Alex Cross, Run

by James Patterson

  And that’s why my boy Damon is a star. With just a few words, he managed to get something out of Ava that I’d barely been able to do in four months. He may be the quietest of my kids, but that’s the thing about the quiet ones. When they do speak up, it’s usually for a good reason.

  Or even a great one.

  Suddenly, my eyes were stinging and the room went a little fuzzy. I never even saw it coming. It was like the whole day just washed over me in one big wave—all that stress on the way in, and everything I was so grateful for on the way out.

  “Daddy?” Ali leaned over and looked up into my face. “Why are you crying?”

  “I’m not,” I said, wiping my eyes. “Well, maybe just a little.” I pulled him up onto my lap and put my arms around his little string-bean body. “But they’re happy tears,” I said.

  “Don’t mind him, children,” Nana told everyone. “Despite appearances, Mr. Dragonslayer over here is just an old softie at heart.”

  “True that,” I answered.

  Then Nana gave me a wink and raised her glass to make one more toast. “Here’s to old softie, who can cry all he likes, but he’s still paying for dinner!”

  CHAPTER

  17

  RON GUIDICE GOT HOME AROUND TEN THIRTY THAT NIGHT. AFTER GETTING up at five, and crisscrossing the city all day, he was exhausted. Still, there was plenty of work to do. It was probably going to be another all-nighter.

  Just inside the door of his simple Cape house in Reston, he stepped out of his shoes. It was an old habit from growing up in New Hampshire, with its long winters and subsequent mud seasons. He set his Timberlands in the rubber tray by the door, alongside Emma Lee’s little sneakers and his mother’s old slip-ons.

  “Hey, Mom, I’m home,” he called out.

  Lydia Guidice jerked awake on the couch, with a chubby hand to her chest. She’d been sacked out in front of NCIS, or CSI, or SVU—whatever it was. Guidice could never tell one of those shows from the other.

  “Good Lord, you scared the bejesus out of me,” Lydia said. “I still can’t get used to that beard of yours. Makes you look like some kind of terrorist.”

  “Uh-huh.” Guidice leaned into the fridge and pulled out a Bud. “Emma Lee eat okay?”

  “All her chicken nuggets and seconds on applesauce. She went down about eight thirty.”

  “Good, good. You want anything?”

  “I wouldn’t mind a little ice cream,” his mother said.

  In fact, ice cream was the last thing Lydia Guidice needed. She hadn’t weighed herself since she slipped past the three-hundred-pound mark. But the ugly truth was, his mother was a lot easier to take when she was stuffing her face.

  “Where were you tonight?” she asked, pushing herself up to sitting.

  “Work,” he said.

  “You might have called.”

  “We’ve been over this, Mom. If I don’t call, it means I’m working late. I don’t understand what’s so complicated about that.”

  “I just worry, that’s all. Would it really kill you to pick up the phone?” she asked.

  Guidice took a long hit of his beer. It was the same dance, every goddamn time.

  “You know,” he said, “if you want, I can just as easily take Emma Lee and find a smaller place—”

  “No, no,” his mother said.

  “Take my benefit checks with me, too. I think they’re hiring over at the Safeway right now. You want me to pick you up an application tomorrow?”

  “Don’t start,” she said, and put out a hand for her dessert. Guidice stopped short, holding the quart of Breyers mint chip just out of her reach.

  “Who’s in charge, Mom?” he said.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake.”

  “Say it.”

  Lydia grunted testily and shifted her eyes up to meet his gaze. “You’re in charge, Ronald. Always have been,” she said. “Satisfied?”

  Guidice handed her the ice cream and leaned down to kiss the top of her head.

  “Then let’s stop having this conversation, Mom, what do you say?”

  The fact of the matter was, Lydia Guidice had never finished the tenth grade, never married Ron’s father, and never held down a real job in her life. Now, at age sixty-two, three hundred and some pounds, and no Social Security coming in, she was about as marketable as a used condom, and they both knew it.

