I, Alex Cross

by James Patterson

  Soon enough, the Mercedes passed in front of the house, then continued around toward the carriage barn in back—its destination. As always, the car’s plates were covered.

  Before Zeus, the apartment had been a private VIP suite for any preapproved client who could afford it. The fees started at twenty thousand a night, and that was just for room and board. The suite was outfitted with the finest liquors and wines, a fully stocked gourmet kitchen, a marble steam room and Swiss shower, two fireplaces, and a full complement of electronics, including separately wired phone lines with routing software and multifrequency voice scramblers to make outgoing calls untraceable.

  Nicholson pulled up the living room view—where two girls were waiting, as ordered. All they knew was that it would be a “party of one” and they’d been promised time and a half for the evening, a minimum of four thousand each.

  When the door from the parking bay below opened, both of them stood up at once and started to primp.

  Nicholson’s body tensed as he watched Zeus stride into the room, looking like any other client with his crisp blue suit, briefcase in hand, and a tan overcoat on his arm.

  Except for one thing—Zeus wore a mask. Always. Black. Like an executioner.

  “Hello, ladies. Very pretty. Very nice. Are you ready for me?” he asked.

  That was what he always said too.

  And in the voice he always used—too deep to be his real speaking voice.

  Another element of disguise.

  So who was this creepy, powerful, rich bastard?

  Chapter 37

  THROUGH THE NARROW peepholes in his mask, Zeus studied the two girls and thought they were gorgeous, just spectacular to look at. One was tall, with long dark hair and alabaster skin. The other was a short dark beauty who was probably Hispanic.

  They had obviously been instructed not to ask about the mask, or who he might be, or anything of a personal nature. This was good—his mood couldn’t have been any better.

  “I think we’re going to have a good time tonight,” he said. That was all they needed to know for now, and actually, he had no idea how tonight might go, only that it was completely in his control. He was, after all, Zeus.

  They took his words as a cue to speak and introduced themselves as Katherine and Renata. “Can I take your coat?” Katherine asked, and somehow managed to make it sound seductive. “Get you something to drink? What would you like? We have it all.”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine for now.” He was polite, but definitely reserved, even strange. For one thing, he never touched anything outside the bedroom. His people knew as much and would work accordingly.

  “Let’s go on in,” he said. “You’re the most beautiful girls I’ve seen here, by the way. I don’t know which of you is prettier.”

  Everything in the bedroom was laid out as it should be. The windows were curtained; there was a bottle of Grey Goose vodka, a new box of latex gloves on the dresser, and nothing else—no knickknacks, no carpets, no bedding except for a fitted rubber sheet covering the mattress.

  “This is interesting.” Katherine sat down and ran her hand over it. “Decor by Rubbermaid.”

  Zeus made no comment.

  He had the two girls undress first, then took off his own clothes, except the mask, folding everything onto the dresser so he could leave the club just as neat and pressed as when he’d arrived.

  Finally, he opened his briefcase.

  “I’m going to tie you girls up,” he said. “Nothing too scary. They told you about this, correct? Good. Have either of you been handcuffed before?”

  The shy one, Renata, shook her head no. The other, Katherine, put a come-fuck-me look into her eyes and nodded. “Once or twice,” she said. “And you know what? I still haven’t learned to be a good girl.”

  “Don’t do that, Katherine,” he told her. She looked at him as if she didn’t know what he was talking about. “Don’t ever playact for me. Please. Just be yourself. I can tell the difference.”

  Before there could be any more nonsense, he tossed a pair of cuffs onto the bed. “Put those on, please. What I’d like—I want you to share them. One cuff for each of you.”

  While the girls clipped the cuffs on, he slipped his hands into a pair of gloves and took out the rest of his gear: two more pairs of cuffs, a new skein of hardware store rope, two red rubber ball gags with black leather straps.

  “Just lie back now,” he said, and went over to Renata first. He could see something interesting now, mounting concern in her eyes, the beginning of fear.

