Alex Cross 3 - Jack and Jill

by Patterson, James

  “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 andJannie. 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.

  TYSONS GALLERIA in Tysons Corner was, along with the neighboring Tysons Comer 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 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 extrenely 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.

  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. Aidenk 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 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.

  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, Alden 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 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 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.

  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, Alden 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.

  He looked down into the startled gray blue eyes of the former member of the Joint Chiefs, part of the White House's Jack and Jill emergency task force.

  One of the hounds had been taken out. Just like that. Jack and Jill had struck back boldly at the manhunters! They had shown their strength again.

  He took a note from his pocket. He left a calling card on Aiden Cornwall's chest.

  Jack and Jill came to The Hill To storm your picket fences.

  Once safe and sound They easily found The flaw in your Defenses.

  A noise in the hall! He looked up. Aiden's boy! “Oh, Jesus God, no,” he whispered out loud. “Oh, God, no.” He felt sick all over. He wanted to run from the house.

  The boy had recognized him. How could he not? Young Aiden even knew his children. He knew too much. Dear God, have mercy on me. Please have mercy.

  Jack fired the Beretta again.

  This was war.

  I WAS CALLED to an emergency criss team meeting at the White House at 8:00 A.M. on December 10. I had been causing some trouble over the past few days there. My internal investigation was making waves, ruffling feathers. The big cats on The Hill didn't like being under suspicion -- but all of them were, at least in my book.

  Jay Grayer grabbed me the moment I arrived inside the West Wing. Jay's eyes were flat and cold and hard. His grip was strong on my shoulder. “Alex, I need to talk to you for a minute,” he said. “It's important.”

  “What's going on now?” I asked the Secret Service agent. He didn't look well. There were dark puffs under both his eyes.

  Something else had happened. I could tell.

  “Aiden Cornwall was murdered early
this morning. It happened at his house out in McLean. It was Jack and Jill. They called us again. Called it in to us like we're mission control.”

  He shook his head in sadness and disbelief. “They killed Aiden's nine-year-old son, Alex.”

  I found myself rocking back on my heels. The news from Jay Grayer didn't make sense to me; it didn't track with the Jack and Jill style to this point. Goddamn them! They kept changing the rules. They had to be doing it on purpose.

  “I want to go there right now,” I told him. “I need to see the house. I need to be out there, not here.”

  “I hear you, but wait a minute, Alex,” he said. “Hold on. Let me tell you the rest of what's going on. It gets worse.”

  “How could it get any worse?” I asked him. “Jesus, Jay.”

  “Trust me, it does. Just listen for a minute.”

  Agent Grayer continued to talk in a subdued whisper in the White House hallway as we walked together toward the Emergency Command Center, where the others were gathering. He pulled me aside a few paces from the meeting room. His voice was still an urgent whisper.

  “The President is always awakened at quarter to five by the agent in charge. Happens every morning. This morning, the President dressed and went down to the library, where he reads the early papers as well as an executive summary that's prepared for him before he rises.”

  “What happened this morning?” I asked Jay. I was beginning to perspire. “What happened, Jay?”

  He was very thorough and procedural. “At five o'clock the phone in the library rang. It was Jill on the private line. She was calling to talk with the President. She got through to him, and that just isn't possible.”

  My head involuntarily shook back and forth. I agreed with Jay Grayer: this couldn't be happening. The idea, the concept, of the President as a murder target was a hugely disturbing one.

  The fact that, so far, we were helpless to stop it was much, much worse.

  “I think I understand why the call couldn't happen, but tell me anyway,” I said. I needed to hear it from him.