Kill Alex Cross ac-18

by James Patterson

Then she kicked and railed at their torsos, their limbs, their heads — even their faces. There was no amount of damage she could do to pay them for their sins, but still, she didn’t stop. They would arrive in the afterlife looking nothing like themselves.

  Finally, she fell back to the ground, panting and sobbing as she took Tariq up in her arms.

  He lay half on his side where he’d gone down. His wide eyes seemed to be focused on the sky. It was as if he were still regarding the heavens, and it struck Hala that maybe God had been the last thing he’d looked for before he died.

  Time slipped away. Later, Hala wouldn’t be able to remember how long she had stayed there with Tariq, but slowly, her senses came back to her.

  She had to keep moving now. That much was clear. Grief was one thing, but weakness was quite another. Hala was anything but weak. She was trained to be a warrior — to survive at any cost. That’s what she would do.

  Without even standing, she moved over to the others on the ground. She ran her hands through the young man’s pockets until she found the car keys. She took everything else they had, too — cash, credit cards, even the dead woman’s long black coat.

  Jiddo’s pockets were empty. The only thing Hala took from him was the laptop computer. There was no knowing when or if the information it held might prove useful. Maybe it could be used to ransom her children.

  Finally, she stood up again but felt like she was moving underwater. Everything seemed to flow slowly by as Hala climbed into the 4Runner, backed it up, and pulled out toward the road.

  Drive slowly, Hala. Do nothing out of the ordinary.

  Coming to this country, she’d been prepared to die at any time. And in a way, she realized, she just had. Hala Al Dossari’s life was over. Another one would have to begin.

  Somewhere. Somehow. Her life as a warrior would continue.

  But who, Hala wondered, will I fight?

  WHEN I RECEIVED permission to interview ethan and zoe, it came from the same place as my last invitation to the White House — straight out of the East Wing. It had been a week since the rescue, and the media circus was going full tilt. I’d never seen so many reporters outside the White House, and that’s saying a lot, for Washington.

  Security on the other side of the fence was something else again. It took forty-five minutes for Mrs. Coyle’s deputy to get me from the East Visitors Gate up to the residence.

  When we reached the second floor hall, Mrs. Coyle was there to greet me herself. She came right up and took both of my hands.

  “It’s good to see you, Alex,” she said. “I’m not even sure how to say what I’m feeling. There are no words.”

  “Thank you for having me” was all I said. Getting this interview had been no easy thing. I don’t imagine anyone but the First Lady could have gotten me here.

  She walked me up the hall in the opposite direction as the last time, while two Secret Service agents followed at a respectful distance.

  “Zoe will probably be a little reticent,” she told me, “but Ethan’s actually been eager to talk about the kidnapping. I’ve gone over everything with them, and with their care team. You can ask what you need to.”

  We passed the famous Yellow Oval Room and came to a large, sunny den, with a view of the South Lawn. Ethan and Zoe were sharing one of the couches, watching Despicable Me on a huge wall-mounted TV. I recognized the president’s mother, knitting by the window. She smiled and nodded but didn’t get up.

  “Ethan? Zoe?” Mrs. Coyle said. “Can you turn that off, please? This is the detective I told you about. This is Alex Cross.”

  THE KIDS BOTH looked over their shoulders at me. Interested, but not too much.

  “Hi,” they said together quietly.

  “Come in. Please.” Mrs. Coyle motioned me farther inside and we came around the couch to sit down.

  I started the interview slowly, asking closed-ended questions at first, then opening it up to whatever they might remember or want to tell me.

  Zoe was as quiet as her mother thought she might be. She pulled her feet up under her and drew little circles with her finger on the arm of the couch, mostly with her eyes down.

  Ethan was nearly the opposite. He watched me closely, and always answered first, with the kind of quiet clarity you get from kids sometimes after a crisis.

  “We just kept talking to each other,” he told me at one point. “I knew we had a chance since we were still … you know. Alive.”