  “Give me your free hand,” he said. Then he cuffed her wrist to the bedpost. “Thank you, Renata. You’re very sweet. I like compliant women. It’s my vice.”

  As he walked around to the other side, Katherine arched her back a little and widened her eyes, more vacant than scared.

  “Please don’t hurt us. We’ll do anything you want; I promise,” Katherine said.

  She was getting him pissed—already. Like some cockteasing little wife. Doing her coital duty. He slapped on the last cuff and secured it to the other bedpost and started fitting the gag into her mouth before she could say any more and ruin tonight.

  “I can tell you’re still acting, and you’re not good at it,” he told her. “Now you’re making me a little angry. I’m sorry. I don’t like myself when I get like this. You won’t either.”

  He tightened the strap at the back of her head. He used all of his strength, and he was a powerful man. The girl tried to say something, but it came out as a muted grunt. He’d caused her pain. Good. She deserved it.

  When he stepped back, the look on Katherine’s face had changed completely. She was afraid of him now. That wasn’t something you could fake.

  “Much better,” he said. “Now, let’s see if I can think of anything else to improve that performance of yours. Oh, how about these?”

  He reached into his black briefcase and pulled out a Taser gun. And pliers.

  “Katherine, that’s wonderful. Your improvement is just outstanding. It’s all in the eyes.”

  Chapter 38

  NICHOLSON FELT AS if he’d been drinking coffee all night instead of expensive scotch. He squinted at the headlights on Lee Highway, wishing for nothing more than a nightcap, an Ambien, and a few hours away from his own tortured thoughts.

  It was done, anyway. He’d wiped the hard drive and taken the disk away with him. He’d recorded Zeus’s session with the two girls. He’d witnessed the horror show. The question now was what to do with it.

  It was tempting to drive around all night, put the thing in his safe-deposit box, and hopefully never go back to it again. On the other hand, he thought, if the need did arise, he’d be smart to keep it closer at hand. Just in case.

  Nicholson had never indulged in the idea that this scheme of his could go on forever. The discreet club and the dirty blackmail had been a delicate balance. With Zeus in the mix, it was untenable, and the madman showed no sign of slowing down.

  If Nicholson wanted out, he was going to have to disappear, and sooner rather than later.

  One contingency plan after another ran through his head as he drove.

  The offshore account in the Seychelles had just over two million in it. There was a hundred and fifty thousand coming from Temple Suiter, and then the Al-Hamad party next week, which promised to be good for at least as much. It was no lifetime reserve, but it was certainly enough to get him out of the country and keep him more than comfortable for a while. Definitely a couple of years, maybe longer.

  He could fly through Zurich and lie low for a few weeks, until he could get a second passport. Lots of countries offered acquisition programs; Ireland might draw the least notice. Then he could use it to fly back out again, perhaps heading east. He’d always heard the trade in flesh was outrageous in Bangkok. Maybe it was time to find out.

  Meanwhile, there was Charlotte.

  God, what had he been thinking when he married her? That he would turn that lump of clay into something
worth keeping? She’d been a little nothing of a London schoolteacher when they met; now she was a little nothing of an American housewife. It was like some kind of cruel joke—on him.

  One thing was certain. Mrs. Nicholson would definitely not be making the trip east, or wherever he ended up. The only question was whether he should find someone to finish her off—just one more body at this point, and well worth the twenty or thirty thousand it would cost. Anything to keep that gob of hers from flapping after he was gone.

  It was just after four a.m. when Nicholson finally got home. His mind was still racing as he came down the short, curved slope of his driveway, and he nearly rear-ended the black Jeep four-door parked right in front of the garage.

  “What the hell?”

  His first cogent thoughts were of the disk in his glove box, and of Zeus. Jesus, was it possible somebody already knew about the recording? Could it be true?

  Not wanting to find out, Nicholson jammed the car into reverse, but even that was too little, too late.

