Then Damon was pointing at me, and he wasn’t smiling. He didn’t look so good either, as if he’d suddenly gotten a little sick to his stomach. “Dad,” he said in a low voice. “It’s for you.”
I got up from the table and took the phone from him.
“You okay?” I asked.
“It’s Ms. Johnson,” Damon whispered.
My throat felt constricted as I took the receiver. Now I was the one who felt a little sick, but also confused. “Hello? This is Alex,” I said.
“It’s Christine, Alex. I’m in Washington. For a few days. I’d like to see Little Alex while I’m here,” she said, sounding as if it were a prepared speech.
I felt my face flush. Why are you calling here? Why now? I wanted to say but didn’t. “Do you want to come over tonight? It’s a little late, but we could keep him up.”
She hesitated. “Actually, I was thinking about tomorrow. Maybe around eight-thirty, quarter to nine in the morning? Would that be all right?”
I said, “That would be fine, Christine. I’ll be here.”
“Oh,” she said, then fumbled for words a little. “You don’t have to stay home for me. I heard you were working for the FBI.”
My stomach clenched. Christine Johnson and I had split up over a year ago, mainly because of the nature of the murder cases I worked. She had actually been abducted because of my work. We finally found her in a shack in a remote area of Jamaica. Alex was born there. I hadn’t known Christine was pregnant at the time. We were never the same after that. I felt it was my fault. Then she’d moved to Seattle. It had been Christine’s idea that Alex stay with me. She’d been seeing a psychiatrist and said she wasn’t emotionally fit to be a mother. Now she was in D.C. “for a few days.”
“What brings you back to Washington?” I finally asked.
“I wanted to see our son,” she said, her voice going very soft. “And some friends of mine.” I remembered how much I had loved her, and probably still did on some level, but I was resigned to the fact that we wouldn’t be together. Christine couldn’t stand my life as a cop, and I couldn’t seem to give it up.
“All right, well, I’ll be over at around eight-thirty tomorrow,” she said.
“I’ll be here,” I said.
Chapter 55
EIGHT-THIRTY ON THE BUTTON.
A shiny silver Taurus, a rental car from Hertz, pulled up in front of our house on Fifth Street.
Christine Johnson got out, and though she looked a little severe with her hair pulled back in a tight bun, I had to admit that she was a beautiful woman. Tall and slender, with distinct, sculpted features that I couldn’t make myself forget. Seeing her again made my heart catch in spite of what had happened between us.
I was edgy, but also tired. Why was that? I wondered how much energy I’d lost in the past year and a half. A doctor friend from Johns Hopkins has a half-serious theory that our life lines are written on the palms of our hands. He swears he can chart stress, illnesses, general health. I visited him a few weeks ago, and Bernie Stringer said I was in excellent physical shape, but that my life lines had taken a beating in the last year. That was partly because of Christine, our relationship, and the breakup.
I was standing behind the protective screen of the front door, with Alex in my arms. I stepped outside as Christine approached the house. She was wearing heels and a dark blue suit.
“Say hi,” I said to Alex, and waved one of his arms at his mother.
It was so strange, so completely unnerving to see Christine like this again. We had such a complicated history. Much of it was good, but what was bad was very bad. Her husband had been killed in her house during a case I was working on. I had nearly been responsible for her death. Now we were living thousands of miles apart. Why was she in D.C. again? To see Little Alex, of course. But what else had brought her?
“Hello, Alex,” she said, and smiled, and for a dizzying instant it was as if nothing had changed between us. I remembered the first time I had seen her, when she was still the principal at the Sojourner Truth School. She’d taken my breath away. Unfortunately, I guess, she still did.
Christine knelt at the foot of the stairs and spread her arms. “Hi, you handsome guy,” she said to Little Alex.
I set him down and let him decide what to do next. He looked up at me and laughed. Then he chose Christine’s beckoning smile, chose her warmth and charm—and went right into her arms.
“Hello, baby,” she whispered. “I missed you so much. You’ve grown so big.”
Christine hadn’t brought a gift, no bribes, and I liked that. It was just her, no tricks or gimmicks, but that was enough. In seconds, Alex was laughing and talking up a storm. They looked good together, mother and son.
“I’ll be inside,” I said, after I watched them for a moment. “Come in when you want. There’s fresh coffee. Nana’s. Breakfast if you haven’t eaten.”
Christine looked up at me and she smiled again. She looked so happy holding the Boy, our small son. “We’re fine for the moment,” she said. “Thank you. I’ll come in for coffee. Of course I will.” Of course. Christine had always been so sure about everything, and she hadn’t lost any of her confidence.