  The blessing, if there was one, was that neither of them remembered a whole lot about their time in that cellar. Given the levels of Rohypnol in their systems after the rescue, that was no surprise.

  Neither of them could say much about their captor, either. Everything they’d been given to eat or drink came through a sliding panel in the door. There had been no conversation at all.

  “He just ignored us the whole time,” Ethan said. “Like we weren’t even there.”

  “You knew it was a man, though?” I asked. They hadn’t been told a word about Rodney Glass, particularly the fact that he’d been released from custody for a lack of evidence.

  “I saw his hands a couple of times. Man’s hands. And sometimes, I could hear him talking on the other side of the door,” Ethan said.

  “Talking?”

  He nodded. “I think he thought we were asleep, and sometimes we were. But sometimes I’d only pretend.”

  “Did you ever hear what he said? Or recognize the voice?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I tried, but it was too soft.”

  Ethan seemed to stop short then. His chest sunk in a little and he looked up, like he was remembering something.

  “There were these clicking noises, too,” he said.

  Zoe looked over at him.

  “What kind of clicking?” I asked.

  “It was like —” He held up his hand and bent his thumb back and forth. “Like Dad used to use.”

  “The tape recorder?” Mrs. Coyle said suddenly.

  “Yeah. Back in Madison.”

  “Ed used to dictate briefs from home when he was practicing law,” the First Lady told me. “All the time.”

  “I heard it, too,” Zoe said quietly, and we all looked at her. She was mimicking the same hand gesture that Ethan had just been making. “It was like … click on, click off.”

  “Yeah, exactly,” Ethan said, nodding enthusiastically. “Like he was always recording himself.”

  RECORD.

  “I’ve been a good boy for a week now. Not that there’s much choice, is there? The only way I could have more cops watching me these days would be if I was actually in jail. Now it just feels that way.

  “At least I can get out here, stretch my legs, and get my thoughts down.

  “This is probably the last private place I’m going to have for a good long while. And even this is going to get ruined, with people coming around, and gawking, and wanting to know what really happened here.

  “It’s kind of depressing. I mean, just because everyone knows what happened, it doesn’t mean they know why. Which of course is the whole point.

  “All my new little friends at the FBI and Metro Police think I’m just some sadistic bastard who got away with the crime of the century. Well, I’ve got a news flash for them. As far as I’m concerned, I didn’t get away with anything. We’re all just right back where we started. And I know what I’ll do next. I will kill Alex Cross.”

  Stop.

  He looked down from the ridge at the old farm. The police and FBI had packed out by now, but you could see how the place had been picked over. There were still some shreds of yellow tape on a few trees, and a few stray pink flags in the dirt.

  It was tempting to go down there and have a look around, but not yet. It was still too fresh.

  Not that they could arrest him for being curious, but this was close enough for now. In fact, it was getting late. He took one last look, then turned and headed back into the woods.

  Record.

  “I don’t know.
Maybe I should have just killed them while I had the chance. At least if Ethan and Zoe had died, it could have stood for something.

  “But instead, all this did was prove my whole point. We live in this world where some kids are more valuable than others, I guess, and the average Joe on the street is just fine with that, so long as it’s not his kid getting screwed over or dying.

  “Well, guess what? I’m no average Joe. I’m no kook, either. I’ve got a valid story to tell. People need to hear this, and I’m not going to stop until it’s done.

  “You will not be forgotten, Zach. That’s a promise, my man. I’m going to make you proud if it’s the last thing I do. Your death will mean something by the time I’m finished.”

  Stop.

  He pocketed the recorder and kept the bow in hand as he walked the rest of the way, but even the rabbits seemed to be keeping their distance these days.

  Whatever. He was too distracted to do any real hunting, anyway.

  It was just getting dark by the time he came out of the woods and onto the old fire road, where he usually parked. His head was so full of angry thoughts, he didn’t even see the other car until he was practically on top of it.

