I squeezed my girl’s hands in mine. She was so much like Maria. ‘Thank you, sweetie. I needed that tonight.’
‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘I could tell.’
Chapter Fifty-Four
The Wolf was in Washington, D.C. on a business trip that night. He had a late dinner at the Ruth Chris Steak House on Connecticut Avenue near Dupont Circle.
Joining him was Franco Grimaldi, a stocky, thirty-eight-year-old Italian capo from New York. They talked about a promising scheme to build Tahoe into a gambling mecca that would rival Vegas and Atlantic City; they also talked about pro hockey, the latest Vin Diesel movie, and a plan the Wolf had to make a billion dollars on a single job. Then the Wolf said he had to leave. He had another meeting in Washington. Business rather than pleasure.
‘You seeing the President?’ Grimaldi asked.
The Russian laughed. ‘No. He can’t get anything done. He’s all stronzate. Why should I see him? He should see me about Bin Laden and the terrorists. I get things done.’
‘Tell me something,’ Grimaldi asked, before the Wolf left. ‘The story about Palumbo out in the max-security prison in Colorado. You did that?’
The Wolf shook his head. ‘A complete fairy tale. I am a businessman, not a low-life, not some butcher. Don’t believe everything you hear about me.’
The Mafia head watched the unpredictable Russian leave the steakhouse, and he was almost certain the man had killed Palumbo, and also that the President ought to contact the Wolf about Al Qaeda.
Around midnight, the Wolf got out of a black Dodge Viper in Potomac Park. He could see the outline of an SUV across Ohio Drive. The roof light blinked on and a single passenger got out. Come to me, pigeon, he whispered.
The man who approached him in Potomac Park was FBI and worked in the Hoover Building. His carriage was stiff and herky-jerky like that of so many government functionaries. There was no confident G-man swagger. The Wolf had been warned that he couldn’t buy a useful agent, and then he couldn’t trust the information if he did. But he hadn’t believed that. Money always bought things, and it always bought people – especially if they had been passed over for promotions and raises; this was as true in America as it had been in Russia. If anything, it was more true here where cynicism and bitterness were becoming the national pastimes.
‘So is anybody talking about me up on the fifth floor of the Hoover?’ he asked.
‘I don’t want to meet like this. Next time, you run an ad in the Washington Times.’
The Wolf smiled, but then he jabbed a finger into the federal agent’s jaw. ‘I asked you a question. Is anybody talking about me?’
The agent shook his head. ‘Not yet, but they will. They’ve connected the murdered couple on Long Island to Atlanta, and to the King of Prussia Mall.’
The Wolf nodded. ‘Of course they have. I understand that these people of yours aren’t stupid. They’re just very limited.’
‘Don’t underestimate them,’ the agent warned. ‘The Bureau is changing. They’re going to come after you with everything they have.’
‘It won’t be enough,’ said the Wolf. ‘And besides, maybe I’ll come after them – with everything I have. I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow their house down.’
Chapter Fifty-Five
The next night I got home before six o’clock. I had a sit-down dinner with Nana and the kids, who were surprised, but clearly thrilled that I was home so early.
The telephone rang toward the end of the meal. I didn’t want to answer it. Maybe somebody else had been grabbed, but I didn’t want to deal with it. Not tonight.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Damon. ‘It’s probably for me. Some girlfriend.’ He snatched the ringing telephone off the kitchen wall, flipped it from one hand to the other.
‘You wish it was a girl,’ taunted Jannie from the table. ‘Dinnertime. It’s probably somebody selling insurance or a bank loan. They always call at dinner.’
Then Damon was pointing at me, and he wasn’t smiling. He didn’t look so good either, as if he’d suddenly gotten a little sick to his stomach. ‘Dad,’ he said in a low voice, ‘it’s for you.’
I got up from the table and took the phone from him.
‘You okay?’ I asked.
‘It’s Mrs Johnson,’ Damon whispered.
My throat felt constricted as I took the receiver. Now I was the one who felt a little sick, but also confused. ‘Hello? This is Alex,’ I said.