I stepped back inside and nearly bumped into Nana, who was watching from just beyond the screen door.
“Oh, Alex,” she whispered, and she didn’t have to say any more than that. I felt as if a knife had been plunged in my heart. It was the first twist, and just the first of many. I shut the front door and left them to have their private time.
Christine brought the baby inside after a while, and we all sat in the kitchen and drank coffee and she watched Alex with his bottle of apple juice. She talked about her life out in Seattle; mostly about work at a school out there, nothing too personal or revealing. I knew she had to be nervous and stressed, but I never saw it.
Then Christine showed the kind of warmth that could melt a heart. She was looking at Little Alex. “What a sweetheart he is,” she said. “What a sweet, darling little boy. Oh, Alex, my little Alex, how I missed you. You have no idea.”
Chapter 56
CHRISTINE JOHNSON IN D.C. AGAIN.
Why had she come back now? What did she want with us?
The questions throbbed in my head, and also deep inside my heart. They made me afraid, even before I had a clear idea what to fear. Of course, I had a suspicion—Christine had changed her mind about Little Alex. That was it, had to be. Why else would she be here? She certainly hadn’t come back to see me. Or had she?
I was still on I-95, but just minutes away from Quantico, when Monnie Donnelley got through to me on my cell. Miles Davis played on the radio in the car. I’d been trying to chill before I got to work.
“You’re late again,” she said, and though I knew it was a joke, it still cut me some.
“I know, I know. I was out partying last night. You know how it is.”
Monnie got right to it. “Alex, did you know they grabbed a couple more suspects last night?”
Them again. I was so surprised that I didn’t answer Monnie right away. I hadn’t been told anything about a bust!
“I guess not.” Monnie answered her own question. “It took place in Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania. Joe Namath’s hometown? Two UNSUBS in their forties, ran an adult bookstore, sort of named after the town. The press got ahold of it a few minutes ago.”
“Did they find any of the missing women?” I asked Monnie.
“Don’t think so. It’s not in the news reports. Nobody seems to know for sure here.”
I didn’t understand. “Do you know how long they were under surveillance? Forget it, Monnie, I’m getting off Ninety-five right now. I’m almost there. I’ll see you in a couple of minutes.”
“Sorry to ruin your day so early,” she said.
“It was already ruined,” I muttered.
We worked straight through the day but at seven, we still didn’t have very good answers to several questions about the takedown in Pennsylvania. I knew a few thing
s, mostly unimportant details, and it was frustrating. The two men had criminal records for selling pornography. Agents from the field office in Philly had gotten a tip that the two of them were involved in a kidnapping scheme. It was unclear who in the FBI’s chain of command knew about the suspects, but there seemed to have been an internal communication breakdown of the sort I had been hearing about for years before I arrived at Quantico.
I talked with Monnie a couple of times during the day, but my buddy Ned Mahoney never called me about the bust; Burns’s office didn’t try to contact me either. I was shook. For one thing, there were reporters out in the parking lot at Quantico. I could see a USA Today van and a CNN truck from my window. Very strange day. Odd and unsettling.
Late in the afternoon, I found myself thinking about Christine Johnson’s visit to the house. I kept playing back the scene of her holding the baby, playing with Alex. I wondered if I could believe that she’d come to D.C. just to see him and a few of her old friends. It made my heart ache to think about losing “the Big Boy,” as I always called him. The Big Boy! What a joy he was to me, and to the kids, and to Nana Mama. What an unbearable loss it would be. I just couldn’t imagine it. Nor could I imagine being Christine and not wanting him back.
Before I left for the night, I forced myself to pick up the phone and make a call that I was dreading. Thinking about Little Alex made me remember the promise I’d made. Judge Brendan Connolly answered after a few rings.
“It’s Alex Cross,” I said. “Just wanted to check in with you. Tell you about the news stories you’ve been seeing today.”
Judge Connolly asked me if his wife had been found, if there was any news about Lizzie.
“They didn’t find her yet. I don’t think those two men were involved with your wife. We’re still very hopeful that we’ll find her.”
He began to mutter words that I couldn’t make out. After listening to him for a few seconds, trying to make sense of it, I told him I’d keep him informed. If someone informed me.
After the difficult phone call, I just sat at my desk. Suddenly, I realized I’d forgotten something else—my class had graduated today! We were officially agents. The others in my class had gotten their credentials, or “creds,” as well as their assignments. Right now, cake and punch were being served in the lobby of the Hall of Honor. I didn’t bother to go to the party. Somehow, it seemed inappropriate to attend. I went home instead.