  Guidice didn’t enjoy making his mother squirm like this. That’s why he only did it as often as necessary.

  “I’m going to give Emma Lee a kiss, and then I’ll be working in my room,” he told her.

  “Okeydoke.”

  “Love you, Mom.”

  “Love you, too, son,” Lydia answered as she tucked into her ice cream. “Don’t stay up too late.”

  CHAPTER

  18

  GUIDICE TIPTOED INTO EMMA LEE’S ROOM AND STOOD OVER HER BED. SHE WAS all curled up like a little hedgehog in one corner under the covers, sleeping peacefully.

  There was nothing more precious than this. Nothing.

  He leaned down and stroked his daughter’s sweet little cheek. Brushed her sand-colored hair away from her eyes. Kissed her forehead.

  Halfway out of the room, he changed his mind. He could just as easily work in here. He parked himself in the white-painted rocker by the door instead and listened to the metronome of Emma Lee’s even breathing.

  Once his laptop was powered up, Guidice plugged his earbuds into the computer’s audio jack and started opening Windows. There were notes to transcribe from the day, sites to check, listservs to monitor—but first, he wanted to make sure everything was up and running at Alex’s house.

  With the family out to dinner that night, there had been plenty of time to install an Infinity transmitter on each level of the Cross home. Each one was hardwired behind an existing outlet so there would be no issues with battery life or losing power. There were also three corresponding match-head-size microphones tucked into the kitchen, the master bedroom, and Alex’s office on the third floor. If anything, Guidice was going to net more information than he would ever have time to weed through, but too much was definitely preferable to not enough.

  He opened all three channels now, and let them stream simultaneously in his ears while he worked. Mostly it was quiet over there. Someone was watching TV, and it seemed that maybe Alex was in his office, just from the sound of shuffling pages and the occasional clearing of a throat.

  It was a bizarre mash-up, really—sitting here gathering source material from the privacy of his daughter’s bedroom. A peaceful moment in the middle of the storm.

  There was still Lydia to worry about, but so far she was more use to him than she was trouble. In a way, it was like his mother knew which questions she could get away with, and which ones to leave alone. Like how they were affording to live, for starters.

  Guidice’s reporting hadn’t brought in any appreciable income for quite a while now. Not since everything had changed—and not since the cash settlement, after the cops had stolen his life away from him.

  As if a wad of money could make up for what they’d done!

  It was nothing more than routine incompetence, the way Theresa had been allowed to die that night, right there on the sidewalk like a common criminal.

  And not just Theresa, either. No one else had known it at the time, but their unborn child had died that night, too, along with the only woman he’d ever loved. Both of them, murdered in cold blood.

  And all on Alex Cross’s watch.

  CHAPTER

  19

  ELIJAH CREEM PREFERRED TO SECTION HIS OWN GRAPEFRUIT IN THE MORNING. He liked the way the membranous flesh gave so easily, but how it also demanded a certain element of precision from the blade of his knife.

  He took his time with it that morning, lingering over his fruit, steak, and egg breakfast while he read the Post. One story in particular had caught his attention there, and he perused it twice through as he ate.

  “Kate?” he called out to the housekeeper.
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  “Sir?” she said, poking her head through the swinging kitchen door into the dining room.

  “Would you bring me my phone, please? I think it’s in the hall.”

  “Certainly,” she said, and disappeared again.

  According to the paper, a boy from Northwest DC had been shot, stabbed, and dropped into the Potomac, where his body had been found floating just the day before. The Post’s coverage, at least, indicated that the police had no leads whatsoever on who might have done this.

  “Oh, I heard about that,” Kate said, suddenly back with his phone and looking over Dr. Creem’s shoulder. “It was on every channel last night.”

  “Was it?” Creem said. “Apparently, the boy died quite horribly.”

