Cross Kill: An Alex Cross Story

by James Patterson

  “The only thing that separates the IT brainpower in this room from a company like Google is the dress code,” Mahoney said.

  “No Ping-Pong, either,” I said.

  “There’s agitation in that direction,” Mahoney said, weaving through the cubicles.

  “Any chance it happens?”

  “When the Bureau starts admitting J. Edgar preferred panties,” he said, and then stopped in front of a workstation in the middle of the room.

  “Agent Batra?” Mahoney said. “I want to introduce you to Alex Cross.”

  A petite Indian woman in her late twenties in a conservative blue suit and black pumps spun around from one of four screens at her station. She stood quickly and put out her hand, so small it felt like a doll’s.

  “Special Agent Henna Batra,” she said. “An honor to meet you, Dr. Cross.”

  “And you as well.”

  “Agent Batra is said to be at one with the internet,” Mahoney said. “If anyone can help you, she can. Stop by the office on your way out, Alex.”

  “Will do,” I said.

  “So,” Agent Batra said, sitting again. “What are you looking for?”

  “A website where there are active conversations going on concerning Gary Soneji.”

  “I know that case,” Batra said. “We studied it at the academy. He’s dead.”

  “Evidently his admirers don’t think so, and I’d like to see what they’re saying about Soneji. I was warned we’d never find the site in a million years.”

  With Special Agent Batra navigating the web via a link to a supercomputer, the search took all of fourteen minutes.

  “Quite a few that mention Soneji,” Batra said, gesturing at the screen, and then scrolling down before tapping on a link. “But I’m betting this is the one you’re looking for.”

  I squinted to read the link. “ZRXQT?”

  “Anonymous, or at least attempting anonymity,” Batra said. “And it’s locked and encrypted. But I ran a filter that picked up traces of commands going into and out of that website. The density of Soneji mentions in those traces is through the roof compared to every other site that talks about him.”

  “You can’t get in?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Batra said, as if I’d insulted her. “You drink tea?”

  “Coffee,” I said.

  She gestured across the room. “There’s a break room over there. If you’d be so kind as to bring me some hot tea, Dr. Cross. I should be able to get inside by the time you come back.”

  I thought it was kind of funny that Batra had started the conversation as my subordinate and was now ordering me around. Then again, I hadn’t a clue about how she was doing what she was doing. Then again, she was at one with the internet.

  “Oolong?” I asked.

  “Fine,” Batra said, already engrossed in her work.

  I found the coffee and the tea, but when I returned, she was still typing.

  “Got it?”

  “Not yet,” she said, irritated. “It’s sophisticated, multilevel, and…”

  Lines of code began to fill the page. Batra seemed to speed-read the code as it rolled by, because, after twenty seconds of this, she said, “Oh, of course.”

  She gave the computer another command, and a homepage appeared, featuring a cement wall in some abandoned building. Across the wall in dripping black graffiti letters, it read Long Live The Soneji!

  Chapter 16

  I won’t bore you with a page-by-page description of the www.thesoneji.net website. There may be archives of it still up on the internet for those interested.

  For those of you less inclined to explore the dark side of the web, it’s enough to know that Gary Soneji had developed a cult of personality in the decade since I’d seen him burn, hundreds of digital devotees who worshipped him with the kind of fervor I’d previously assigned to Appalachian snake handlers and the Hare Krishnas.

  They called themselves The Soneji, and they seemed to know almost every nuance of the life of the kidnapper and mass murderer. In addition to an extensive biography, there were hundreds of lurid photos, links to articles, and an online chat forum where members hotly debated all things Soneji.

  The hottest topics?

  Number one that day was the John Sampson shooting.

  The Soneji were generally ecstatic that my partner had been shot and barely clung to life, but a few posts stood out.

  Napper2 wrote, Gary fuckin’ got Sampson!

  Gary’s so back, The Waste Man agreed.