  A fat man was already at his side window, pointing a handgun and shaking his head no.

  Chapter 39

  WHAT WAS THIS—The Sopranos? It certainly looked like it to Nicholson.

  There were two of them. A second hoodlum-looking gent stepped into the glow of the headlights, pointing another gun at his face.

  The fat one opened Nicholson’s door for him and then stepped back. The guy’s mouth hung open a little, and his cheap golf shirt was tucked in, leaving an impressive curve of belly suspended in midair. It seemed inconceivable that someone as sloppy as this should be working for Zeus—which left the obvious question.

  “Who the hell are you?” Nicholson asked. “What do you want with me?”

  “We work for Mr. Martino.” The accent was New York, or Boston, or something. East Coast American.

  Nicholson slowly got out of the car, keeping both hands in sight. “Okay, then, who the hell is Mr. Martino?” he asked.

  “No more stupid questions.” The corpulent thug gestured Nicholson toward the house. “Let’s go inside. We’re right behind you, bub.”

  It occurred to Nicholson that he’d already be dead if this were a straightforward hit. So that meant they wanted something else. What?

  They were barely inside the front door when Charlotte Nicholson’s thin, very irritating voice came seeping down from the upstairs hall. “Babe? Who’s that with you? Isn’t it late for guests?”

  “It’s nothing. Not your concern. Go back to bed, Charlotte.”

  Even now, he felt like throttling her, just for being where she shouldn’t be.

  Her bare splayed feet and legs came into the light from the foyer as she took a step down. “What’s going on?” she called out again.

  “Did you not hear me? Go. Now.” She seemed to pick up on his tone, anyway, and floated back into the darkness. “Stay up there,” he told her. “I’ll come get you later. Go to sleep.”

  He took his two unexpected guests through to the great room at the back, for more privacy. Also, the bar was there, and Nicholson headed straight for it.

  “I don’t know about you fellas, but I could use a drink—,” he said, then felt a sharp crack at the back of his skull. He stumbled down onto his knees.

  “What the fuck do you think this is, a social call?” shouted the fat guy.

  Nicholson felt angry enough to fight, but he was in no position to do it. Not even close. So he pulled himself up, then onto the sofa. Thankfully, his vision was slowly coming back into focus.

  “So what the hell do you want at four in the morning?”

  The fat one hovered over him. “We’re looking for one of our guys. He came down here about a week and a half ago, and we haven’t heard from him since.”

  Christ, he wanted to lay out this fat bastard, but that wasn’t going to happen, at least not right now. But someday—somewhere.

  “I’m going to need more information than that. What guy? Give me a hint.”

  “The name’s Johnny Tucci,” said Fatboy.

  “Who? Never heard of him. Tucci? Did he come to my club? Who is he?”

  “Don’t bullshit us, man.” The smaller punk pushed in close now, with a rush of cigarette and body stink. “We know all about your little place in the country, okay?”

  Nicholson sat up straight on the couch. This might have more to do with Zeus than he’d thought. Or maybe with his business on the side?

  “That’s right,” the punk went on. “You think Mr. Martino sends his people down here for a vacation?”

  “Listen, I still have no idea what you’re talking about,” he told them. That much was partly the truth.

  Fatboy hunkered down on the burled-wood coffee table and lowered his gun for the first time. It might have been an opening, if the other punk weren’t so close by.

  “I’m going to lay it out for you, then,” he said, in an almost conciliatory tone. “One of our guys is missing. Whoever’s been contracting with our boss isn’t easy to track down. So far, all we’ve got is you. And that means our problem just became your problem. You understand?”

  Nicholson was afraid that he did. “What do you expect me to do… about our problem?”

  The guy shrugged, then scratched his stubbly chin with the barrel of his gun. “Bottom line, we’ve got to deliver somebody back to Mr. Martino. So you do some asking around, find out what you can, or you’ll be the one we bring back.”