  He liked that she didn’t turn away. Instead, she leaned closer to get a look at the black and white picture of the victim. Also, close enough for Creem to rest a hand gently on the curve of her ass.

  “So young,” she said, though she was barely older.

  She hadn’t flinched at his touch, either. Kate, with her green card problems and sick father, certainly knew which side her bread was buttered on.

  “That’s all, for now,” Creem said, and winked at her as she freshened his coffee. She smiled pleasantly.

  He watched her go and waited until she was back in the kitchen, out of earshot. Then he picked up his phone and called Josh Bergman.

  “Elijah?” Bergman answered. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” Creem told him. “I know we agreed to keep a little distance for the time being. But I’m looking at the paper here, and I just had to ask if you’ve been as busy lately as I think you have.”

  “Oh, that,” Bergman said, feigning nonchalance.

  “I thought so,” Creem said. Joshie had really upped his game since the last time around. It was impressive.

  “And how are you, Elijah? I’ve been thinking about you.”

  “Never better,” Creem told his friend—and it was true, to an extent. Maybe the old life had been burned down around him, but this new one was rising, phoenixlike, to take its place. “It turns out I hated my wife for the last sixteen years. I just didn’t realize it until she was gone,” he said.

  “What about the girls?”

  “I miss them terribly,” Creem deadpanned. “But in the meantime, I wear what I like to the table, I don’t have any of those soul-sucking dinner parties on my schedule anymore, and I’m seriously considering that little dark-eyed housekeeper of mine.”

  “You mean Kate? Nice choice,” Bergman said. He’d always liked hearing about Creem’s sex life, and only sort of tried to hide the fact. “What’s stopping you?”

  “Nothing, I suppose,” Creem answered. “But Josh, listen. One more thing. I want you to know how much I appreciate you. How much I have appreciated you, through all of this.”

  “Elijah, have you been drinking?”

  “I’m serious,” he said. “I think you’re the only real friend I’ve ever had.”

  “Okay, fine,” Bergman said. “Then let me listen while you doink your maid.”

  Creem laughed it off. They kept each other entertained, that was for sure. “I’m hanging up now, Josh. Thanks for ruining the moment.”

  “Just remember—the ball’s in your court,” Bergman said.

  “Yes, of course,” Creem told him. “I can hardly wait.”

  Then he hung up the phone, picked up the small, serrated knife from the table, and headed off to the kitchen.

  CHAPTER

  20

  KATE WAS DOING DISHES WHEN HE CAME IN.

  “Can I get you something, Dr. Creem?” she asked.

  “No, no, I’m fine,” he said, coming to stand over by the sink. “I just meant to tell you before that you should help yourself to anything left in Miranda’s closet upstairs. I think she was about your size.”

  “That’s very nice. Thank you,” she said.

  “Also, there’s really no need for the uniform anymore,” he said, indicating the gray-and-white aproned dress she wore. “That was really Miranda’s thing, not mine.”

  Kate kept washing the glass in her hand, but she smiled beautifully. For a girl who had obviously never had any work done, she was quite the specimen.

  “How do you get anything done in this, anyway?” Creem asked. He reached over and fingered the hem of her uniform, letting his thumb brush against her thigh. “Looks awfully uncomfortable to me.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, looking down.

  “I think you’d be much more comfortable”—Creem raised the knife in his hand, up to the white collar at the back of her neck—“like this.”

  He pulled the collar back and drew the blade straight down, cutting a ragged line all the way through to the skirt.

  She squealed when he did it, and stiffened right up. So did Creem.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m a surgeon. You’re in good hands.”

  Now she laughed nervously, but also pressed her body against his, grinding into him with her ass. She wanted him, didn’t she? Of course she did. He was Dr. Elijah Creem. There were all kinds of things he could do for her.

  And to her.

  Creem reached around front and cut away the skin-thin fabric of her panties next. It wasn’t the same as cutting actual flesh, but it had its appeal. Besides, his life was complicated enough right now. He couldn’t afford to take out his own maid. What was the expression—don’t shit where you eat?