‘It’s Christine, Alex. I’m in Washington. For a few days. I’d like to see little Alex while I’m here,’ she said, and I almost felt it was a prepared speech.
I felt my face flush. Why are you calling here? Why now? I wanted to say, but didn’t. ‘Do you want to come over tonight? It’s a little late, but we could keep him up.’
She hesitated. ‘Actually, I was thinking about tomorrow. Maybe around eight-thirty, quarter to nine in the morning? Would that be all right?’
I hesitated, then I said, ‘That would be fine, Christine. I’ll be here.’
‘Oh,’ she said, then fumbled her words a little. ‘You don’t have to stay home for me. I heard you were working for the FBI.’
My stomach clenched. Christine Johnson and I had split up over a year ago, mainly because of the nature of the murder cases I worked. She had actually been abducted because of my work. We finally found her in a shack in a remote area of Jamaica. Alex was born there. We were never the same after that. I never knew Christine was pregnant at the time. I felt it was my fault. Several months ago she’d moved to Seattle. It had been Christine’s idea that Alex stay with me. She’d been seeing a psychiatrist, and said she wasn’t emotionally fit to be his mother. Now she was in D.C. ‘for a few days’.
‘What brings you back to Washington?’ I finally asked.
‘I wanted to see our son,’ she said, her voice going very soft. ‘And some other friends of mine.’ I remembered how much I had loved her, and probably still did on some level, but I was resigned to the fact that we wouldn’t be together. Christine couldn’t stand my life as a cop; and I couldn’t seem to give it up.
‘All right, well, I’ll be over at around eight-thirty tomorrow,’ she said.
‘I’ll be here,’ I said.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Eight-thirty on the button.
A shiny silver Taurus, a rental car from Hertz, pulled up in front of our house on Fifth Street.
Christine Johnson got out, and though she looked a little severe with her hair pulled back in a tight bun, I had to admit that she was still a beautiful woman. Tall and slender, with distinct, sculpted features that I couldn’t make myself forget. Seeing her again made my heart catch in spite of what had happened between us.
Suddenly I was edgy, but also tired. Why was that? I wondered how much energy I’d lost in the past year and a half. A doctor friend from Johns Hopkins has a half-serious theory that our lifelines are written on the palms of our hands. He swears he can chart stress, illnesses, general health. I visited him a few weeks ago and Bernie Stringer said I was in excellent physical shape, but that my lifelines had taken a beating in the last year. That was partly because of Christine, our relationship, and the eventual break-up.
I was standing behind the protective screen of the front door, with Alex in my arms. I stepped outside as Christine approached the house. I saw that she was wearing heels and a dark blue suit.
‘Say hi,’ I said to Alex and waved one of his arms at his mother.
It was so strange, so completely unnerving to see Christine like this again. We had such a complicated history. Much of it was good, but what was bad, was very bad. Her husband had been killed in her house during a case I was working on. I had nearly been responsible for her death. Now we were living thousands of miles apart. Why was she in D.C. again? To see little Alex of course. But what else had brought her?
‘Hello, Alex,’ she said and smiled, and for a dizzying instant, it was as if nothing had changed between us. I remembered the first time
I had seen her, when she was still the principal at the Sojourner Truth School. She’d taken my breath away. Unfortunately, I guess, she still did.
Christine knelt at the foot of the stairs, and spread her arms. ‘Hi, you handsome guy,’ she said to little Alex.
I set him down and let him decide what to do next. He looked up at me, and laughed. Then he chose Christine’s beckoning smile, chose her warmth and charm – and ran right into her arms.
‘Hello, baby,’ she whispered. ‘I missed you so much. You’ve grown so big.’
Christine hadn’t brought a gift, no bribes, and I liked that. It was just her, no tricks or gimmicks, but that was enough. In seconds, Alex was in her arms, laughing and talking up a storm. They looked good together, mother and son.
‘I’ll be inside,’ I said after I watched them for a moment. ‘Come in when you want. There’s fresh coffee. Nana’s. Breakfast if you haven’t eaten.’
