Alex Cross 03 - Jack & Jill

by James Patterson

  I finally stopped in front of the Johnson house. Right in front. I noticed the bristle-brush, manicured lawn, and well-trimmed yews.

  Moment of truth. Moment of decision. Moment of crisis.

  I could see lights burning brightly inside the house, tiny fires. Somebody seemed to be up at the Johnson house. The dark blue Mercedes sedan was sitting peacefully against the closed garage door.

  She has a nice car and a beautiful home. Christine Johnson doesn’t need any terrible trouble from you. Don’t bring your monsters out here. She has a lawyer husband. She’s doing real fine for herself.

  What did she say her husband’s name was—George? George the lawyer lobbyist. George the rich lawyer lobbyist.

  There was only one car in the driveway. Her car. The garage door was closed. I could picture another car in there, maybe a Lexus. Maybe a gas grill for cookouts, too. Power lawn mower, leaf blower, maybe a couple of mountain bikes for weekend fun.

  I shut off the engine and got out of my car.

  The dragonslayer comes to Mitchellville.

  CHAPTER

  54

  I WAS DEFINITELY CURIOUS about Christine Johnson, and maybe it was a little more complicated than that. You like her, don’t you, Daddy? Maybe? Yes, I did like her—a lot. At any rate, I felt as if I needed to see her, even if it made me feel tremendously awkward and foolish. A good thought struck me as I climbed out of the car: how much more foolish to walk away.

  Besides, Christine Johnson was part of the complex homicide case I was working on. There was a logical enough reason for me to want to talk to her. Two students from her school had been murdered so far. Two of her babies. Why that school? Why had a killer come there? So close to my home?

  I walked to the front door and was actually glad that all the shimmering houselights were turned on bright. I didn’t want her husband, or any of the neighbors in Mitchellville, to spot me approaching the house in a cloak of shadows and darkness.

  I rang the bell, heard melodious chimes, and waited like a porch sculpture. A dog barked loudly somewhere inside the house. Then Christine Johnson appeared at the front door.

  She had on faded jeans, a wrinkled yellow crewneck sweater, white half-socks, and no shoes. A tortoiseshell comb pulled her hair back to one side, and she was wearing her glasses. She looked as if she were working at home. Still working at this late hour. Peas in a pod, weren’t we? Well, not exactly. I was a long way from my pod, actually.

  “Detective Cross?” She was surprised; understandably so. I was kind of surprised to be standing there myself.

  “Nothing has happened on the case,” I quickly reassured her. “I just have a few more questions.” That was true. Don’t lie to her, Alex. Don’t you dare lie to her. Not even once. Not ever.

  She smiled then. Her eyes seemed to smile as well. They were very large and very brown, and I had to stop staring at them immediately. “You do work too late, too hard, even under the current circumstances,” she said.

  “I couldn’t turn this horrible thing off tonight. There are two cases, actually. So here I am. If this is a bad time, I’ll stop by at the school tomorrow. That’s no problem.”

  “No, come on in,” she said. “I know how busy you are. I can imagine. Come in, please. The house is a mess, like our government, all the usual boilerplate copy applies.”

  She led me back through an entranceway with a cream marble floor and past the living room with its comfortable-looking sectional sofa and lots of earth colors: sienna, ocher, and burnt umber.

  There was no guided tour, though. No more questions about why I was there. A little too much silence suddenly. My chi energy was draining off somewhere.

  She took me into the huge kitchen. She went to the refrigerator, a big, double-door jobbie that opened with a loud whoosh. “Let me see, we’ve got beer, diet cola, sun tea. I can make coffee or hot tea if you’d like. You do work too hard. That’s for sure.”

  She sounded a little like a teacher now. Understanding, but gently reminding me that I might have areas of improvement.

  “A beer sounds pretty good,” I told her. I glanced around the kitchen, which was easily twice the size of ours at home. There were rows of white custom cabinets. A skylight in the ceiling. A flyer on the fridge promoting a “Walk for the Homeless.” She had a very nice home—she and George did.

