The drinking finally tailed down, and we wandered off to find our rooms, which were scattered throughout the spacious Du Pont.
Jeb Klepner, Jezzie, and I climbed the thickly carpeted stairs to our rooms on two and three. The Du Pont
204 was a mausoleum at quarter to three in the morning. There wasn't any traffic outside on the main drag through Wilmington.
Klepner's room was on the second floor. “I'm going to go watch some soft-core pornography,” he said as he split off from us. "That usually helps me get right to sleep.
“Sweet dreams,” Jezzie said. “Lobby at seven.”
Klepner groaned as he trudged down the hallway to his room. Jezzie and I climbed the winding flight to the next floor. It was so quiet you could hear the stoplight outside, making clicking noises as it changed from green to yellow to red.
“I'm still wound tight,” I said to her. “I can _see Soneji/Murphy. Two faces. They're both very distinct in my head.” i 6I'm wired, too. It's my nature. What would you do if you were home instead of here?" Jezzie asked.
“I'd probably go play the piano out on our porch. Wake the neighborhood with a little blues.”
Jezzie laughed out loud. “We could go back down to the Delaware Room. There was an old upright in there. Probably belonged to one of the Du Ponts. You play, I'll have one more drink. ”
“That bartender left about ten seconds after we did. He's home in his bed already.” We'd reached the Du Pont's third floor. There was a gentle bend in the hallway. Omate signs on the wall listed room numbers and their direction. A few guests had their shoes out to be shined overnight.
“I'm three eleven.” Jezzie pulled a white card-key from the pocket of her jacket.
“I'm in three thirty-four. Time to call it a night. Start fresh in the morning.”
Jezzie smiled and she looked into my eyes. For the first time that I could remember, neither of us had anything to say.
I took her into my arms, and held her gently. We kissed in the hallway. I hadn't kissed anyone like that in a while. I wasn't sure who had started the kiss, actually.
“You're very beautiful,” I whispered as our lips drew apart. The words just came out. Not my best effort, but the truth. Jezzie smiled and shook her head. “My lips are too puffy and big. I look like I was dropped face-first as a kid. You're the good-looking one. You look like Muhammad Ali.”
,, Sure I do. After he took too many punches."
“A few punches, maybe. To add character. Just the nght number of hard knocks. Your smile's nice, too. Smile for me, Alex.”
I kissed those puffy lips again. They were perfect as far as I could tell.
There's a lot of myth about black men desiring: white women; about some white women wanting to experi' ment with black men. Jezzie Flanagan was a smart, extremely desirable woman. She was somebody I could talk to, somebody I wanted to be around.
And there we were, snuggled in each other's arms at around three in the morning. We'd both had a little too much to drink, but not a lot too much. No myths involved. Just two people alone, in a strange town, on a very strange night in both of our lives.
I wanted to )e ie Jezzie did, too. The look in her eyes was sweet and comfortable. But there was also a brittleness that night. There was a network of tiny red veins in the comers of her eyes. Maybe she could still see Soneji/Murphy, too. We'd been so close to getting him. Only a half step behind this time.
I studied Jezzie's face in a way I couldn't have before, and never thought that I would. I ran a finger lightly over her cheeks. Her skin was soft and smooth. Her blond hair was like silk between my fingers. Her perfume was subtle, like wildflowers. A phrase drifted through my head. Don't start anything you can'tfinish.
“Well, Alex?” Jezzie said, and she raised an eyebrow. “This is a knotty problem, isn't it?”
“Not for two smart cops like us,” I said to her. We took the soft left turn down the hotel hallwayand headed toward room 31 1.
“Maybe we should think twice about this,” I said as we walked.
“Maybe I already have,” Jezzie whispered back. some)ody nght tien. I think
Along Came A Spider
CHAPTER 41
T ONE-THIRTY in the morning, Gary Soneji/Murphy walked out of a Motel 6 in Reston, Virginia. AHe caught his reflection in a glass door.
The new Gary-the Gary du jour-looked back at him. Black pompadour and a grungy beard; dusty shitkicker's clothes. He knew he could play this part. Put on an Old Dixie drawl. For as long as he needed to, anyway. Not too long. Don't anybody blink.
