Alex Cross, Run

by James Patterson

  The image showed a middle-aged, or maybe elderly, white male. The picture quality wasn’t great, but it was clear enough for a few details. He was bald, with dark-rimmed glasses, and what looked like a Members Only jacket, with the snaps on the shoulders.

  “At nine oh nine, we’ve got the same guy leaving a different way, out toward M Street, and still on foot,” the detective went on. “What he was doing in here for five minutes is anyone’s guess.”

  “What about cameras on this level?” I said.

  “Right there.” He pointed toward a badly battered unit in a corner of the ceiling. “Someone took it out just after eight o’clock last night. Threw a rock at it, or something.”

  “So, then . . .” I stopped to think about this. “If the old guy has anything to do with it, why just take out one camera? Why let himself be seen on two others?”

  “I know,” he said. “Good question. We’ve got a BOLO out on him right now. If we can get him in, we might start to put together some answers.”

  Maybe, I thought. But something told me it wasn’t going to be that easy.

  CHAPTER

  6

  I GOT HOME AROUND FIVE THAT MORNING, HOPING TO CATCH A COUPLE HOURS of sleep.

  And I guess that’s what happened. I barely remember crawling into bed next to my wife, Bree. The next thing I knew, light was streaming in through the windows, and we were under attack by a small band of munchkins.

  “Wake up, wake up, wake up! Doo-do-doo! It’s a big day!”

  Ali, my youngest, had already crawled right up the middle of the bed, and was kneeling there between us. My daughter Jannie stood at the end, all dressed and ready to go.

  “It’s seven thirty, Daddy,” she said. “We’re supposed to be there by nine!”

  “Oh . . . right,” I said.

  “You didn’t forget, did you?”

  “No,” I said. “Of course not. We’ll be right down.”

  Of course—I had forgotten. I’d been planning on being at the ME’s office first thing for the morning briefing, and then sitting in on Elizabeth Reilly’s autopsy.

  But the kids were right. Today was a big day.

  This was lottery day at Marian Anderson Public Charter School, the best high school in Southeast, and one of the best in the city. Jannie, as well as Ava, who was living with us now, had both put in applications, along with four hundred and twenty other eighth graders, looking for one of the hundred and five spots available in that fall’s freshman class. By law, charter schools have to hold a lottery when supply exceeds demand—which it always does—and we were hoping against hope to get both girls in.

  “You know, you don’t absolutely have to be there,” Bree said, rubbing my back on the side of the bed. “I saw the news last night. I know you’re buried at work. Nana and I can cover this.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m coming. I just need to get this cement out of my head.”

  Over the past several months, I’d missed Christmas Eve, Ali’s play, Damon’s quarterfinals, and most Sunday mornings at church, to name a few. This felt like my last line in the sand, and I wasn’t going to cross it. I’d call someone to cover for me at the ME’s office until I could get there.

  Downstairs at breakfast, Nana Mama had the griddle fired up, and all the kids had stacks of pancakes in front of them when Bree and I came in. It was a full house these days, with Damon home for spring break, and now Ava bringing our total up to seven.

  “Good morning, children,” Nana said, of course meaning me and Bree. She’s the undisputed matriarch of our family, and the kitchen is her throne room. “Blueberries or no blueberries?”

  I went straight for the coffee.

  “What’re you doing up? Didn’t you just get home?” Nana muttered at me from the stove. I mumbled back something about big day. I wasn’t thinking about a whole lot more than caffeine at that moment.

  “So who’s feeling lucky today?” Bree asked from the head of the table.

  Everyone’s hand went up but Ava’s. She just kept shoveling her food in, eating fast like she always did.

  “What about you, Ava?” I said. “Are you excited?”

  She shrugged, and answered with a mouthful of pancakes. “S’not like I’m gonna get in.”

  “Don’t be so gloomy, Gus,” Nana said from the griddle. “Attitude is everything.”

