I picked it up, clicked it off, then unplugged the phone from the wall.
No more phone tag, Kyle. Fuck you.
I was setting the rules now. This was my game, not his.
Chapter 107
IN THE morning, I drank too much black coffee and thought about our last case together: Daniel and Charles, Peter Westin, the Alexander brothers. What did it mean in Kyle’s fantasy? The macabre story he was plotting out involved both of us. He had asked me into the investigation, then used it to control me. Was that where it ended for him, and me?
I kept trying to piece together the puzzle from a psychologist’s point of view. The rest might flow from that. Might. With Kyle, there was no knowing for sure. If he saw a clear pattern, he might break it; if he understood his own pathology, and maybe he did, he would use that in his favor too.
Around noon, I called Kyle’s older brother, Martin, a radiologist living outside Charlotte—where we had once believed that Daniel and Charles had begun their murder spree. Did Kyle have a previous connection with them? Was that a possibility too?
Martin Craig tried to help, but he finally admitted that he and his brother hadn’t spoken during the past ten years. “We saw each other at my brother Blake’s funeral,” Martin said. “That was the last time. I don’t like my brother, Detective Cross. He doesn’t like me. I don’t know if he likes anybody.”
“Was your father especially rough on Kyle?” I asked Martin.
“Kyle always said so, but to tell the truth, I never saw much of it. Neither did my mother. Kyle liked to make up stories. He was always the big hero or the pathetic victim in them. My mother used to say that Kyle had an ego only second to God’s.”
“What did you think about that? Your mother’s assessment of your brother?”
“Detective Cross, my brother didn’t believe in God, and he wasn’t second to anyone.”
The continuing theme throughout the three brothers’ relationship had been competition, and Kyle had always believed that Martin and Blake won in the eyes of his parents. Kyle had been a starter on the high school basketball team, but Martin had been the clever all-county point guard who also played bass guitar in a local band and had an enviable social life. There had once been a feature story in the local paper about the basketball-playing brothers, but most of the article dealt with Blake and Martin. They had all attended Duke undergraduate, but Martin and Blake went on to medical school. Kyle became a lawyer, a career choice his father deplored. Kyle had talked to me about sibling rivalry, and maybe I was beginning to understand a little of the origins of his fantasy world.
“Martin,” I finally asked, “is it possible that Kyle murdered your younger brother Blake?”
“Blake died in a hunting accident—supposedly,” Martin Craig said. “Detective Cross, my brother Blake was an incredibly responsible and careful man, almost as careful as Kyle. He didn’t accidentally shoot himself. I believe with all my heart that Kyle had something to do with it. That’s why he and I haven’t spoken in ten years. My brother is Cain. I believe he’s a murderer, and I want to see him caught. I want to see my brother go to the electric chair. That’s what Kyle deserves.”
Chapter 108
NOTHING EVER starts where we think it does. I kept remembering that Kyle had done nearly all of the TV and print interviews after the capture of Peter Westin in the foothills outside Santa Cruz. He’d wanted the praise. He wanted to be the star, the only one. In a way, that’s what he was now: the brightest star of all.
I had one decent idea about what to do next, something proactive that might bother Kyle. I contacted the FBI and discussed it with Director Burns. He liked it too.
At four o’clock that afternoon, a press conference was called in the lobby of the FBI building. Director Burns was there to speak briefly and then to introduce me. Burns stated in no uncertain terms that I would be involved in the manhunt until Kyle Craig was brought to justice, and that Kyle would definitely be caught.
I was wearing a black leather car coat and I buttoned it up as I stepped to the mikes. I was playing this for all it was worth. I wanted to look self-important. I wanted to look like the star. Not Kyle. This was my manhunt. Not his. He was the prey.
There was the usual mechanical buzz and hum of cameras, the incessant flashes, and all those inquiring minds of the press, those mostly cynical eyes staring up at me, waiting for answers that I couldn’t give them now. It set my nerves on edge.