  I noted an embroidered cloth on a wall stretcher. Swahili words: Kwenda mzuri. It’s a farewell that means “go well.” A gentie hint? Word to the wise?

  “I’m glad to hear you’ll have a beer,” she said, smiling. “That would mean you’re at least close to knocking off for the day. It’s almost ten-thirty. Did you know that? What time is it on your clock?”

  “Is it that late? I’m real sorry,” I said to her. “We can do this tomorrow.”

  Christine brought me a Heineken and iced tea for herself. She sat across from me at an island counter that subdivided the kitchen. The house was far from being the mess she’d warned me about when I came in. It was nicely lived-in. There was a sweet, charming display of drawings from the Truth School on one wall. A beautiful mud cloth on a stretcher also grabbed my eye.

  “So. What’s up, doc?” she asked. “What brings you outside the beltway?”

  “Honestly? I couldn’t sleep. I took a drive. I drove out this way. Then I had the bright idea that maybe we could cover some ground on the case … or maybe I just needed to talk to somebody.” I finally confessed, and it felt pretty good. Directionally good, anyway.

  “Well, that’s okay. That’s fine. I can relate to that. I couldn’t sleep myself,” she said. “I’ve been wound tight ever since Shanelle’s murder. And then poor Vernon Wheatley. I was pruning the plants, with ER on the television for background noise. Pretty pathetic, don’t you think?”

  “Not really. I don’t think it’s so strange. ER is good. By the way, you have a beautiful house out here.”

  I could see the living room TV set from the kitchen. A mammoth Sony playing the medical drama. A black retriever, a young dog, wandered in from the direction of a narrow hallway with oatmeal-colored carpeted stairs. “That’s Meg,” Christine told me. “She was watching ER, too. Meg loves a good melodrama.” The dog nuzzled me, then licked my hand.

  I don’t know why I wanted to tell her, but I did.

  “I play the piano at night sometimes. There’s a sun porch in our house, so the awful racket doesn’t bother the kids too much. Either that or they’ve learned to sleep right through it,” I said. “A little Gershwin, Brahms, Jellyroll Morton at one in the morning never hurt anyone.”

  Christine Johnson smiled, and seemed at ease with this kind of talk. She was a very self-assured person, very centered. I’d noticed that right from the first night. I had sensed it about her.

  “Damon has mentioned your nocturnal piano playing a few times at school. You know, he occasionally brags about you to the teachers. He’s a very nice boy, in addition to being a brainiac. We like him tremendously.”

  “Thank you. I like him a lot myself. He’s lucky we have the Sojourner Truth School nearby.”

  “Yes, I think he is,” Christine agreed. “A lot of D.C. schools are a complete disgrace, and so sad. The Truth is a small miracle for the children who attend.”

  “Your miracle?” I asked her.

  “No, no, no. A lot of people are responsible, least of all me. My husband’s law firm has contributed some guilt money. I just help to keep the miracle going. I believe in miracles, though. How long has it been since your wife died, Alex?” she suddenly changed gears. But Christine Johnson made the question conversational and low-key and very natural to ask, even if it wasn’t. Still, it took me by surprise. I sensed I didn’t have to answer if I didn’t want to.

  “It’s going to be five years soon,” I told her, partly holding my breath as I did. “This March, actually. Jannie was still a little baby. She was less than a year old. I remember coming in and holding her that night. She had no idea that she was comforting me.”

/>   The two of us were getting comfortable talking at the kitchen counter. We were both opening up quite a lot. Small talk at first. Then bigger talk. Sojourner Truth School killer talk. Maybe something helpful for the investigation. It went on like that until almost midnight.

  I finally told her I needed to be heading home. She didn’t disagree. The look in her eyes told me that she understood everything that had gone on here tonight, and all of it was okay with her.

  At the front door, Christine surprised me again. She pecked me on the cheek.

  “Come back, Alex,” she said, “if you need to talk again. I’ll be here tending to my shrubs in my ostentatious house. Kwenda mzuri,” she said.

