“How much time do you think thirty thousand dollars is worth?” he said. He was unbelievably cool about the whole thing. And arrogant. I think he fully expected me to go for it.
“You don’t seem like the climb-out-the-window type, Creem,” I said.
“Ordinarily, no,” he said. “But if you know who I am, then you know I’ve got quite a bit at stake here—a family, a medical practice—”
“Six and a half million in revenue last year alone,” I said. “According to our records.”
“And then there’s my reputation, of course, which in this town is priceless. So what do you say, detective? Do we have a deal?”
I could tell he was already halfway out that window in his mind. This was a man who was used to getting what he wanted.
But then again, I wasn’t a seventeen-year-old girl with a self-image problem.
“I think my partner put it best,” I told him. “What was it you said, John?”
“Something like screw you,” Sampson said. “How old are these kids, Creem?”
For the first time, Dr. Creem’s superior affect seemed to crack right down the middle. His silly grin dropped away, and the eyes started moving faster.
“Please,” he said. “There’s more cash where that came from. A lot more. I’m sure we can work something out.”
But I was already done with this guy. “You have the right to remain silent—”
“I don’t want to beg.”
“Then don’t,” I said. “Anything you say can and will be used against you—”
“For Christ’s sake, you’re going to ruin me! Do you understand that?”
The narcissism alone was kind of staggering. Even more so was the cluelessness about what he’d done here.
“No, Dr. Creem,” I said as I turned him around and put the cuffs on. “You’ve already done that to yourself.”
TWO MONTHS TO THE DAY AFTER ELIJAH CREEM’S UNFORTUNATE SCANDAL broke in the headlines, he was ready to make a change. A big one. It was amazing what a little time, a good lawyer, and a whole lot of cash could do.
Of course, he wasn’t out of the woods yet. And the cash wasn’t going to last forever. Not if Miranda had anything to say about it. She was only speaking to him these days through her own attorney, and he hadn’t been allowed to see Chloe or Justine since the future ex–Mrs. Creem had packed them off to her parents’ house in Newport. Word from the lawyer was that they’d be finishing out the school year there.
The silence from the girls had been deafening as well. All three of his blond beauties—Miranda, Justine, Chloe—had swiftly turned their backs on him, just as easily as closing a door.
As for the medical practice, there hadn’t been a consult, much less a booking, since it had come out in the press that Dr. Creem (or Dr. Creep, as a few of the less savory rags were calling him) had traded surgical procedures for sex with more than one of Joshua Bergman’s unfortunately underage protégées. Between that, and the little video collection Creem had accumulated on his home computer, there was still the very real possibility of a jail sentence if they went to trial.
Which was why Elijah Creem had no intention of letting that happen. What was the old cliché? Today is the first day of the rest of your life?
Yes, indeed. And he was going to make it count.
“I can’t go to prison, Elijah,” Joshua told him on the phone. “And I’m not saying I don’t want to. I mean, I can’t. I really don’t think I’d make it in there.”
Creem put a hand over the Bluetooth at his ear to hear better, and to avoid being overheard by the passersby on M Street.
“Better you than me, Joshua. At least you like dick.”
“I’m serious, Elijah.”
“I’m joking, Josh. And believe me, I’m no more inclined than you are. That’s why we’re not going to let it come to that.”
“Where are you, anyway?” Bergman asked. “You sound funny.”
“It’s the mask,” Creem told him.
“The mask?”
“Yes. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. There’s been a change of plans.”
The mask was an ingenious bit of latex composite, molded from human forms. The very newest thing. Creem had been experimenting with it since the scandal broke, and his own famous face had become something of a social liability. Now, as he passed the plate-glass window in front of Design Within Reach, he barely recognized his own reflection. All he saw was an ugly old man—sallow skin, sunken cheeks, and a pathetic remnant of dry, silver hair over a liver-spotted scalp. It was spectacular, actually. Poetic, even. The old man in the reflection looked just as ruined as Dr. Creem was feeling these days.
Dark-rimmed glasses masked the openings around his eyes. And while the lips were tight and uncomfortable, they were also formfitting enough that he could talk, drink, eat—anything at all—with the mask on.
“I didn’t want to let you know until I was sure this would work,” Creem told Bergman, “but I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“What do you mean? What kind of surprise?” Bergman asked.
“Joshua, do you remember Fort Lauderdale?”
There was a long pause on the line before he responded.
“Of course,” he said quietly.
“Spring break, 1988.”
“I said I remembered,” Bergman snapped, but then softened again. “We were just a couple of fetuses then.”
“I know it’s been a while,” Creem said. “But I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I’m not ready to just go quietly into the night. Are you?”
“God no,” Bergman said. “But you were the one who—”
“I know what I said. That was a long time ago. This is now.”
Creem heard his friend take a long, slow breath.
“Jesus, Elijah,” he said. “Really?”