Gary got into the battered VW and started to drive. He was completely wired. He loved this part of the plan more than he loved his life. He couldn't separate the two anymore. This was the most daring part of the entire adventure. Real high-wire stuff.
Why was he so revved? he wondered as his mind drifted. Just because half the police and FBI bastards in the continental U.S.A. were out looking for him?
Because he'd kidnapped two rich brats and one had died? And the other-Maggie Rose? He didn't even want to think about that-what had really happened to her.
Darkness slowly changed to a soft gray velvet. He fought the urge to step on the gas and keep it floored. An orangish tinge of morning finally arrived as he drove through Johnstown, Pennsylvania.
He stopped at a 7-Eleven in Johnstown. He got out and stretched his legs. Checked how he looked in the VW Bug's dangling sideview mirror.
A scraggly country laborer looked back at him from the mirror. Another Gary, completely. He had all the country-hick mannerisms down cold; modified cowboy walk as if he'd been kicked by a horse; hands in pockets, or thumbs in belt loops. Finger-comb your hair all the time. Spit whenever you- get the chance.
He took a jolt of high-octane coffee in the convenience store, which was a questionable move. Hard poppy-seed roll with extra butter. No morning newspapers were out yet.
A dumb-shit, stuck-up female clerk in the store waited on him. He wanted to punch her lights out. He spent five minutes fantasizing about taking her out right in the middle of the podunk 7-Eleven.
Take off the little schoolgirl white blouse, honey. Roll it down to your waist. Okay, now I'm probably going to have to kill you. But maybe not. Talk to me nice and beg me not to. What are you-twenty-one, twenty? Use that as your emotional argument. You're too young to die, unfulfilled, in a 7-Eleven.
Gary finally decided to let her live. The amazing thing was that she had no idea how close she'd come to being killed.
“You have a nice day. Come back soon,” she said.
“You pray I don't.”
As Soneji/Murphy drove along Route 22, he let himself get angrier than he had been in a long time. Enough of this sentimentality crap. No one was paying attention to him-not the attention he deserved.
Did the major fools and incompetents out there think they had any chance of stopping him? Of capturing him on their own? Of trying him on national TV? It was time to teach them a lesson; it was time for true greatness. Zig when the world expects you to zag.
Gary Soneji/Murphy pulled into a McDonald's in Wilkinsburg, Pennsylvania. Children of all ages loved McDonald's, right? Food, folks, and fun. He was still pretty much on schedule. The “Bad Boy” was dependable in that regard-you could set your watch by him.
There was the usual meandering lunchtime crowd of dopes and mopes moving in and out of Mickey D's. All of them were stuck in their daily ruts and daily rutting. Shoveling down those Quarter Pounders and greasy string fries.
What was that old Hooters song-about all the zombies out there in Amerika? All you zombies? Walk like a zombie? Something about the millions of zombies out there. Gross understatement.
Was he the only one living near his potential? Soneji/ Murphy wondered. It sure as hell seemed that way. Nobody else was special the way he was. At least he hadn't met any of the special ones.
He turned into the McDonald's dining room. A hundred trillion McBurgers served, and still counting. Women were there i
n droves. Women and all of their precious children. The nest-builders; the trivializers; the silly gooses with their silly, floppy breasties.
Ronald McDonald was there, too, in the form of a sixfoot cutout shilling stale cookies to the kiddies. What a day! Ronald McDonald meets Mr. Chips.
Gary paid for two black coffees and turned to walk back through the crowd. He thought the top of his head was going to blow off. His face and neck were flushed. He was hyperventilating. His throat was dry, and he was perspiring too much.
“You all right, Sir?” the girl behind the register asked.
He didn't even consider answering her. You talkin' to me? Robert De Niro, right? He was another De Niro-no doubt about that-only he was an even better actor. More range. De Niro never took chances the way he did. De Niro, Hoffman, Pacino-none of them took chances and really stretched themselves. Not in his opinion.