My voice was as grave and important sounding as I could make it. “My name is Alex Cross. I’m a homicide detective in D.C. I’ve worked closely with Special Agent in Charge Kyle Craig over the past five years. I know him extremely well.” I went into some detail on our past together. I tried to sound like a pompous know-it-all. The doctor-detective.
“Kyle has been helpful in solving a few murders. He was a competent number two, excellent support for me. He was an overachiever type but a tireless worker.
“We will capture him soon, but Kyle, if you can hear me, wherever you are, I urge you to listen closely. Give yourself up. I can help you. I’ve always been able to help. Give yourself up to me. It’s the only chance you have.”
I paused and stared into the TV cameras, then I slowly stepped back from the microphones. The camera flashes were everywhere. They were treating me like the star now. Just as I had hoped they would.
Director Burns said a few more words about his concern for public safety and the extent of the FBI manhunt. He thanked me profusely for being there.
As I stood there beside Director Burns, I continued to stare out into the TV cameras. I knew that Kyle would be looking right at me. I was sure that he’d see this segment and that it would infuriate him.
I was sending Kyle a clear message, and a challenge.
Come and get me, if you can. You’re not the Mastermind anymore—I am.
Chapter 109
NOW I waited.
I went to visit Nana and the kids early the next morning.
My aunt Tia had a small clapboard house that was painted yellow with white aluminum shutters. It was located on a quiet street in Chapel Gate, which she called “the country.” As I drove up to the small house, I saw no evidence of the FBI, which was a good sign, I thought. They were doing their job well.
The special agent in charge was a man named Peter Schweitzer. He had an excellent reputation. Schweitzer met me at the front door and introduced me to the six other agents inside Tia’s house.
When I was fully satisfied about security, I went to see Nana and the kids. “Hello, Daddy.” “Hello, Dad.” “Hello, Alex.” Everybody seemed especially glad to see me, even Nana. They were having a big breakfast in the kitchen, and Tia was busy making pancakes and hot sausages. She put out her arms for a hug, and then everybody grabbed hold of me and wouldn’t let go. I must admit, I liked the attention; I needed the hugs.
“They can’t get enough of you, Alex.” Tia laughed and clapped her hands, just the way she’d been doing for years.
“That’s ’cause we don’t see enough of him,” Damon taunted.
“The job’s almost done,” I said, hoping that was true, not completely believing it. “At least you’re all getting three squares a day.” I laughed and gave Tia an extra hug.
I ate some breakfast and stayed at Tia’s for a little more than an hour. We never stopped talking the whole time, but only once did anyone bring up the current difficult and scary situation. “When can we go back home?” Damon asked.
They all stared at me, waiting for a good answer. Even little Alex held me in his gaze. “I won’t lie to you,” I finally said. “We have to find Kyle Craig first. Then we can go home.”
“And it can be just like before?” Jannie asked.
I recognized a trick question. “Even better than that,” I told her. “I’m going to make some big changes soon. I promise you.”
Chapter 110
I LEFT for Charlotte, North Carolina, on a ten o’clock flight out of D.C. I was heading south to v
isit Craig family members. Maybe Kyle was there as well. It wouldn’t surprise me.
His father, William Craig, chose not to be home when I arrived at the estate where Kyle and his brothers had been raised. It was a gentleman’s farm, with a rambling stone-and-wood house set on over forty acres in horse country. Someone on the staff told me it cost over fifteen dollars a yard just to paint all the white fences running around the pastures.
I spoke with Miriam Craig on a rear porch that overlooked wildflower gardens and a rock-filled brook. She seemed very much in control of her emotions, which surprised me, but maybe shouldn’t have. Mrs. Craig told me a great deal about her family.
“Kyle’s father and I had no idea, no clue about his darker side, if indeed the terrible allegations are true,” she said. “Kyle was always distant, reserved, introspective, I suppose you could say, but there was nothing to suggest that he might be this troubled. He did well in school, and in athletics. Kyle even plays the piano with a beautiful touch.”
