Alex Cross 3 - Jack and Jill

by Patterson, James

  “Sure wish I was popular like you, Sugar. No freaks call me late at night. Write me mash notes at my house. Nothing like that.”

  “They wouldn't dare,” I said. “Nobody's that crazy, not even the Truth School killer.”

  We both laughed, a little too loudly Laughter is usually the best and only defense in a really tough murder investigation.

  Maybe Jack and Jill had called me at home. Or Kevin Hawkins had called here. Or maybe even Gary Soneji, who was still out there somewhere, waiting to settle his old score with me.

  "Technician will be at the house first thing in the morning.

  Put a crackerjack hookup on your phone. We'll put a detective in here, too. Until we find the boy wonder anyway. I talked to Rakeem Powell. He's glad to do it."

  I nodded. “That's good. Thanks for coming by and being here for Nana.”

  Things had taken a turn for the worse. They were threatening me in my own house now, threatening my family Someone was.

  The freaks were right at my doorstep.

  I couldn't get to sleep after Sampson left that night.

  I didn't feel like playing the piano. No music in me for the moment.

  I didn't dare call Christine Johnson. I went up and looked in on the kids. Rosie the cat followed me, yawning and stretching.

  I watched them, much as Jannie had watched me sleep the other morning. I was afraid for them.

  I finally dozed off about three in the morning. There were no more phone calls, thank God.

  I slept on the porch with the Glock in my lap. Home, sweet home.

  I HEARD THE KIDS squawking and squealing first thing the next morning. They were laughing loudly, and it both raised my spirits and mildly depressed me.

  I immediately remembered the situation we were in: the monsters were at our doorstep. They knew where we lived. There were no rules now. Nobody, not even my own family, was safe.

  I thought about the Moore boy for a moment or two as I lay on the old sofa on the porch. Strangely, nothing in his past history fit in with the two murders. It just didn't track. I considered the monstrous idea of a thirteen-year-old boy committing purely existential murders. I had a lot of material stored in my head on the subject. I vaguely recalled Andr Gide's Lafcadiok Adventures from grad school. The twisted main character had pushed a stranger from a train just to prove that he was alive.

  I glanced at the portable alarm clock beside my head. It was already ten past seven. I could smell Nana's strong coffee wafting through the house. I refused to let myself get down about the lack of progress. There was a saying I kept around for just such occasions. Failure isn't falling down... it's staying down.

  I got up. I went to my room, showered, put on some fresh clothes, rumbled back downstairs. I wasn't staying down.

  I found my two favorite Martians spiraling around the kitchen, playing some kind of tag game at seven in the morning.

  I opened my mouth and did my imitation of the silent scream from Edvard Munch's painting The Shriek.

  Jannie laughed out loud. Damon mimed a silent scream of his own. They were glad to see me. We were still best pals, best of friends.

  Somebody had called our house last night.

  Sumner Moore?

  Kevin Hawkins ?

  “Morning, Nana,” I said as I poured a cup of steaming coffee from her pot. The best to you each morning and all that. I sipped the coffee and it tasted even more wonderful than it smelled. The woman can cook. She can also talk, think, illuminate, irritate.

  “Morning, Alex,” she said, as if nothing bad had happened the night before. Tough as nails. She didn't want to upset the kids, to alarm them in any way. Neither didI.

  “Somebody will be by to look at our phone.” I told her what Sampson and I had discussed the night before. “Somebody will be around for a few days, too. A detective. Probably it will be Rakeem Powell. You know Rakeem.”

  Nana didn't like that news one bit. "Of course I know Rakeem.

  I taught Rakeem in school for heaven's sake. Rakeem has no business here, though. This is our home, Alex. This is so terrible. I just don't think I can stand it... that it's happening here."

  “What's wrong with our telephone?” Jannie wanted to know.

  “It works,” I told my little girl.

  THE TWO MURDER CASES were beginning to feel like a single, relentless nightmare. I couldn't seem to catch my breath anymore. My stomach was in knots and apparently would stay that way for the duration of the investigation. The situation was Kafkaesque, and it was wearing down the entire Metro police force. No one could remember anything like it.