Christine looked up at me, and she smiled again. She looked so happy holding The Boy, our small son. ‘We’re fine for the moment,’ she said. ‘Thank you. I’ll come in for coffee. Of course I will.’ Of course. Christine had always been so sure about everything, and she hadn’t lost any of her confidence.
I stepped back inside and nearly bumped into Nana, who was watching from just beyond the screen door.
‘Oh, Alex,’ she whispered, and didn’t have to say any more than that. I felt as if a knife had been plunged into my heart. It was the first twist, and just the first of many. I shut the front door and left them to have their private time.
Christine brought little Alex inside after a while, and we all sat in the kitchen and drank coffee and she watched our son drinking his apple juice. She talked about her life out in Seattle; mostly about work at a school out there, nothing too personal or revealing. I knew she had to be nervous and stressed, but I never saw it.
And then Christine showed the kind of warmth that could melt a heart. She was looking at little Alex. ‘What a sweetheart he is. What a sweet, darling little boy. Oh, Alex, my little Alex, how I missed you. You have no idea.’
Chapter Fifty-Seven
C hristine Johnson in D.C. again.
Why had she come back now? What did she want with us?
The questions throbbed in my head, but also deep inside my heart. They made me afraid, even before I had a clear idea what to fear. Of course, I had a suspicion – Christine had changed her mind about little Alex. That was it, had to be. Why else would she be here? She certainly hadn’t come back to see me. Or had she?
I was still on I-95, but just minutes away from Quantico when Monnie Donnelley got through to me on my cell. Miles Davis played on the radio in the car. I’d been trying to chill before I got to work.
‘You’re late again,’ she said, and though I knew it was a joke, it still cut me some.
‘I know, I know. I was out partying last night. You know how it is.’
Monnie got right to it. ‘Alex, did you know they grabbed a couple more suspects last night?’
Them again. I was so surprised that I didn’t answer Monnie right away. I hadn’t been told anything about a bust!
‘I guess not,’ Monnie answered her own question. ‘It took place in Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania. Joe Nameth’s old hometown? Two UNSUBS in their forties, ran an adult bookstore, sort of named after the town. The press got a hold of it a few minutes ago.’
‘Did they find any of the missing women?’ I asked Monnie.
‘Don’t think so. It’s not in the news reports. Nobody seems to know for sure here.’
I didn’t understand. ‘Do you know how long they were under surveillance? Forget it, Monnie, I’m getting off 95 right now. I’m almost there. I’ll see you in a couple of minutes.’
‘Sorry to ruin your day so early,’ she said.
‘It was already ruined,’ I muttered.
We worked straight through the day, but at seven, we still didn’t have very good answers to several questions about the takedown in Pennsylvania. I knew a few things, mostly unimportant details, and it was frustrating. The two men had criminal records for selling pornography. Agents from the field office in Philly had gotten a tip that the two of them were involved in a kidnapping scheme. It was unclear who in the FBI’s chain of command knew about the suspects, but there seemed to have been an internal communication breakdown of the sort I had been hearing about years before I arrived at Quantico.
I talked with Monnie a couple of times during the day, but my buddy Ned Mahoney never called me about the bust; Burns’s office didn’t try to contact me either. I was shook. For one thing, there were reporters out in the parking lot at Quantico. I could see a USA Today van and a CNN truck from my window. Very strange day. Odd and unsettling.
Late in the afternoon, I found myself thinking about Christine Johnson’s visit to the house. I kept playing back the scene of her holding the baby, playing with Alex. I wondered if I could believe that she’d come to D.C. just to see him and a few of her old friends. It made my heart ache to think about losing ‘the big boy’, as I always called him. The big boy! What a joy he was to me, and the kids, and to Nana Mama. What an unbearable loss it would be. I just couldn’t imagine it. Nor could I imagine being Christine, and not wanting him back.
Before I left for the night, I forced myself to pick up the phone and make a call that I was dreading. Judge Brendan Connelly answered after a few rings. Thinking about little Alex made me remember the promise I’d made.