  That’s when he saw the cops, too. There were two of them standing there. One, he recognized by sheer size — the guy was closer to seven feet than six.

  The other had a face that Rodney Glass would never forget. Not since they’d been nose to nose in that interview room in copland. He was a detective with the Washington police, and his name was Alex Cross, and he would be defeated too.

  “PUT DOWN THE bow, Glass,” I said. “Put it down right now!”

  He had a recurve on his arm, with the arrow pointed down at a forty-five-degree angle. It’s a weapon I’ve never fired before, never gone up against. I wasn’t sure what it would take to get a shot off. That’s why my Glock was out and pointed at his chest.

  One reason, anyway.

  Glass froze, but only for a split second. Then his face broke into a wide grin. It shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. This guy was cocky all the way to the final buzzer. It was impossible not to hate the man, no matter what had happened to his son. He was a kidnapper, with the heart of a murderer.

  “Well, look who it is,” he said. “Are you going to shoot me out here in the woods? So nobody will know?”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “You heard the man,” Sampson said. “Put the bow on the ground and step back away from it. Do it now.”

  Something flashed in Glass’s eyes. I’m guessing it was the memory of Sampson’s right hook on the car ride. In any case, he crouched down slowly, still watching us, and set the bow next to his car. Then he carefully slid the quiver of arrows off his shoulder.

  “What are you doing out here?” I asked. “Seems like a strange choice, all things considered.”

  He shrugged nonchalantly. “Just curious. People have been telling a lot of lies about me. I figured I might as well come out here and see what all the fuss is about.”

  “Jesus,” Sampson muttered next to me.

  “You know, we’ve been a little curious, too,” I told him. “Mostly about that tape recorder of yours. The one you keep in your glove compartment.”

  Glass stood with his head cocked to the side, keeping his hands where I could see them, but stealing glances at my gun.

  “I like to get my thoughts down sometimes,” he said. “That’s not illegal, is it?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “You want to know what else isn’t illegal? Putting a transmitter the size of a match head in that little recorder of yours. Not with the right warrant, anyway.”

  I reached into my pocket and took out my own recorder. Mine was a little nicer than his. It was a gift from Ned Mahoney and his technical people at the Bureau.

  Then I pressed play.

  “… maybe I should have just killed them while I had the chance. At least if Ethan and Zoe had died, it could have stood for something. But instead …”

  Glass blinked. That’s all he did. He was as cocky as ever.

  “This doesn’t prove anything,” he said.

  “Rodney Glass, you’re under arrest for the kidnapping and attempted murder of Ethan and Zoe Coyle,” I said. “Get down on the ground and put your hands away from your sides.”

  “We got you, Glass,” Sampson said. “We finally got you. And that’s fuckin’ classic.”

  GLASS STAYED WHERE he was. The grin stayed on his face. “You know, there is just so much wrong with this picture. You guys are way out of your jurisdiction. Go back to Washington where you belong.”

  Sampson’s Glock was out now, too. “Oh, we’re going back to Washington,” he said.

  “Yeah, I don’t think so.” Glass rolled his eyes at us and turned halfway around like he was walking away.

  “Glass —”

  But it was only a cover. He swung back around fast, and as he did he pulled something out from under his jacket. A pistol in his right hand.

  “Glass, don’t!”

  “Glass!”

  The words came out at virtually the same time that I fired. Sampson, too. Glass’s own shot went wide as he took two bullets high in the chest. We weren’t messing around. These were kill shots, and he went down hard.

  I kept both hands on my gun and sited him as I stepped closer. He was out flat, with both eyes closed. There was no discernible movement. Was this finally over?

  “Check him,” I told John. “Careful.”

  Sampson kicked Glass’s gun away first. Then he ran his hands down Glass’s sides and each leg to check for other weapons. He put two fingers to Glass’s carotid artery. “There’s a pulse,” he said, and turned toward the car. “I’ll call it in.”