  Instead, he bent her over the sink, with the warm water still running, and entered her right there.

  “Relax,” he told her. “This should feel good.”

  With the very tip of his blade, he reached up again, and drew it softly down the exposed skin of her back. Using only the slightest pressure, just enough to raise a few skin cells, it left behind a fine white line, like a tiny chalk mark. She shivered as he did it—either loving this, or displaying some killer acting skills. Creem didn’t care which.

  He didn’t last long after that, either. The ruined uniform, and the sight of the girl bent over the sink, catching warm water in her hair, was enough to get him off. But then, with one fleeting mental image of the knife taking his place inside of her, Creem was quickly past the point of no return.

  Up and over.

  Fourth of July fireworks, and all that.

  When he was done, he sent little Kate upstairs to pick out something else to wear. He even gave her a wad of cash to go shopping with afterward, and the rest of the day off.

  “Thank you, Dr. Creem,” she said in her quaint accent. “Thank you so much.”

  “No, thank you,” Creem said. “What a lovely way to start the day.”

  He smiled as she scooted out, letting her enjoy herself for now.

  By the end of the week, she’d be looking for another job.

  CHAPTER

  21

  CREEM’S APPOINTMENT WITH HIS CRIMINAL ATTORNEY WAS SCHEDULED FOR nine thirty that morning. He showed up at the L Street offices of Schuman and Pace just after ten.

  “Elijah,” Bill Schuman said, coming around the desk to shake his hand. “Good to see you.” He paused to let Creem apologize for his tardiness, but Creem only nodded. He’d probably be charged for the time, anyway.

  “Have a seat. Please,” the lawyer told him.

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  He took the button-tufted tweed couch near the door instead of the leather swivel by Schuman’s desk. Schuman seemed a little puzzled, but didn’t say anything as he sat back down and started flipping through the file in front of him.

  “Give it to me straight, doc. How long do I have to live?” Creem asked.

  “You’re in a good mood,” Schuman said.

  “Just got laid, if you want to know.”

  His lawyer looked at him with an expression somewhere between offended and envious. It was the look of a guy who hardly ever got laid himself.

  “Anyway,” Schuman went on, “things are moving along. We’ve got Lew Car
roll coming down from New York for second chair, and I’ve already pinned down the two best jury consultants in the city for this trial.”

  “Fine, fine,” Creem said. “Do we have a lot to go over?” Now that Joshie had thrown down the gauntlet with such determination, he had much more interesting things to think about.

  “Well . . . yes,” Schuman said. “Of course we do. Elijah, you’ve got to focus here. If you want to get your money’s worth on this defense—”

  “At eight hundred and twenty-five an hour, I don’t know if that’s possible,” Creem said.

  Schuman raised his voice. “—then you’re going to have to show up. And I don’t just mean physically. Now, this pandering charge is a nonstarter, but I want to talk about the pornography charge. That’s where things start to get a lot stickier.”

  Creem wanted to say “No pun intended,” but he kept his mouth shut.

  “A worst-case scenario could be actual jail time,” Schuman told him. “Five years for possession, or as much as fifteen if the DA starts talking distribution. Are you hearing me on that?”

  “When do you expect to go to trial?” Creem asked, his first serious question.

  “June fourth,” Schuman said, “unless I can talk the DA into something more palatable.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, a plea bargain, for one.”

  “No,” Creem said.

  “Elijah, at least listen to the range of options—”

  “No.” Creem got up and paced over to the window. “I’m not taking a plea on this. I’ll wait for the trial. You just do your goddamn job.”

  “I am doing my goddamn job!” Schuman said, showing his first bit of real spine. “I don’t understand. Why aren’t you—?”

  He stopped short then, and dropped his head.

  “Oh . . . cripes. Please don’t tell me. . . .”