  I had decided to keep Damon home with Nana and Detective Rakeem Powell for a few days. Just to be on the safe side. Hopefully, we'd find thirteen-year-old Sumner Moore soon, and half the horror story would be ended.

  I continued to suspect either that Sumner Moore wanted to be caught or that he would be soon. The carelessness in both murders indicated it. I hoped that he wouldn't kill another child before we found him.

  I considered moving Nana and the kids to one of my aunts', but held back. Rakeem Powell would stay with them at the house.

  That seemed enough chaos and disruption to force into their lives. For the moment, anyway.

  Besides, I was almost certain Nana wouldn't have moved to one of her sisters' without a huge battle and casualties. Fifth Street was her home. She would rather fight than switch. Occasionally, she had.

  I drove to the White House very early in the morning. I sat in a basement office with a mug of coffee and a two-foot-thick stack of classified papers to read and ponder. These were literally hundreds of CIA reports and internal memos on Kevin Hawkins and the other CIA “ghosts.”

  I met with Don Hamerman; the attorney general, James Dowd; and Jay Erayer at a little past nine. We used an ornate conference room near the Oval Office in the West Wing. I recalled that the White House had originally been built to intimidate visitors, especially foreign dignitaries. It still had that effect, especially under the current circumstances. The “American mansion” was huge, and every room seemed formal and imposing.

  Hamerman was surprisingly subdued at the meeting. “You made quite an impression on the President,” he said. “You made your point with him, too.”

  “What happens now?” I asked. "What actions do we take?

  Obviously, I'd like to help."

  “We've initiated some extremely sensitive investigations,” Hamerman said. “The FBI will be handling them.” Hamerman looked around the room. It seemed to me that he was reaffirming his power, his clout.

  “Is that it, what you wanted to tell me?” I asked him after a few seconds of silence.

  “That's it for now. You got it started. That's something. It's a really big deal.”

  “It is a big deal,” I said. “It's a fucking murder investigation in the White House!” I got up and went back to my office. I had work to do. I kept reminding myself that I was part of the “team.”

  Hamerman peeked his head into the office about eleventhirty. His eyes were wider and wilder than usual. I thought that maybe he'd changed his mind about the latest investigation -- or had his mind changed for him.

  He didn't look himself.

  “The President wants to see us immediately.”

  PRESIDENT BYRNES personally greeted each of us on the crisis team as we entered the Oval Office, which was indeed oval.

  “Thank you for coming. Hello, Jay, Ann, Jeanne, Alex. I know how busy you are, and the tremendous pressure you're all working under,” he said as we walked in and began to take seats.

  The crisis team had been assembled, but President Byrnes clearly dominated the room and the unscheduled meeting. He was dressed in a dark blue chief executive's business suit. His sandy-brown hair was freshly barbered, and I couldn't help wondering if it had just been cut that morning, and if it had, where did he get the time?

  What had happened now? Had Jack and Jill contacted the White House again?

  I glanced across
the room at Jeanne Sterling. She shrugged her shoulders and widened her eyes. She didn't know what was up, either. No one seemed to know what the President had on his mind, not even Hamerman.

  When we were seated, President Byrnes spoke. He stood directly in front of a pair of flags, army and air force. He seemed in control of his emotions, which was quite a feat.

  “Harry Truman used to say,” he began, “'if you want a friend in Washington, buy a dog.” I think I've experienced the precise feelings that inspired his wit. I'm almost sure that I have."

  The President was an unusually engaging speaker. I already knew as much from his address at his convention and other televised talks -- his version of FDR's fireside chats. He was clearly able to bring his oratory talents to a much smaller room and audience, even a tough, cynical crowd like the one before him.

  “What a royal pain in the butt this job can be. Whoever coined the phrase 'If drafted, I will not run; if elected, I will not serve' had the right idea. Believe me on that one.”

  The President smiled. He had an ability to make anything he said sound personal. I wondered if he planned it. How much of this was a first-rate acting job?

