that had happened so far. His personal crime and murder spree was one of the most daring in history. It had lasted for over twenty-eight years. He could count the mistakes he’d made on one hand. The keys were right there for anybody to see:
Narcissistic personality disorder.
That’s where it all began. That’s where it would end.
A grandiose sense of self-importance.
That was him, all right.
Expects to be recognized as superior without commensurate achievements.
Preoccupied with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, or ideal love.
Interpersonally exploitive.
Yes, indeed. He lived for it.
Lacks empathy.
To put it mildly.
But please note, Dr. Cross and others who might wish to study the long and winding trail—this is a personality disorder. There is no psychosis involved. I am an organized, even obsessive, thinker. I can work out elaborate plots that serve my need to compete, criticize, and control. The three C’s. I am rarely impulsive.
Questions you should be asking about me:
Are my parents alive? Answer: Yes and no.
Was I ever married? Answer: Yes.
Any siblings? Answer: Oh, absolutely. Nota bene.
If I’m married, do I have any children? Answer: Two genuine American beauties. I saw that movie, by the way. Loved Kevin Spacey. Adored him.
And am I attractive, or physically flawed in some minor way? Answer: Yes and yes!
Now, do the homework! Draw the love and the hate triangles in my life, Dr. You’re in the triangles, of course. So is your family—Nana, Damon, Jannie, and Alex Jr. Everything you care about and think that you stand for is right there in those beautiful triangles, wrapped up in my obsessions.
So unravel it, before it’s too late for both of us. Not to mention everybody you care about in the world.
I’m right outside your house on Fifth Street, and it would be so easy to barge inside right now. It would have been easy to kill you and the family at the Smithsonian, the “Smitty,” as your daughter calls it.
But that would be too easy, too small, and, as I’ve been trying to tell you—
The phone in the Mastermind’s hand was ringing, calling, reaching out to touch somebody. He patiently let it continue.
Finally, Cross picked up.
“I have a grandiose sense of self-importance,” the Mastermind said.
Chapter 39
I SETTLED back into my duties in Washington, where I took some abuse from my detective pals about how much I seemed to enjoy working with the Federal Bureau lately. They didn’t know that I had been approached about becoming an FBI agent and was actually thinking it over. But I was still drawn to the mean streets of D.C.
I had a decent week on the job, and when another Friday rolled around, I also had a date. It struck me a long time ago that the best thing that ever happened to me was being married to Maria and having two great kids with her. It’s not an easy thing to play the dating game at any age, especially when you have kids, but I was committed to it. I definitely wanted to be in love again if I could, to settle down, to change my life. I suppose that most people do.
Occasionally, I would hear my aunts say, “Poor Alex, he doesn’t have anyone to love, does he? He’s all alone, poor baby.”
That wasn’t exactly true. Poor Alex, my butt. I have Damon, Jannie, and little Alex. I also have Nana. And I have lots of good friends in Washington. I make friends easily—like Jamilla Hughes. So far, I haven’t had trouble getting a date either. So far.
Macy Francis and I had known each other since we were little kids growing up in the neighborhood. Macy went on to get a couple of degrees in English and education at Howard and Georgetown. I went to Georgetown, then Johns Hopkins for my doctorate in psychology.
About a year ago, Macy returned to the Washington area to teach English lit at Georgetown. We met again at one of Sampson’s parties. We talked for an hour or so that night, and I found that I still liked her. We agreed to get together again soon.
I called Macy when I got home from my bust of a trip to California. We met at the 1789 Restaurant for drinks and maybe dinner. Macy’s choice. It was near her place in Georgetown.
The restaurant is in a Federal-style town house at Thirty-sixth and Prospect. I got there first, but Macy arrived a few minutes later. She came up, gave me a sweet kiss on the cheek before we sat down in the cozy pub. I liked the fleeting touch of her lips, the smell of a citrus fragrance on her neck. She had on a lilac turtleneck sweater—sleeveless—a black skirt that lightly hugged her, suede sling-back heels. She had small diamond studs in her ears.
As far back as I can remember, Macy had always dressed well. She’d always looked nice, and I guess I had always noticed.
“You know, I’ll tell you a secret, Alex,” Macy said once we had ordered glasses of wine. “I saw you at John Sampson’s party and I thought to myself, Alex Cross looks better than he ever did. I’m sorry, but that’s what went buzzing through my head.”