  Glass groaned weakly.

  “Rodney?” I said. “Can you hear me? Hang on. We’ll get you help.”

  He didn’t say anything. But he wasn’t grinning anymore.

  I used my knife to cut up the middle of his sweatshirt. There were two dark burn holes in his chest. As far as I could tell, neither of the bullets had passed through.

  I could hear John on the radio phone. He sounded urgent. “This is Detective Sampson with Washington PD. We need immediate medical assistance. We’re on an unmarked fire road, just off of Hampton Valley …”

  Even as John was talking to dispatch, he handed me a plastic take-out bag from the car. I pressed it over Glass’s chest, trying to seal the two wounds and keep them from sucking air.

  Glass shook his head. He reached up with a hand on my wrist and tried to stop me.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he gutted out. “No use.”

  He’d obviously punctured a lung, if not both. A fine mist of blood was coming out with every labored breath. Essentially, he was drowning, and he knew it. Glass was a nurse, after all.

  “My boy … shouldn’t have died,” he said. And then, unbelievably, that awful grin of his returned. “You should have died. You ruined it.”

  Then, before Sampson was even off the phone, Rodney Glass let out one last, long hiss of air, and he was gone. Bizarre turnarounds happen sometimes. One second, you’re trying to stop someone from killing you, and the next you’re doing everything you can to save his life.

  I’d like to say I felt something when Glass died, but the truth is, nothing came. I wasn’t glad, and I wasn’t sorry, either. After everything that had happened, it all seemed to be over incredibly quickly — just like the story Glass had been trying to tell all this time, in his own deluded way.

  He never did get the ending he wanted so badly, but he got the one he deserved.

  Epilogue

  FAMILY TIES

  “LET’S GO, LET’S go, let’s go! I’m ready. Let’s go, everybody!”

  Ali was already in his shirt and tie, and as far as he was concerned, that meant it was time to leave. The sooner we got out of the house, the sooner he could be back home and out of that cursed silk noose around his neck.

  “Just sit tight, little man,” I
said. “Maybe your big brother will do a little wakeboarding with you.”

  I did what I used to promise myself I never would, and plopped Ali in front of a video game to distract him. Damon, who was home from boarding school for the Thanksgiving weekend, picked up the other Wii controller.

  “It’s good to have you here, Day,” I said. “We miss you like crazy.”

  “And I miss kicking Ali’s butt,” Damon said, jumping into the virtual water with both feet. “Let’s do this, little man.”

  The ladies of the house were all still in their rooms. I ran upstairs and knocked on Jannie’s door, where the sounds of Jennifer Hudson’s latest were playing at full blast.

  “Don’t come in!” she yelled over the music.

  “Ten minutes, Miss Cross.”

  Ava was already dressed. Her door was open and she was sprawled on the bed, reading Nana’s latest assignment — Twilight.

  “How’s the new book?” I asked.

  She gave me one of her trademark shrugs. “S’okay. Kind of weird.”

  “I’m glad you’re reading anyway,” I said. “It’s good to see.”

  She just nodded and turned the page. Another scintillating conversation between the two of us, but I had to keep moving.

  The foster parenting application, meanwhile, was working its way through the system. Bree and I had done the required twenty-seven hours of training with Child and Family Services, and it looked like Ava would be staying with us for the foreseeable future. Damon would bunk with Ali while he was home, and then next summer — well, we’d figure that out next summer.

  I was running way behind. Still, I was determined to get a quick shower. The fact that I found Bree already in there was what you call a lucky break.

  “Mind if I sneak in?” I asked, rattling the curtain.

  “You’re going to have to ask my husband about that,” she said. “And grab a washcloth, please.”

  Fifteen-plus minutes later, everybody was finally assembled downstairs. Nana was fussing over the bow tie she’d gotten me for my birthday, and Bree was still fixing Jannie’s hair even as the coats were going on.