He sounded scared, but more than that he sounded excited. Despite the mousy tendencies, Bergman also had a wonderfully twisted streak. He’d always been more excited by the murders than Creem.
For Creem, they’d been cathartic as much as anything else. A means to an end. And this time around, he had a whole new agenda.
“So… this is really happening?” Bergman said.
“It is for me,” Creem told him.
“When?”
“Right now. I’m waiting for her to come outside as we speak.”
“And, can I listen?”
“Of course,” Creem said. “Why do you think I called? But no more talking. Here she comes now.”
CREEM POSITIONED HIMSELF ACROSS THE STREET FROM DOWN DOG YOGA AS the seven forty-five evening class let out. Among the first to emerge onto Potomac Street was Darcy Vickers, a tall, well-proportioned blonde.
He couldn’t take credit for the tall or blond part, but as for the well-proportioned elements, those were all thanks to him. Darcy’s ample bust, the perfectly symmetrical arch of her brows and lips, and the nicely tapered thighs represented some of Dr. Creem’s best work.
Not that Darcy Vickers had ever expressed the first drop of gratitude. As far as she was concerned, the world was populated with her lackeys. She was a typical specimen, really—a K Street lobbyist with a steroidal sense of entitlement and a desperate need to stay beautiful for as long as possible.
All of it so very familiar. So close to home, really.
He waited outside Dean & Deluca while she ran in for whatever it was women like her deigned to eat these days. He watched while she held up the line at the register, talking obliviously away on her cell phone. Then he crossed the street again, to follow her down the quaintly cobblestoned alley toward the garage where Darcy’s Bimmer was parked.
There was no need to keep too much distance. He was just some geezer in a windbreaker and orthopedic shoes—all but invisible to the Darcy Vickerses of the world. By the time they reached the deserted third level of the garage, he’d closed the gap between them to less than twenty feet.
Darcy pressed a clicker in her hand, and the Bimmer’s tr
unk popped open with a soft click. That’s when he made his move.
“Excuse me—Miranda?” he said, half timidly.
“Sorry, no,” Darcy said, dropping her grocery bag and purple yoga mat into the trunk without even a glance.
“Funny,” he said. “You look so much like her.” When the woman didn’t respond, he stepped in closer, crossing that invisible line of personal space between them. “Almost exactly like her, in fact.”
Now, as she turned around, the annoyance on her face was clear, even through the Botox.
“Listen,” she said, “I don’t mean to be rude—”
“You never do, Miranda.”
As he came right up on top of her, she put a hand out to deflect him. But Dr. Creem was stronger than the old man he appeared to be. Stronger than Darcy Vickers, too. His left hand clamped over her mouth as she tried to call out.
“It’s me, sweetheart,” he whispered. “It’s your husband. And don’t worry. All is forgiven.”
He paused, just long enough to see the surprise come up in her eyes, before he drove the steak knife deep into her abdomen. A scalpel would have been nice, but it seemed best to stay away from the tools of his own trade for the time being.
All the air seemed to leave Darcy Vickers’s lungs in a rush, and she collapsed forward, bending at the middle. It was a bit of work to get the knife out, but then it came free all at once.
With a quick sweep of his leg, Creem kicked her ankles off the ground and lifted her into the trunk. She never even struggled. There were just a few gurgling sounds, followed by the glottal stoppage of several half-realized breaths.
He leaned in close, to make sure it would all reach Bergman’s ears over the phone. Then he stabbed again, into the chest this time. And once more down below, opening the femoral artery with a swift, L-shaped motion, so there could be no chance of recovery.
Working quickly, he took a hank of her long blond hair in his hand and sawed it off with the serrated edge of the knife. Then he cut another, and another, and another, until it was nearly gone, sheared down to where the scalp showed through in ragged patches. He kept just one handful of it for himself, tucked into a Ziploc bag, and left the rest lying in tufts around her body.
She died just as ugly as she had lived. And Dr. Creem was starting to feel better already.
When it was done, Creem closed the trunk and walked away, taking the nearest stairs down toward M Street. He didn’t speak until he was clear of the garage and outside on the sidewalk.
“Joshua?” he said. “Are you still there?”
Bergman took a few seconds to answer. “I’m… here,” he said. His breath was ragged, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Are you…” Creem grinned, though he was also a little disgusted. “Joshua, were you masturbating?”
“No,” his friend said, too quickly. Bergman had an ironic sense of modesty, all things considered. “Is it done?” he asked then.
“Signed, sealed, delivered,” Creem said. “And you know what that means.”
“Yes,” Bergman said.
“Your move, old pal. I can’t wait to see what you cook up.”
Read an extended excerpt and learn more about Alex Cross, Run.
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Contents
Welcome
Dedication
Prologue: HOME INVASION
One
Two
Part One: LATE TO THE PARTY
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Part Two: SIGN OF THE CROSS
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
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