So many thoughts and perceptions were crashing on him, deflecting off his brain. He had the impression that he was floating through a sea of light particles, photons, and neutrons. If these people could spend only ten seconds inside his brain, they wouldn't believe it.
He purposely bumped into people as he walked away from the McDonald's counter.
“Well, ex-cuse me,” he said after a jarring hipcheck.
“Hey! Watch it! C'mon, mister,” somebody said to him.
“Watch it yourself, you jerkoff.” Soneji/Murphy stopped and addressed the balding shitkicker he'd bumped. “What do I have to do to get a little respect? Shoot you in the right eyeball?”
He downed both hot coffees as he continued on through the restaurant. Through the restaurant, Through any people in his way. Through the cheesy Formica tables. Through the walls, if he really wanted to.
Gary Soneji/Murphy pulled a snub-nosed revolver from under his Windbreaker. This was it: the beginning of America's wake-up call. A special performance for all the kiddies and mommies.
They were all watching him now. Guns, they understood.
“Wake the fuck up!” he shouted inside the McDonald's dining room. “Hot coffee! Comin' through, you all! Wake up, and smell it!”
“That man has a gun!” said one of the rocket scientists eating a dripping Big Mac. Amazing that he could see through the greasy fog rising from his food.
Gary faced the room with the revolver drawn. “No one leaves this room!” he bellowed.
“You awake now? Are you people awake?” Gary Soneji/Murphy called out. "I think so. I think you're all with the program now.
“I'm in charge! So everybody stop. Look. And listen. ”
Gary fired a round into the face of a burger-chomping patron. The man clutched his forehead and wheeled heavily off his chair onto the floor. Now that got every-' body's attention. Real gun, real bullets, real life.
A black woman screamed, and she tried to run by Soneji. He leveled her with a gun butt to the head. It was a really cool move, he thought. Good Steven Seagal shit.
“I am Gary Soneji! I am Himself. Is that a mind p blower or what? You're in the presence of the world famous kidnapper. This is like a free -for-nothing dem onstration. So watch closely. You might learn some thing. Gary Soneji has been places, he's seen things you'll never see in your life. Trust me on that one.”
He sipped the last of his McCoffee, and over the rim of his cup watched the fast-food fans quiver.
“This” he finally said in a thoughtful manner, "is what they call a dangerous hostage situation. Ronald McDonald's been kidnapped, folks. You're now offi cially part of history.'
Along Came A Spider
CHAPTER 42
TATE TROOPERS Mick Fescoe and Bobby Hatfield were about to enter the McDonald's when gunshots sounded from the dining room. Gunshots? At lunchtime in McDonald's? What the hell was going on I
Fescoe was tall, a hulk, forty-four years old. Hatfield was nearly twenty years younger. He'd been a state trooper for only about a year. The two troopers shared a similar sense of black humor, in spite of their age
I difference. They had already become tight friends. I “Holy shit,” Hatfield whispered when the fireworks I started inside McDonald's. He went into a firing crouch he hadn't learned that long ago, and had never used off
I the target range.
“Listen to me, Bobby,” Fescoe said to him.
“Don't worry, I'm listening.”
“You head toward that exit over there. ” Fescoe pointed to an exit up near the cash registers. "I'll go around the left side. You wait for me to make a move.
“Do nothing until I go at him. Then, if you have a clear shot, go for it. Don't think about it. Just pull the trigger, Bobby. ”
Bobby Hatfield nodded. “I got you.” Then the two split up.
Officer Mick Fescoe couldn't get his breath as he ran around the far side of the McDonald's. He stayed close to the brick wall, brushing his back against it. He'd been telling himself for months to get his ass back in shape. He was puffing already. He felt a little dizzy. That he didn't need. Dizziness, and playing High Noon with a creep, was a real bad combination.
Mick Fescoe got up close to the door. He could hear the nut case shouting inside.
There was something funny, though, as if the creep were operating by remote. His movements were very staccato. His voice was high-pitched, like a young boy's.
“I'm Gary Soneji. You all got that? I'm The Man himself. You folks have found me, so to speak. You're all big heroes.”