  If I’m being honest, though, it wasn’t hard for me to understand Ava’s pessimism at all. She was far brighter than she let on—maybe even brighter than she knew. It wasn’t about that, though.

  She’d landed in our laps some months back after her mother, a junkie, had OD’d and left her to live alone on the streets of Southeast. There were still plenty of issues for Ava to work through, and I’d set her up with my own therapist, Adele Finaly. In the meantime, we had our good days and bad days.

  Basically, Ava had been hardwired not to expect too much from life—and consequently, not to want too much. Every now and then I caught a smile, or an unguarded moment, and in a way it showed me the potential she had waiting for her, if we could just help her see it, too. The one thing she didn’t have was hope. It’s what I’d call an inner-city epidemic—and nothing holds a person back more than that.

  If there was anything we could do to change the shitty hand life had dealt Ava so far, we were going to do it.

  One good day at a time.

  CHAPTER

  7

  FILING INTO THE GYM AT MARIAN ANDERSON, YOU MIGHT HAVE THOUGHT THERE was a carnival going on. There were balloons flying everywhere, and faculty and staff in bright yellow and green T-shirts, greeting everyone with big smiles.

  Inside, the bleachers were all pulled out and chairs were set up on the gym floor. Between the kids who had applied, their parents, siblings, and school staff, there were nearly a thousand people in that gym, and the place was buzzing with nervous tension.

  Nana’s lips were pursed from the second we got there. She tried to stay upbeat, for the girls’ sake, but she’d also been a teacher for forty-one years. She had some definite opinions about this particular ritual.

  “Mm-mm-mm,” she said, looking around. “You know why we’re here today? Because we adults can’t get off our duffs to offer more than a random chance at a good education in this city, that’s why.”

  I think the gridlock on education reform in Washington pisses Nana off more than anything else in life. There was no escaping the fact that three quarters of the people in that gym were going to leave disappointed today. Some of them—especially the poorer families—were going to be devastated. The only other free option for high school in our area was one of DC’s so-called dropout factories, where less than sixty percent of entering freshmen graduate.

  We found a block of seats on the floor and settled in. Jannie stayed on her feet, looking around for some of her friends, but Ava just sat quietly in her chair.

  Finally, just after nine, the school’s principal got up on stage to welcome everyone. And then they got right to it, pulling cards out of a rolling hopper and calling out the names, one by one.

  “Monique Baxter . . . Leroy Esselman . . . Thomas Brown . . .”

  With every new draw, there was a shout, or a scream, or some flurry of movement from somewhere in the gym. It really was like winning the lottery. Each kid whose name was called got to walk up on stage, cheered along by the faculty, where they got a welcome packet, and then they were ushered back out again in a flurry of applause.

  As the names went by, lots of people were making hatch marks on pieces of paper in front of them, or counting down on their fingers. I had Jannie on one side of me and Nana on the other. The tension coming off both of them was palpable.

  Within about ten minutes, the lottery was already starting to wind down. We got up to name number eighty-two, eighty-three, eighty-four . . . and then—

  “Janelle Cross!”

  Just like that, we were the ones jumping up and hugging each other, swept along in the excitement of the whole thing. I’m
not going to pretend I wasn’t thrilled, because I was. This was a great opportunity for Jannie. But even as I headed up to the stage with her, I couldn’t help looking back to see what Ava was doing.

  She was just sitting there and staring at the floor like nothing had happened. Like she was made of stone—at least on the outside. Bree had an arm around her, and waved me on toward the stage. It was a tough bit of mixed feelings for me to juggle.

  But maybe, just maybe, we could get lightning to strike twice before this whole thing was over.

  CHAPTER

  8

  NO SUCH LUCK.

  By the time Jannie and I had circled all the way around and back to our seats, the lottery was over. Most of the people were on their feet now, milling around and getting ready to leave.

  Ava was still in her chair, scuffing her feet back and forth. She looked numb, as much as anything else.

  Nana looked angry. Bree looked heartbroken.