  “Or the little lady up on the stairs,” the other one said.

  “You can have the little lady,” Nicholson said. “We’ll call it even.”

  The heavy man smiled finally, and then he stood up. Tonight’s business was clearly done.

  “I’ll take that drink to go,” he said to Nicholson. “You just stay put.”

  He waddled over to the bar, where his buddy was already helping himself to as many bottles as he could carry in both arms.

  Once the two punks were gone and Nicholson had his drink and some ice for his head, he noticed they’d cleaned him out of Johnnie Walker only to leave a Dalmore 62 sitting right there on the bar. It was a four-hundred-dollar bottle, and seemed as ominous a sign as anything else.

  If these two losers were onto him, then everything was unraveling faster than he’d thought possible.

  Now, who the hell was Johnny Tucci?

  Chapter 40

  FOR SUAREZ AND Overton, every exchange with Zeus was a dead drop—no face-to-face meetings, ever, by mutual agreement with whoever was actually paying their fees. They went into the suite at Blacksmith Farms after him, sanitized the space, and took away whatever needed taking away, including the bodies.

  Just before dawn, their no-profile G6 bumped along the familiar dirt track in the backwoods of Virginia. Its rear end was riding a little low because of the weight in the trunk.

  “Let me ask you this,” Suarez said to his partner. “He’s obviously filthy rich. Why does he risk it? What is he—completely crazy?”

  “On some level, sure.”

  “On some level? How about 24/7/365 he’s crazier than a shithouse rat on speed? How does he get away with it—how?”

  “Well, for one thing—do you know who he is, Suarez?”

  “You’re right, I don’t. But somebody has to know. Somebody has to stop him eventually.”

  “What can I tell you—welcome to the wackadoo world of the rich and famous. Can you say wood chipper?”

  Chapter 41

  REMY WILLIAMS DIDN’T trust these two guys at all. Never had, not from the start of the contract. When they pulled up to the cabin and didn’t even get out of the car, he knew something was up. Something more than the usual dirtbag routine.

  “How’s it going, fellas?” He shuffled on over like the piece of white trash he was supposed to be. “What’ve you got for me this time?”

  “Two female.” The driver looked up, though not quite into his eyes. What was this: Did the Latino have a conscience? “One of them has a bullet in the chest. You’ll see.”
>
  “Oh, yeah? What’d you shoot her for?”

  “I don’t know, maybe because we’re still chasing down the last one who ran off.”

  The guy was baiting him, Remy could tell, but he wasn’t sure why or, really, what these murders were all about. He was just a cog, didn’t have all the pieces, figured probably no one did. Like JFK. Like RFK. Hell, like O.J.

  “Seems to me you shot the last one too,” he said, playing along. “Maybe she didn’t run off a’tall. Might just be lying out in those woods somewhere, turning into mulch. As we speak. Coulda just been found by hikers.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” The ex-agent took a deep breath, starting to get a little showy with his aggravation. “Listen, if you could just clean out the trunk, we’ll be on our merry way.”

  Remy scratched at his crotch—a little overkill, maybe—and then shuffled around to the back of the car. The driver popped the trunk for him. Jesus! Look at this.

  The two bodies were double wrapped in black poly sheeting and sealed with packing tape. These guys were pros at what they did; he had to give them that much. But who the hell was hurting these girls in the first place? What was the big picture here? Who was the killer?

  He dragged both “packages” out of the trunk and onto the canvas tarp he’d already spread. His tools were laid out on a big hickory stump, and there was an extra gallon of gas next to the chipper.

  “Which one’d you say was shot?” he called over to the spooks.

  “Tall one. Left chest. What a waste. Girl was a real looker.”

  He rolled her over and slit the plastic down the middle, pushing just hard enough with the tip of his bowie knife to leave a thin red trail in its wake. When he pulled back the wrapper, he found a small crater just above the very well-formed left breast. The body was still warm—in the nineties or high eighties. Dead only a few hours at most.