  We left it like that. Go well. A strange tableau at a strange time in our lives. I had no idea whether her lawyer husband was home or not. Was he up in the bedroom sleeping? Was his name really George? Were they still together?

  It was another mystery to solve some other day, but not that day.

  On the drive home, I pondered whether I should feel bad about the unconventional, surprise visit to Christine Johnson’s house. I decided that I shouldn’t, that I wouldn’t even get embarrassed about it at a later date. She’d made that possible for me. She was incredibly easy to be around. Absolutely incredible. It was painful in a way.

  When I got home, I played the piano for another hour or so. Beethoven, then Mozart. Classical felt right to me. I went up and peeked in on Damon and Jannie. I gently pecked their cheeks, as Christine Johnson had pecked mine. I finally fell asleep on the downstairs couch. I didn’t feel sorry for myself there, but I did feel very alone.

  I slept until several shrill rings of the phone woke me, shooting adrenaline through my body like electric current.

  It was Jack and Jill again.

  CHAPTER

  55

  TYSONS GALLERIA in Tysons Corner was, along with the neighboring Tysons Corner Mall, one of the largest shopping complexes in the United States, maybe in the world. Sam Harrison had parked in the enormous Galleria lot at a little past 6:00 A.M.

  At least a hundred cars were already there, though Versace and Neiman Marcus, FAO Schwarz and Tiljengrist wouldn’t open until ten. Maryland Bagels was open and smells from the popular local bakery filled the air. Jack hadn’t come to Tysons Corner for a piping-hot blueberry bagel, though.

  From the parking area of the mall, he jogged to Chain Bridge Road in McLean. He wore a blue and white Fila jacket and running shorts and looked as if he belonged in the $400,000-to-$1,500,000-per-house neighborhood. That was one of the important rules in his game: Always appear to belong, to fit in, and soon you will.

  With his short blond hair and trim build, he looked as if he might be a commercial pilot with USAir or Delta. Or perhaps just one of the neighborhood’s many professionals, a doctor or lawyer—whatever. He definitely seemed to belong. He fit in seamlessly.

  He had known from the start that he would have to carry out this murder alone. Jill shouldn’t be out here in McLean Village. This was the really bad one for him personally. This one was over the top, even for Jack and Jill, even for the game of games.

  The murder this morning would be extremely dangerous. This target might know that someone was coming for him. Number four was going to be a hard one, done the hard way. He thought about all this as he steadily jogged toward his final destination in the pretty and peaceful Washington suburb.

  As he crossed onto Livingston Road, he attempted to clear his mind of everything except the terrible murder that lay ahead of him.

  He was Jack once again, the brutal celebrity stalker. He was going to prove it in just a few minutes.

  This one was going to be tough, the hardest so far. The man he was about to kill had been one of his best friends.

  In the game of life and death, that didn’t matter.

  He had no best friends. He had no friends at all.

  CHAPTER

  56

  I AM SAM, Sam I am, he was thinking as he ran.

  But he wasn’t really Sam Harrison.

  He didn’t have blond hair, or wear trendy jogging suits with logos on the breast pocket, either.

  Who in hell am I? What am I becoming? he asked himself as his feet struck the pavement hard.

  He knew that the house at 31 Livingston Road was guarded by a sophisticated security system. He would have expected nothing less.

  He ran at a quickening pace now. Eventually, he veered off the macadam road and disappeared into underbrush and pine trees. He kept running through the woods.

  He was in good shape and hadn’t broken much of a sweat yet. The cold weather helped. He was alert, fresh, ready for the game to resume, ready to murder again.

  He figured that he could get up close, perhaps as near as ten yards from the house without being seen. Then a quick dash to the garage.

  For that short period, he would be out in the open. Completely exposed. There was no way around it and, God knows, he had tried to figure out an alternative attack plan.

  He was about to attack a house in McLean. How incredible that seemed. This was like a war. A war fought at home. A revolutionary war.

  There were two other large Colonial-style houses that he could see from the light woods. No lights on yet; no one seemed to be up anywhere on Livingston Road. So far, his luck was holding okay. His luck, or his skill, or maybe a combination of both.