  “I’m sorry, Ava,” I said, sitting down next to her. “I wish it had come out differently.”

  “Wha’ever,” she said. “I knew I wasn’t gettin’ in.”

  It was frustrating to me, when the world behaved exactly as Ava expected it to. If I had to guess, I’d say she wanted in just as badly as Jannie, if for no other reason than to feel like she’d won something for once.

  Jannie came over and sat on the other side of her. Several families around us were holding each other, and a lot of their kids were crying. Some of the parents, too. It had all gone by so fast.

  “This sucks,” Jannie said. “Sorry, Ava.”

  “No, you ain’t.” Ava turned on her with a sudden glare. When Jannie tried to take her hand, she snatched it away and stood up fast. “Come on,” she said. “It’s time to go. The lottery’s over.” Then she started walking out ahead of the rest of us without looking back. There was nothing to do in the moment but soldier on and follow her out.

  Nana took my arm as we went. I could feel her shaking with anger.

  “It’s insanity, is what it is,” she said. “Why in God’s name should children have to win a damn lottery to get a good education? And right here in the nation’s capital! What does that say about our country to the rest of the world, Alex? What?”

  Even the “damn” was unusual for her, but I knew how she felt. The problem was so big, and so intractable, it was hard to even know who to be mad at anymore. The school chancellor? The teachers’ union? The mayor? God?

  “I wish I had some answers for you, Nana. I really do,” I said.

  “Well, I’ll tell you what,” she went on. “Miss Ava Williams will not be falling through any cracks, thank you very much. That girl is going to get the education she deserves if I have to give it to her myself.”

  In other words, Nana Mama was going to get done whatever the chancellor, teachers’ union, mayor, and God hadn’t seen fit to accomplish.

  And I had every faith that she would. One hundred percent.

  CHAPTER

  9

  RON GUIDICE SAT IN THE BLEACHERS AT MARIAN ANDERSON HIGH SCHOOL, taking notes as the school lottery played out. The place was jam-packed. Not too many white folks, but enough that he didn’t stand out, anyway. Nobody would even notice that he didn’t have a fourteen-year-old of his own in tow.

  Emma Lee played quietly the whole time at his feet, undressing and redressing Cee-Cee without a peep. She had the patience of a little saint, that was for sure.

  Maybe she got that part from me, he thought.

  Meanwhile, he sat and watched the Cross family as the lottery wound down. Interestingly enough, he found himself glad to hear Jannie’s name called out over the public address system. And then he was sorry when it became clear that Ava hadn’t made it in.

  Poor Ava. That girl couldn’t catch a break, could she? Unless you counted getting in with the Cross family to begin with. They were “good people,” on paper. Guidice was even starting to like them a little more than he would have preferred. The grandmother and the kids, anyway. It happened all the time. He couldn’t help getting involved with his subjects.

  Would they be devastated when Alex was dead and gone? Of course they would. That was the part that couldn’t be helped. The world was full of innocent victims.

  He’d been one himself, once. Thanks to Alex.

  But none of that mattered—not as long as he kept an eye on the bigger picture. Always the bigger picture.

  That’s where Alex Cross was a dead man walking.

  CHAPTER

  10

  I SKIPPED LUNCH WITH THE FAMILY AND GOT MYSELF STRAIGHT OVER TO THE new Consolidated Forensic Lab at Fourth and School Streets. It’s an amazing building—two hundred and eighty thousand square feet of facilities under one enormous roof. MPD finally had firearms, toxicology, DNA, fingerprint analysis, and the medical examiner’s office all in one place.

  As soon as I got there, I threw on a surgical gown and mask and pushed in through the swinging door of the examination suite where Joan Bradbury was already halfway through Elizabeth Reilly’s autopsy.

  “What have we got so far, Joan?” I asked.

  “A lot,” she said. “Come on in.”