  Only thing better would be Cross on a Cross, wrote Black Hole.

  That day’s coming sooner than later, said Gary’s Girl. Gary’s missed Cross twice. He won’t miss a third time.

  Aside from being the subject of homicidal speculation, something bothered me about that last post, the one from Gary’s Girl. I studied it and the others, trying to figure out what was different.

  “They think he’s alive,” Agent Batra offered.

  “Yeah, that’s hot thread number two,” I said. “Let’s take a look there, and come back.”

  She clicked on the “Resurrection Man” thread.

  Cross saw him, came face to face with Gary, wrote Sapper9. Shit his pants, is what I heard.

  Cross was hit in first attack, wrote Chosen One. Soneji’s aim is true. Cross is just lucky.

  Beemer answered, My respect for Gary is profound, but he is not alive. That is impossible.

  The believers among The Soneji went berserk on Beemer for having the gall to challenge the consensus. Beemer was attacked from all sides. To his credit, Beemer fought back.

  Call me Doubting Thomas, but show me the evidence. Can I put my finger through Soneji’s hand? Can I see where the lance pierced his side?

  You could if he trusted you the way he trusts me, wrote Gary’s Girl.

  Beemer wrote, So you’ve seen him, GG?

  After a long pause, Gary’s Girl wrote, I have. With my own two eyes.

  Pic? Beemer said.

  A minute passed, and then two. Five minutes after his demand, Beemer wrote, Funny how illusions can seem so real.

  A second later the screen blinked and a picture appeared.

  Taken at night, it was a selfie of a big, muscular woman gone goth, heavy on the black on black right down to the lipstick. She was grinning raunchily and sitting in the lap of a man with wispy red hair. His hands held her across her deep, leather-clad cleavage, and he had buried three quarters of his face into the side of her neck.

  The other quarter, however, including his right eye, was clearly visible.

  He was staring right into the camera with an amused and lecherous expression that seemed designed to taunt the lens and me. He knew I’d see the picture someday and be infuriated.

  I was sure of that. It was the kind of thing Soneji would do.

  “That him?” Batra asked. “Gary Soneji?”

  “Close enough. Can you track down Gary’s Girl?”

  The FBI cyber agent thought about that, and then said, “Give me twenty minutes, maybe less.”

  Chapter 17

  At five o’clock that afternoon, Bree and I drove through the tiny rural community of Flintstone, Maryland, past the Flintstone Post Office, the Stone Age Café, and Carl’s Gas and Grub.

  We found a side street off Route 144, and drove down a wooded lane to a freshly painted green ranch house set off all by itself in a meticulously tended yard. A shiny new Audi Q5 sat in the driveway.

  “I thought you said she’s on welfare,” Bree said.

  “Food stamps, too,” I said.

  We parked behind the Audi and got out. AC/DC was blasting from inside the house. We went to the front door and found it ajar.

  I tried the bell. It was broken.

  Bree knocked and called out, “Delilah Pinder?”

  We heard nothing in response but the howling of an electric guitar against a thundering baseline.

  “Door’s open,” I said. “We’re checking on her well-being.”

 
“Be my guest,” Bree said.

  I pushed open the door and found myself in a room decorated with brand-new leather furniture and a big curved HD television. The music throbbed on from somewhere deeper inside the house.

  We checked the kitchen, saw boxes of appliances that hadn’t even been opened, and then headed down the hallway toward the source of the music. The first door on the left was a home gym with Olympic weight-lifting equipment. The music came from the room at the end of the hall.

  There was a lull in the song, just enough that I heard a woman’s voice cry, “That’s it!” before the throbbing, wailing song drowned her out.

  The door to that room at the end of the hall was cracked open two inches. A brilliant light shone through.

  “Delilah Pinder?” I called out.

  No answer.

  I stepped forward and pushed the door open enough to get a comprehensive view of a very muscular and artificially busty woman up on all fours on a four-poster bed. Gyrating her hips in time with the beat, she was naked, and looking over her shoulder at a GoPro camera mounted on a tripod.