‘It’s Alex Cross,’ I said. ‘Just wanted to check in with you. Tell you about the news stories you’ve been seeing today.’
Judge Connelly asked me if his wife had been found, if there was any news about Lizzie.
‘They didn’t find her yet. I don’t think those two men were involved with your wife. We’re still very hopeful that we’ll find her.’
Abruptly he began to mutter words that I couldn’t make out. After listening to him for a few seconds, trying to make sense of it, I told him I’d keep him informed. If someone informed me.
After the difficult phone call, I just sat at my desk. Suddenly, I realized I’d forgotten something else – my class had graduated today! We were officially agents. The others in my class had gotten their credentials, or ‘creds’, as well as their assignments. Right now, cake and punch were being served in the lobby of the Hall of Honor. I didn’t bother to go to the party. Somehow, it seemed inappropriate to attend. I went home instead.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
How much time did she have left now?
A day? Hours?
It almost didn’t matter, did it? Lizzie Connelly was learning to accept life as it came; she was learning who she was – inside; and how to keep herself in balance.
Except, of course, when she was frightened out of her mind.
Lizzie called them her ‘swimming dreams’. She had been an avid swimmer ever since she was four years old. The repetition of stroke after stroke, kick after kick, could always put her in another place and time, on autopilot, let her escape. So that was what she was doing now in the closet-room where she was being kept.
Swimming.
Escaping.
Reach, slightly cupped hand, S-figure with her arms, pull at the top, grab the water. Tip through to the belly button, then down through the bottom of her swimsuit. Swoosh, swoosh, kick, kick, feeling hot inside, but the water was cooling, refreshing, invigorating. Feeling empowered because she was feeling stronger.
She had been thinking about escape for much of the day, or what she thought of as a day anyway. Now she began to get serious about other things.
She reviewed what she knew about this place – the Closet – and the vicious, horrifying man who kept her. The Wolf. That was what the bastard called himself. Why the Wolf?
She was somewhere in a city. She was almost sure the city was in the south, and fairly large, lots of money in the surrounding area. Maybe it was Florida, but she didn’t know why she thought that. Maybe she had overheard something a
nd it only registered in her subconscious? She’d definitely heard voices in the house when there had been large parties or, occasionally, smaller get-togethers. She believed that her vermin captor lived alone. Who could possibly live with such a horrible monster? No woman could.
She knew some of his pathetic habits by heart. He usually turned on the TV when he came home: sometimes ESPN, but more often CNN. He watched the news constantly. He also liked detective shows such as Law and Order, CSI, Murder/Homicide. The TV was always on, late into the night.
He was physically large and strong, and he was a sadist – but also careful about not hurting her badly, not so far anyway. Which meant – what did it mean? – that he planned to keep her around for a while more?
If Lizzie Connelly could stand it here for another minute. If she didn’t flip out and make him so angry that he’d snap her neck, as he’d threatened to several times a day. ‘I’ll snap your little neck. Like this! You don’t believe me? You should believe me, Elizabeth.’ He always called her Elizabeth, not Lizzie. He told her that Lizzie wasn’t a beautiful enough name for her. ‘I’ll break your fucking neck, Elizabeth!’
He knew who she was and quite a bit about her, and also about Brendan, Brigid, Merry and Gwynnie. He promised that if she made him angry he’d not only hurt her, but he’d do the same to her family. ‘I’ll go back to Atlanta. I’ll do it for kicks, just for fun. I live for that kind of thing. I could murder your whole family, Elizabeth.’
Ironically, he was desiring her more and more – she could certainly tell when a man got like that. So she did have some control over him, didn’t she? How about that. So fuck you too, buddy!
Sometimes he would leave her binds slightly looser and even give her free time to walk around in the house. Tied up of course – on a kind of chain leash that he would hold in his hands. It was so demeaning. He told her that he knew she’d be thinking that he was getting kinder and gentler – but not to get any stupid ideas.
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