  As far as he could tell, no one was awake at 31 Livingston. He couldn’t be sure until he was inside the house itself, and then it would be too late to turn back.

  The FBI could be waiting in there or lurking right in these woods. Nothing would surprise him now. Anything could happen, at any time, to either him or Jill.

  He decided to walk out from the woods, looking calm, looking casual. As if he belonged. He didn’t make much noise as he gently raised the garage door. He quickly ducked under the partially open door and he was inside.

  He went straight to the Nutone security box and punched in the code. So much for high security in the suburbs. There was no effective protection, really. Not from people like him.

  He entered the main part of the house. His heart pounded like a battering ram inside his chest. There was a sheen of sweat on his neck now. He could picture Aiden’s face. He could see Aiden as if he were standing there beside him.

  Everything was peaceful and quiet and orderly inside the house. Fridge gently humming. Kids’ artwork and a school lunch menu attached to the door with magnets. That made his heart sink. Aiden’s kids.

  Aiden Junior was nine years old. Charise was six. The wife, Merrill, was thirty-four, fifteen years younger than her husband. It was her second marriage, his third. They’d seemed very much in love the last time he had seen them together.

  Jack moved quickly into the living room. He stopped breathing.

  Someone was in the living room!

  Jack whirled to the left. He yanked up his pistol and pointed it at the man. Jesus God, it was only a goddamn mirror! He was looking at his own image.

  He managed to catch his breath, then continued on his mission, his heart still thundering. He hurried through the living room. It was so familiar, lots of memories seeping into his consciousness. Painful thoughts. He pushed them aside.

  He began to climb up plush carpeted stairs, then stopped for a second. For the first time, he had doubts.

  There can’t be any doubts! Doubt and uncertainty weren’t allowed! Not in this. Not in Jack and Jill.

  He remembered the upstairs hallway, knew the house very well. He’d been here before—as a “friendly.”

  The master bedroom was the last door on the right.

  There would be weapons in the bedroom. A .357 in the drawer of the night table. An automatic taped under the bed.

  He knew. He knew. He knew everything.

  If Aiden had already heard him, everything would be over. The game would end right there. This would be it for Jack and Jill.

  Nutcruncher time. Weird thoughts. Too many of them.

>   He had finally gone to see Pulp Fiction the night before. It hadn’t relaxed him, though he’d laughed out loud several times. Sick story; he was even sicker; America was sickest of all.

  Don’t think anymore, he warned himself. Just do this. Do it efficiently. Do it now! Do it fast! Get out!

  Jack kills American celebrities! Various and sundry bigshots. That’s what he does. Be Jack!

  But he wasn’t really Jack!

  He wasn’t really Sam Harrison!

  Don’t think, he commanded himself again as he hurried down the upstairs hallway to the master bedroom.

  Be Jack.

  Kill.

  CHAPTER

  57

  JACK—whoever the hell he was—was three or four steps from the master bedroom when its varnished wood door suddenly opened.

  A tall, balding man stepped out into the hall. Very hairy arms and legs. Bare, bony feet; toes splayed. Only half awake. In the middle of a jaw-cracking yawn.

  He had on blue plaid boxer shorts, nothing else. A good build, still athletic-looking; just a hint of a spare tire above the boxers’ elastic” band. Still formidable after all the years of D.C. power lunches.

  General Aiden Cornwall!

  “You! You son of a bitch!” he whispered as he suddenly saw Jack in the upstairs hallway. “I knew it might be you.” Yes, Aiden Cornwall knew everything in an instant. He had solved the mystery; a lot of mysteries, actually. He understood Jack and Jill. Where it was going. And why it was going there: why it had to be this way. Why there could be no turning back.

  Jack fired the silenced Beretta twice and the target collapsed. Jack quickly stepped forward and caught the lifeless body before it could thud loudly against the floor.

  He held the body in his arms, lowering it slowly to the carpet. His friend, whatever that meant now. He stayed down on his knees for a long moment. His heart was exploding.

  He hadn’t realized how hard this one was going to be until now. Not until this instant.