We both laughed. Her teeth were even and shiny white. Her brown eyes were bright and intelligent. She had always been the smartest in her classes. “I thought the same thing about you,” I told her. “You like teaching okay, the new job at Georgetown working out? The Jesuits leaving you alone?”
She nodded. “My father once told me you’re lucky if you ever find something you like to do. Then it’s a miracle if you can find somebody who’ll pay you to do it. I found both, I guess. How about you?”
“Well,” I said seriously, “I’m not sure if I love my job or if I’m just addicted to it. No, actually I do like it most of the time.”
“You a workaholic?” Macy asked. “Tell the truth, now.”
“Oh, no. . . . Well, maybe . . . some weeks I am.”
“But not this week? At least not tonight.”
“No, this week has been mostly relaxed. Tonight is very relaxed. I need a whole lot more of this,” I said, and laughed.
“You look relaxed, Alex. It’s so nice seeing you again.”
Macy and I continued to talk easily. A few people were eating at banquettes in the pub room, but it was mostly quiet. Parents of Georgetown students often take their kids to 1789 for a special meal. It is special. I was glad I was meeting Macy here. She’d made a good choice.
“I asked some girlfriends about you,” she confessed, then giggled. “Alex Cross is ‘not available,’ a few of them said. ‘He’s kind of a coconut,’ one sister said. The other girls said she was crazy as a loon. But—are you?”
I shook my head. “People are funny, how they need to make judgments on everybody else. I still live in the old neighborhood, don’t I? No coconuts live in Southeast. I don’t think so.”
Macy agreed with that. “You’re right, you’re right. Not too many people understand how we grew up here, Alex. I was named after a damn department store. You believe that?”
“I do. I grew up here, Macy.” We clinked our glasses and laughed.
“I guess I’m lucky my name isn’t Bloomingdale.”
A couple of times, I brought up dinner, but she was more comfortable sitting and talking. I know chef Ris Lacoste, and I love her cooking. I had my heart set on crab cakes garnished with her special slaw. But we drank another couple of glasses of wine, and then Macy started to get a little ahead of me with the wine orders.
“You sure you don’t want to eat something?” I asked a little later.
“I think I already told you that I didn’t,” she said. Then she forced a smile. “I like what we’re doing here, just talking, chilling. Don’t you?”
I did like talking to Macy, but I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and I needed to get some solid food in me pretty soon. I was hungering for some thick, luscious black bean soup. I glanced at my watch and saw it was already ten-thirty. I wondered what time 1789 stopped serving.
Macy began telling me about her marriages. Her first husband had been a bum and a loser; and the second, a younger man from Grenada, was even worse, she said. She was getting a little loud, and people at the bar were starting to notice us.
“So here I am, thirty-seven years old. I had to go back to work even though I didn’t want to. I’m teaching freshmen, Alex. English composition, world lit. God knows, seniors are bad enough.”
; I was sure she had said that she liked teaching, but maybe I heard her wrong, or she was being sarcastic. I wasn’t doing much talking anymore, just listening to her stories, and eventually Macy noticed. She put her hand over mine. She had the smoothest brown skin. “I’m sorry; I got carried away, Alex. I talk too much, don’t I? So I’ve been told. I’m really sorry.”
“We haven’t seen each other in a long time. Lots to talk about.”
She looked at me and she had such beautiful brown eyes. I was sorry that she’d been hurt in her marriages, hurt by love. It happens to the best of people sometimes. Macy was obviously still hurting.
“You do look great,” she said. “And you listen pretty good for a man. That’s important.”
“You too, Macy. I like your stories.”
Her hand was back on top of mine, her nails lightly grazing my skin. It felt nice, actually. There was nothing too subtle going on here. She let her tongue wet her upper lip, then she lightly bit down on the lower. I was finally starting to forget that I was hungry for the crab cakes and black bean soup at 1789. Macy was quietly staring into my eyes. We were both adults, unattached, and I was definitely attracted to a lot of things about her.
“My place isn’t far, Alex,” she said. “I don’t usually do this. Come home with me. Jus’ walk me home.”
Her place was only ten blocks away, so I walked Macy there. She had a little trouble walking, and her speech was slurred. I put my arm around her, held her steady.
Macy’s apartment was on the ground floor of a town house near the university. It was minimally furnished. The walls were painted pale green. Against one wall was a black lacquered upright piano. A framed magazine article about Rudy Crew caught my eye. The educator’s words were set in large type: “Education is about the distribution of knowledge . . . and to whom we actually distribute this particular commodity is a major question in this country.”
Violets Are Blue Page 9