  The body was open on the table, with a long Y cut down the middle of the torso, which had been flayed open by now. I’ve sat through more autopsies than I can remember, and my stomach’s way past any kind of trouble with this stuff. At the same time, I never let myself forget the reason I’m there. I owed Elizabeth that much, at least.

  “I did a tox screen on her blood last night, just to get a jump on things,” she told me. “We got a positive read for antidepressants, and, get this—Pitocin.”

  “Pitocin? You test for that?”

  “Not usually, but under the circumstances, I thought I might check. Glad I did, too. Pitocin doesn’t stay in the system too long, only around forty-eight hours. Which means Elizabeth Reilly induced her labor less than two days before she died.”

  My mind started spinning around this new piece of information. So far there were no hospital records for Elizabeth Reilly in the area, and no record of any live births under that name, much less an induced labor.

  Was it possible she’d done this on her own for some reason? She’d been a nursing student. She could have easily known how to get her hands on some Pitocin, and maybe even known how to administer it.

  But why?

  And meanwhile, was there a three-day-old baby out there somewhere? I needed to find out, ASAP.

  “By the way,” Joan went on. “We didn’t find any rope fibers on her fingers or palms at all. Someone else put that noose around her neck. And if all that weren’t enough, the break in the second and third vertebrae was definitely postmortem. I’ve got a few hours to go here, but I can tell you right now, my report’s going to rule out suicide.”

  Ultimately, cause of death is the ME’s to call. I hardly ever disagreed with Joan’s conclusions, and I didn’t have any reason to do it today, either. This was now officially a homicide investigation.

  Maybe also a missing persons case.

  I had my work cut out, that was for sure.

  CHAPTER

  11

  THE FIRST THING I DID WHEN I LEFT THE MORGUE WAS FIND SAMPSON. HE WAS catching up on his reports at the Second District station house, and I pulled him outside for a talk.

  I’ve known John all my life, and I trust him as much as anyone at MPD. He’s also been around long enough that he knows people all over the city. More specifically, he knew which people at which agencies were going to be willing to talk to him about a missing baby without eighteen and a half signatures on two dozen forms first. I understand why we’ve got a lot of the paperwork we do, but there’s a time and a place. This wasn’t it. If speed was my number one priority right now, discretion was a close second.

  We stood out by my car in the station house parking lot, downing some sandwiches and going over the details.

  “All indications are that this was a vaginal birth. No signs of epis
iotomy, or any hospital intervention at all,” I told him. “Given the Pitocin in Elizabeth’s system, and the fact that nobody we’ve talked to said anything about any pregnancy, it seems pretty clear she was trying to keep this a secret.”

  “It’s not so hard to hide a pregnancy,” John said, flipping through the file I’d given him. “Especially if nobody’s looking.”

  “Exactly. Her neighbors barely knew her, and she dropped out of school five months ago.”

  “What about family?” he asked. “Next of kin?”

  “Not much. She’s got two grandparents down in Georgia who raised her, and that’s about it. According to them, she fell off the radar a while ago. They haven’t heard from her since Christmas.”

  “In other words, this baby could be—”

  “Anywhere. Yeah.”

  John chugged the last of his Diet Coke and obliterated the can in his huge hand. There’s a reason we call him Man Mountain. “I’m going to need something stronger here,” he said.

  “Talk to Youth Division, see if any of this rings a bell,” I told him. “Harry Keith over there will keep his mouth shut, if you need some help. Go district by district if you have to. Check the NCMEC database as often as you can, and talk to their people over in Alexandria. Just don’t say anything about me or this case.”

  This was the thing. Elizabeth Reilly’s pregnancy was the only card we were holding close anymore. If our killer had any connection to her baby, I didn’t want him to see us coming, and I was already publicly attached to this very public story. That’s where Sampson came in.

  The other possibility was that there might not be a baby to find anymore. We didn’t know if Elizabeth’s pregnancy had been full term; if the baby was delivered stillborn; or God forbid, if it had been killed for some reason I didn’t understand yet.