  I just stood there, stunned for a moment, long enough for Bree to nudge me, and long enough for Delilah Pinder to look around and spot me.

  “Christ!” she screamed and flung herself forward on the bed.

  I thought she was diving for modesty, but she hit some kind of panic button and the door slammed shut in my face and locked.

  “What the hell just happened?” Bree demanded.

  “I think she was doing a live sex show on the internet,” I said.

  “No.”

  “I swear,” I said.

  The music shut off and a woman shouted, “Goddamnit, whoever you are, I’m calling the sheriff. They are going to hunt you down!”

  “We are the police, Miss Pinder,” Bree yelled back.

  “What the hell are you doing in my house, then?” she screamed. “I’ve got rights, and you had no right to come into my house or place of business!”

  “You’re correct,” I said. “But we knocked and called out, and we felt we were doing a safety check on you.”

  “What I do here is perfectly legal,” she said. “So please leave.”

  “We aren’t here about your, uh, business,” Bree said.

  “Who are you, then? What do you want?”

  “My name is Alex Cross. I’m a detective with the DC Metro Police, and I’m here concerning Gary’s Girl.”

  There was a long silence, and then the music cranked up. But over it I heard the sound of a door slamming loudly.

  “She’s running,” Bree said, spun around, and took off.

  Chapter 18

  I can hold my own in the weight room, but I am no match for Bree in a footrace. She exploded back through the house and barreled out the front door.

  Delilah Pinder, who was now dressed in a blue warm-up suit and running shoes, had already sprinted around the end of the house and was charging across the front lawn, heading for the road. I came out the front door in time to see Bree try to tackle the big woman.

  Delilah saw her coming and stuck out her hand like a seasoned running back, hitting Bree in the chest. Bree stumbled. The internet sex star raced out onto the road and headed toward the highway.

  I cut diagonally through the yard, trying to close in on her from the side. But when I broke through the trees and jumped the stone wall onto the road, Bree was right back behind Pinder.

  She jumped on the much bigger woman’s back, threw an arm bar around her neck, and choked her. Delilah tried to buck her off, and to pry her hold apart. But Bree held on tight.

  Finally, the big woman stopped running. Her massive thighs wobbled, and she sat down hard at Bree’s feet.

  “Oh, my God,” Bree gasped when I ran up. “That was like ‘Meet the Amazon.’”

  “More like ‘Ride the Amazon,’” I said, as she put zip ties on Delilah’s wrists.

  The woman was regaining her strength. She struggled against the restraints.

  “No,” she said. “Let me go.”

  “Not for a while yet,” I said, picking her up.

  Delilah twisted her head around in a rage, and spit in my face.

  “Knock that off!” Bree shouted, and wrenched up hard on Delilah’s bound wrists. “That kind of bullshit gets you in trouble, and you’re already in a world of trouble. Got it?”

  Delilah was obviously in pain, and finally nodded.

  Bree eased up on the pressure while I used a tissue to wipe my face.

  “I don’t know what this is about,” Delilah said. “I told you, I have a legitimate business, registered with the state and everything. Delilah Entertainment. Check it out.”

  “You know exactly what this is about,” I said, grabbing one of her formidable biceps and marching her back toward her house. “You’re a member of The Soneji. You’re Gary’s Girl. You like to take selfies of you and Gary together. Isn’t that true?”

  Delilah looked at me smugly and said, “Every single word of it, Cross. Every single word.”

  “Where is Gary Soneji?” Bree asked.

  “I have no idea,” Delilah said. “Gary comes and goes as he pleases. Our relationship is strong enough for that.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure it is,” I said, rolling my eyes. “But you understand you’ve abetted a man who shot a police officer in cold blood?”

  “How’s that?”

  “You housed him,” Bree said. “You fed him. You dressed up goth and had sex with him, maybe even did one of your kinky shows for him.”