“I never knew he played,” I said, and yet Kyle had often commented on my playing. “Did you and his father tell him how well he was doing—in school, for example? In athletics? I suspect that boys need to hear that more than we know.”
Mrs. Craig took offense. “He didn’t want to hear it. He’d say, ‘I know,’ and then walk away from us. Almost as if we had disappointed him by stating the obvious to him.”
“His brothers did better than Kyle in school?”
“In terms of grades, yes, but the boys were all high-honor students. Most teachers saw Kyle as being deeper. I believe that he had the highest IQ, one forty-nine, if I remember correctly. He chose not to apply himself to every subject. He had a strong will, even as a young boy.”
“But there were no obvious signs that he was severely troubled?”
“No, Detective Cross. Believe me, I’ve thought about it a lot.”
“Kyle’s father would agree?”
“We talked about it just last night. He agrees. He’s just too upset to be here. Kyle’s father is a proud man, and a good one. William Craig is a very good man.”
Next, I went to see Kyle’s brother. I talked to Dr. Craig in a white-on-white conference room at the Charlotte clinic where he was a partner.
“I found Kyle to be caustic and very cruel. I know that Blake did as well,” he confessed over tea.
“Cruel in what way?” I asked.
“Not to small animals or anything obvious like that—to other people. Actually, Kyle liked animals just fine. He was vicious at school, though. Both verbally and physically. A real prick. Nobody liked him much. He had no close friends that I remember. That’s odd, isn’t it? Kyle never had a single close friend. Let me tell you something, Detective. During Kyle’s sophomore and most of his junior year, our father made him sleep in the garage because he was so unpleasant to have around.”
“That seems a little severe,” I commented. Nothing I’d heard so far was as revealing. Kyle had never mentioned the punishment. Neither had Mrs. Craig. All she’d said was that Kyle’s father was a good man, whatever that meant.
“I don’t think it was severe, Detective. I think it was fair, and much less than he deserved. Kyle should have been thrown out of our house when he was around thirteen. My brother was a goddamn monster, and apparently he still is.”
Chapter 111
WHO WOULD Kyle go after next? It was the question that obsessed me now. I couldn’t let it go. When I got home that night, I began to think about going out to Seattle. I had a bad feeling. Lots of them, actually. Should I go out there? Would Kyle go after Christine Johnson next? He knew how to strike to cause the most hurt. Kyle knew me so well—but apparently I didn’t know Kyle at all.
Would he go after Christine? Or maybe Jamilla? Was I thinking the way Kyle would?
One step ahead.
God damn him to hell.
Maybe he would just come after me; maybe all I had to do was stay in the house on Fifth Street and wait for him to show up.
The question was burning inside my head. What was everybody who was looking for Kyle missing? What did he want—more than anything else? What motivated him? Who was on Kyle’s vicious hit list—besides me?
Kyle wanted to exert his will, but he also craved the most exquisite and forbidden pleasures. What had moved him in the past was sex, rape, money—millions of dollars—revenge against those he hated.
I finally went to bed at one-thirty, but surprise, surprise, I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing Kyle’s face every time I shut my eyes. His look was smug and confident. He was the most arrogant human being I had ever met. Possibly the most evil. I thought about all our times together, all our long, philosophical talks, anything I could remember. I turned on the bedside light and scribbled more notes. Kyle was methodical and logical, but then he could surprise me with a tactic or strategy completely off the charts. I thought about the raid in Santa Cruz. The vampire murders seemed long ago already. He had wanted me there—so that I could see him be the hero. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? He needed me to see how good he was. He wanted to take down Peter Westin by himself.
Suddenly, a question popped into my head. A really good one.
Where had he been unable to exert his will?
What were Kyle’s darkest fantasies? What were his daydreams? His secret desires? Where had he been thwarted in the past?