Was it possible? Fescoe wondered as he listened near the door. The kidnapper Soneji, here in Wilkinsburg? Whoever it was, he definitely had a gun. One person had been shot. A man was spread-eagled on the floor. He wasn't moving.
Fescoe heard another shot. Piercing screams of terror echoed from inside the packed McDonald's restaurant.
“You have to do something!” a man in a light green Dolphins parka yelled at the state trooper.
You're telling me, Officer Mick Fescoe muttered to himself. People were always real brave with cops, lives. You first, officer. You're the one getting twenty-five hundred a month for this.
Mick Fescoe tried to control his breathing. When he succeeded, he moved up to the glass doorway. He said a silent prayer and spun through the glass door.
He saw the gunman immediately. A white guy, already turned toward hirfi. As if he'd been expecting him. As if he'd planned on this.
“Boom!” Gary Soneji yelled. At the same time, he pulled the trigger.
Along Came A Spider
CHAPTER 43
NE OF us had more than a couple of hours of slee@, some less than that. We were groggy and out of it as we cruised down U.S. Highway 22.
Gary Soneji/Murphy had been “sighted” several times in the area south of us. He had become the bogey man for half the people in America. I knew that he relished the role. iezzie Flanagan, Jeb Klepner, Sampson, and I traveled in a blue Lincoln sedan. Sampson tried to sleep. I was the designated driver for the first shift. We were passing through Murrysville, Pennsylvania, when an emergency call came over the radio at ten past noon. “All units, we have a multiple shooting!” the dispatcher said with a flurry of radio static. "A man claiming to be Gary Soneji has shot at least two people inside a McDonald's in Wilkinsburg. He has at least sixty hostages trapped inside the restaurant at this time.
Less than thirty minutes later we arrived at the scene
Wilkinsburg, Pennsylvania. Sampson shook his head disgust and amazement. “Does this asshole know how to throw a party or what?” “Is he trying to kill himself? Is this suicide time?” Jezzie Flanagan wanted to know.
“I'm not surprised by anything he does, but McDonaid's fits. Look at all the children. It's like the school, like Disney World,” I said to them. Across the street from the restaurant, on the roof of a Kmart, I could see police or army snipers. They had high-powered rifles aimed in the direction of the golden arches on the front window.
“It seems just like the McDonald's massacre a few years back. The one in southern California,” I said to Sampson an
d Jezzie.
“Don't say that,” Jezzie whispered, “not even as a joke. ”
“I'm saying it, and it isn't any joke.”
We started to hurry toward the McDonald's. After all this, we didn't want Soneji shot dead.
We were being filmed. Television vans were doubleparked everywhere, affiliates from all three networks. They were shooting film of everything that moved or talked. The whole mess was as bad a deal as I'd seen. It certainly reminded me of the McDonald's shootings in California; a man named James Huberty had killed twenty-one people there. Was that what Soneji/Murphy wanted us to think?
An FBI section chief came running up to us. It was Kyle Craig, who'd been at the Murphy house in Wilmington.
“We don't know if it's him for sure,” he said. “This guy's dressed like a farrner. Dark hair, beard. Claims to be Soneji. But it could be some other nut.”
“Let me get a look,” I said to Craig. “He asked for me down in Florida. He knows I'm a psychologist. Maybe I can talk to him now.”
Before Craig could answer, I had moved past him toward the restaurant. I inched my way up beside a trooper and a couple of local cops crouched near the side entrance. I flashed my badge case at them. Said I was from Washington. No sound was coming from inside the McDonald's. I had to talk him back to earth. No suicide. No big flame-out at Mickey D's.
“Is he making any sense?” I asked the trooper. “Is he coherent?”
The trooper was young and his eyes were glazed. “He shot my partner. I think my partner's dead,” the trooper said. “Dear God in this world.”
“We'll get in there and help your partner,” I told the trooper. “Is the man with the gun making sense when he talks? Is he coherent?”
“He's talking about being the kidnapper from D.C. You can follow what he says. He's bragging about it. Says he wants to be somebody important.”
Alex Cross 1 - Along Came A Spider Page 14