  “Every night, darling,” Delilah said. “He loved it. So did I. And that’s where yours truly will shut up. I have the right to remain silent. And I have a right to an attorney. I’m taking both those rights, right here and right now.”

  Chapter 19

  Pale morning fog shrouded much of the cemetery from my view. The fog swirled on the wet grass, the melting snow that remained, and the gravestones. It left droplets on the pile of wilted flower bouquets and empty liquor bottles and remembrances that had to be moved before the backhoe could begin its work.

  The last item was a baby doll, naked, with lipstick smeared on the lips.

  Shivering against the dank March air, I zipped my police slicker higher and pulled on the hood. I stood off to one side of the grave with Bill Worden, the cemetery superintendent, alternately looking at the baby doll and watching the backhoe claw deeper into the soil. A baby doll, I thought, recalling a real baby tossed through the air with total indifference, if not cruelty.

  Someone brought that doll here, I thought. In celebration. In reverence.

  That’s just sick. How could you worship that?

  I glanced at the headstone Worden dug from the ground after I’d brought him an order from a federal judge in Trenton. The grave marker was simple. Rectangular black polished granite.

  “G. Soneji” was etched in the face, along with the date of his birth. The date of his death, however, had been chiseled away. That was it. No mention of his brutal crimes or his disturbing life.

  The man six feet under the headstone was all but anonymous.

  And yet they’d come. The Soneji. They’d chipped away at the gravestone. Spray-painted the grass to read “Soneji Lives.” I took pictures before the backhoe destroyed it.

  “How many visit?” I asked over the sound of the digging machine.

  Worden, the cemetery superintendent, tugged his hood over his head and said, “Hard to say. It’s not like we keep it under surveillance. But a fair number every month.”

  “Enough to leave that pile of flowers,” I said, eyeing the baby doll again.

  Worden nodded. “For some it seems almost like a pilgrimage.”

  “Yeah, except Mr. Soneji was no saint,” I said.

  Drizzle began to fall, forcing me deeper into the collar of my jacket. A few moments later, the backhoe turned off.

  “There’s the straps, Bill,” the equipment operator said. “I’ll hand-dig the last of it.”

  “
No need,” Worden said. “Just hook up and lift, brush the dirt off later.”

  The backhoe operator shrugged and got out cables, which he attached to the bucket. Then he got down into the grave and clipped the cables to the rings of stout straps that had been left after the casket was lowered.

  “They’re not weakened by being in the dirt ten years?” I asked.

  Worden shook his head. “Not unless something chewed through them.”

  The superintendent was right. When the backhoe arm rose, the straps easily lifted the casket of a man I helped kill.

  Wet dirt slid and cascaded off the top of the casket as it came free of the grave and dangled four feet above the hole. The wind picked up. The casket swayed.

  “Put it down there,” Worden said, gesturing to one side.

  I was fixated on the casket, wondering what was inside, beyond the charred remains I’d seen placed in a body bag beneath Grand Central Station a decade before. He was in there, wasn’t he?

  Every instinct said yes. But…

  As the casket swung and lowered, I happened to look beyond it and between two far monuments. The wind had blown a narrow vent in the fog. I could see a slice of the graveyard between those monuments that ran all the way to the pine barrens that surrounded the cemetery.

  Standing at the edge of the woods, perhaps eighty yards from me, was a man in a green rain slicker. He was turning away. When his back was to me, he pulled off his hood, revealing a head of thinning red hair. Then he raised his right hand, and pointed his middle finger at the sky.

  And me.

  Chapter 20

  I stood there, too stunned to move for the moment it took for the wind to ebb and the fog to creep back, obscuring the figure, who stepped into the pine barrens and disappeared.

  Then my shock evaporated, and I took off, drawing my pistol as I sprinted between the gravestones. Peering through the fog gathering again in the cemetery, I tried to figure out exactly where I’d seen him go into the pines.