  The President's intense blue eyes circled the room, stopping for a moment on each face. He seemed to be judging us, but more important, communicating with us individually. "I've been thinking a great deal about this current, unfortunate situation.

  Sally and I have talked about it upstairs, late into the night, several nights in a row. I've been thinking about Jack and Jill too much, in fact. For the past few days, this miserable three-ring circus has been the focus, and a major distraction to the executive branch of our government. It's already disrupted cabinet meetings and played havoc with everyone's schedule. This situation simply can't be allowed to continue. It's bad for the country, for our people, for everybody's mental health, including my own and Sally's. It makes us look weak and unstable to the rest of the world. A threat by a couple of kooks can't be permitted to disrupt the government of the United States. We can't allow that to happen.

  “As a consequence, I've made a tough decision, which ultimately has to be mine to make. I'm sharing it with you this morning, because the decision will affect all of you as well as Sally and me.”

  President Byrnes let his eyes quickly roam around the room again. I didn't know where this was going yet, but the process was fascinating to me. The President led us a step, then he checked to make sure we were still with him. He was clearly issuing an order, but he made it seem as if he were still seeking some consensus in the room.

  “We simply have to return to business-as-usual at the White House. We have to do that. The United States can't be held hostage to real or imagined dangers or threats. That's the decision I'm making, and it goes into effect at the end of today We have to move on, to move ahead with our programs.”

  As the President told us his decision, there was uneasy movement in the room. Ann Roper groaned out loud. Don Ham-erman dropped his head down low, close to his knees. I kept my eyes pinned on the President.

  "I fully understand that this makes your jobs more difficult, to say the very least. How in hell can you protect me if I won't cooperate, won't follow your recommendations? Well, I can't cooperate anymore. Not if it means sending a message to the world that a couple of psychopaths can completely alter our government.

  Which is exactly what is happening. It's happened, folks.

  “Starting tomorrow, I'm back on my regular schedule. There will be no further debate on that subject. Sorry, Don.” He looked at his chief of staff as he officially rejected his advice.

  “I've also decided to make my scheduled visit to New York City on Tuesday Sorry again, Don, Jay I wish the best to all of us on our appointed tasks. You do your jobs, please. I'll try to do mine. We will have absolutely no regrets, no matter what happens from this point on. Is that understood?”

  “Understood, sir.” Everyone in the room nodded yes. Every eye was intensely focused on the President, mine included.

  President Byrnes had been both impassioned and impressive.

  Absolutely no regrets, I repeated the phrase inside my head.

  I was sure I'd remember it for the rest of my life, no matter what happened, no matter what Jack and Jill had planned from here on.

  Thomas Byrnes had just put his life on the line, really on the line.

  The President had just put his life in our hands.

  “By the way, Don,” President Byrnes said to Hamerman as the meeting was starting to break up. “Have somebody run out and get me a goddamn dog. I think I need a friend.”

  We all laughed, even if we didn't quite feel up to it.

  THAT NIGHT it snowed about an inch in Washington. The temperature dropped way down into the teens. The Truth School killer woke up feeling scared. Feeling very alone. Feeling trapped.

  Feeling quite sad, actually.

  No happy, happy. No joy, joy.

  He was in a cold, greasy sweat that grossed him out completely In a dream that he remembered now, he had been murdering people, then burying them under a fieldstone fireplace at his grandparents' country home in Leesburg. He'd been having that same dream for years, ever since he could remember, ever since he was a kid.

  But was it a dream, or had I committed the grisly murders?

  he wondered as he opened his eyes. He tried to focus on the surroundings. Where the hell am I?

  Then he remembered where he was, where he had come to sleep for the night. What a mindblower! What a cool idea he'd had.

  The song, his song, blared inside his head:

  I'm a loser, baby So why don't you kill me?

  This hiding place was cool as shit. Or maybe he was just being too stupid and careless. Cool as shit? Or dumb and dumber?

  You be the judge.

  He was in his own house, up on the third floor.