The worst was yet to come, wasn’t it? He was only starting with Zach and Liz Taylor. Was he about to go on a bloody rampage?
And then I recalled a particular fantasy that Kyle had shared with me one night after we had finished one of our worst cases. I remembered something he’d said, and couldn’t get it out of my head.
I snatched up the phone and began to dial long-distance. I hoped that I wasn’t already too late. I thought I knew who he was going to kill next.
Oh no, Kyle. Oh God, no!
Chapter 112
MAYBE I was just going crazy. I drove for nearly six hours on I-95, headed to Nags Head, North Carolina. I kept nervously changing radio stations to keep myself alert. I was thinking that Kyle didn’t want this to end—he was having too much fun; he was in his glory.
I had been in this part of North Carolina before, with Kate McTiernan. So had Kyle. We were trying to stop a sadistic killer named Casanova. He had kept as many as eight women captive in the woods near Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Kyle had been on our team, or so I had believed. But Kyle had also been Casanova’s partner in murder. I knew that much was true.
I made it to the Outer Banks just before night fell. As I drove toward the ocean, I remembered odd things: the sticky buns from the Nags Head Market; my long walks with Kate McTiernan along Coquina Beach; the lovely, almost supernaturally picturesque beaches in Jockey’s Ridge State Park. I remembered how much I admired Kate. We were still good friends, talked at least twice a month. She sent my kids imaginative presents on their birthdays and Christmas. She was working at the Regional Medical Center in Kitty Hawk and living with a local bookseller she was going to marry. Their home was in Nags Head, only a couple of miles away.
Kyle had a deep, obvious crush on Kate McTiernan. He’d hinted at it: “I could love that girl if I didn’t have Louise and the kids. Maybe I should dump them for Kate. She could make me a happy man. Kate could save me.”
He had come to visit Kate in Nags Head. I think he’d come to watch her. It bothered him that he couldn’t have her, that he had been denied Kate McTiernan. He also knew how much Kate meant to me.
Kyle was here, wasn’t he? Or he was coming.
I had warned Kate, but on the drive down I called again and explicitly told her to get the hell out of Nags Head. I didn’t care how much karate she knew, or how many black belts she had accumulated. I was going to stay at her place. I thought that Kyle might be coming too. I didn’t think he wanted to watch anymore. If he was coming here, he wanted to kill Kate.
I took a deep breath as I finally drove into town. It all looked so familiar, serene and
beautiful, like nothing bad should ever happen in Nags Head.
The worst is yet to come, I kept thinking. That’s why he killed Zach and Liz Taylor first. He set up his pattern with them. The Taylors were just the beginning. A warning of things to come.
I drove down a narrow paved road that weaved its way alongside windblown sand dunes. I was looking for any sign of Kyle. Number 1021 was a two-story clapboard beach house directly across from the ocean. Very quaint and stylish, very Kate McTiernan. If Kyle got to her, I would never forgive myself.
A Scottish flag was flying above the rooftop, and that was pure McTiernan too. As I had requested, her six-year-old Volvo was parked in the driveway; the house lights were on, shining like beacons to guide me—and maybe Kyle as well.
It made it look like somebody was home, and now somebody was.
Everything felt surreal to me. My nervous system was spiking. My hairs were standing on end. I had a sixth sense that Kyle was nearby. I just knew it, felt it in every inch of my body. Was he, though? Or was I just crazy? I wasn’t sure which outcome would be worse.
I drove my car inside the garage and pulled down the heavy wooden door. There was a cold spot at the center of my chest. I was having difficulty catching a breath. Or thinking in a straight line.
Then I went inside Kate McTiernan’s house. My sense of balance was off. I was listing to the right.
The telephone started to ring.
I pulled out my Glock and looked around the kitchen for Kyle. I didn’t see anything. Not yet.
Where was he?
The worst is yet to come.
Was I ready for it this time?
Chapter 113
I PICKED up the jangling phone, then hit my knee hard against the kitchen table.
Violets Are Blue Page 23