  He wrapped his mind around the idea that he was “safe and sound” for now. Man, he loved the power of that thought.

  He was in total control. He was mission control. He could be as big and important as Jack and Jill. Hell, he could be bigger and better than those trippy assholes. He knew that he could. He could stomp Jack and Jill's asses.

  He felt around on the floor for his trusty backpack. Where the hell is his stuff?... Okay. There it is. Everything is cool. He fumbled inside -- located his flashlight. He flicked the ON switch.

  “Let there be light,” he whispered. “Wah-lah!”

  Awhh, too bad sports fans -- he was definitely in the attic of his home. This wasn't a dream. He was the Truth School killer, after all. He shined the bright light down on his wristwatch. It was a twelfth-birthday present. It was the kind of sophisticated watch that pilots wore. Wow, he was so damn impressed! Maybe he could study to be a jet pilot after this was all behind him. Learn to fly an F-16.

  It was 4:00 A.a. on the jet pilot's watch! Must be 4:00 ,.M., then.

  “The hour of the werewolf,” he whispered softly It was time to come down out of the attic. It was time to continue to make his mark in the world. Something cool and amazing had to happen now.

  Perfect murders.

  Had to, had to, had to.

  HE LET the bulky foldaway stairs drop down very slowly to the second floor of the house. His house. If his foster parents happened to get up for a pee right now- BIG PROBLEMS FOR HIM.

  BIG SURPRISE FOR THEM, THOUGH.

  MAJOR SHITSTORM FOR EVERYBODY CON CERNED.

  He was having a little trouble with his breathing. None of this was easy now. He needed to set the heavy, unwieldy stairs down quietly on the second floor, but there was a little thud right at the end.

  “Damn you. Loser,” he whispered.

  He still couldn't exactly catch his breath. His body was covered with a thick coat of sweat, the kind horses break on a morning workout. He had seen that phenomenon on his grandparents' farm. Never forgot it: sweat that almost turned into this frothy cream, right before your eyes.

  “Pusillanimous,” he w
hispered, mocking his own cowardice.

  “Chickenshit bastard. Punk of the month. Loser, man.” His theme song again.

  He tried to let some of the icy panic and nervousness pass.

  He took long, slow, deep breaths as he paused at the top of the folding stairs. This was so freaky It was helter fucking skelter, in real life, in real time.

  He finally began to climb down the wobbly wooden stairway, on wobbly wooden legs that felt like stilts. He was being as careful and quiet as he could be.

  He felt a little better as he got to the bottom. Terra firma.

  He walked on his tiptoes down the upstairs hallway to the door of the master bedroom. He opened the door and was immediately struck with a blast of really cold air.

  His foster father kept the window open, even in December, even when it fucking snowed. He would. The arctic cold probably kept his silver-blond crew cut short. Saved him on haircuts.

  What a superjerk-off the guy was.

  “Do you screw her in the cold dark?” he whispered under his breath. That sounded about right, too.

  He walked up real close to their king-size bed. Real close. He stood at their altar of love, their sacred throne.

  How many times had he imagined a moment like this? This very moment.

  How many other kids had imagined this same scene a thousand thousand times? But then done nothing about it. Losers!

  The world was full of them.

  He was on the verge of one of his worst rages, a real bad one. The hair on the back of his neck was standing at attention.

  TEN-SHUN. It felt like it, anyway.

  He could see red everywhere in the bedroom. kike this misting red. It was almost as if he were viewing the room through a nightscope.

  He... was... just.. about... to... go.. off... wasn't.. he?

  He could feel himself... exploding... into.. a... billion...

  pieces.

  Suddenly, he screamed at the top of his voice. “Wake up and smell the fucking Folgerk coffee!”

  He was sobbing now, too. For what reason, he didn't know. He couldn't remember crying like this since he was a real little kid, real little.

  His chest hurt as if he'd been punched hard. Or hit with an eighteen-inch ballbat. He realized that he was starting to wimp out. Mister Softee was coming back. He felt like Holden Caulfield. Repentant. Always triple-thinking every goddamn move both before and after he made it.