Chapter 57
HOW MUCH TIME did she have left now?
A day? Hours?
It almost didn’t matter, did it? Lizzie Connolly was learning to accept life as it came; she was learning who she was inside, and how to keep herself in balance.
Except, of course, when she was frightened out of her mind.
Lizzie called them her “swimming dreams.” She had been an avid swimmer ever since she was four years old. The repetition of stroke after stroke, kick after kick could always put her in another place and time, on autopilot, let her escape. So that was what she was doing now in the closet/room where she was being kept.
Swimming.
Escaping.
Reach, slightly cupped hand, S-figure with her arms, pull at the top, grab the water. Tip through to the belly button, then down through the bottom of her swimsuit. Swoosh, swoosh, kick, kick, feeling hot inside, but the water was cooling, refreshing, invigorating. Feeling empowered because she was feeling stronger.
She had been thinking about escape for much of the day, or what she thought of as a day, anyway. Now she began to get serious about other things.
She reviewed what she knew about this place—the closet—and the vicious, horrifying man who kept her. The Wolf. That was what the bastard called himself. Why the Wolf?
She was somewhere in a city. She was almost sure the city was in the South, and fairly large, lots of money in the surrounding area. Maybe it was Florida, but she didn’t know why she thought that. Maybe she had overheard something and it had only registered in her unconscious. She’d definitely heard voices in the house when there had been large parties or, occasionally, smaller get-togethers. She believed that her vermin captor lived alone. Who could possibly live with such a horrible monster? No woman could.
She knew some of his pathetic habits by heart. He usually turned on the TV when he came home: sometimes ESPN, but more often CNN. He watched the news constantly. He also liked detective shows, such as Law and Order, CSI, Homicide. The TV was always on, late into the night.
He was physically large and strong, and he was a sadist—but also careful about not hurting her badly, not so far, anyway. Which meant—what did it mean?—that he planned to keep her around for a while longer?
If Lizzie Connolly could stand it here for another minute. If she didn’t flip out and make him so angry that he’d snap her neck, as he’d threatened to several times a day. “I’ll snap your little neck. Like this! You don’t believe me? You should believe me, Elizabeth.” He always called her Elizabeth, not Lizzie. He told her that Lizzie wasn’t a beautiful enough name for her. “I’ll break your fucking neck, Elizabeth!”
He knew who she was and quite a bit about her, and also about Brendan, Brigid, Merry, Gwynnie. He promised that if she made him angry he’d not only hurt her, but he’d do the same to her family. “I’ll go to Atlanta. I’ll do it for kicks, just for fun. I live for that kind of thing. I could murder your whole family, Elizabeth.”
He was desiring her more and more—she could certainly tell when a man got like that. So she did have some control over him, didn’t she? How about that? So fuck you too, buddy!
Sometimes he would leave her binds slightly looser and even give her free time to walk around in the house. Tied up, of course—on a kind of chain leash that he would hold in his hands. It was so demeaning. He told her that he knew she’d be thinking that he was getting kinder and gentler but not to get any stupid ideas.
Well, what the hell else could she do except get ideas? There was nothing for her to do all day in the dark by herself. She was—
The closet door swung open violently. Then it slammed against the wall outside.
The Wolf screamed in Lizzie’s face. “You were thinking about me, weren’t you? You’re starting to get obsessive, Elizabeth. I’m in your thoughts all the time.”
Damn it, he was right about that.
“You’re even glad for the company. You miss me, don’t you?”
But he had that wrong, dead wrong.
Lizzie hated the Wolf so much that she contemplated the unthinkable: She could kill him. Maybe that day would come.
Imagine that, she thought. God, that is what I want to do—kill the Wolf myself. That would be the greatest escape of all.
Chapter 58
THAT SAME NIGHT the Wolf had a meeting with two professional hockey players at Caesars in Atlantic City, New Jersey. The suite where he stayed had gold-foil wallpaper everywhere, windows facing the Atlantic, and a hot tub in the living room. Out of respect for his guests, who were big stars, he wore an expensive chalk-stripe Prada suit.
His contact happened to be a wealthy cable TV operator, who arrived at the Nero suite with the hockey players Alexei Dobushkin and Ilia Teptev in tow. Both were members of the Philadelphia Flyers. They were top defensemen who were considered to be tough guys because they were big men who moved quickly and could do a lot of damage. The Wolf didn’t believe the hockey players were that tough, but he was a huge fan of the game.
“I love American-style hockey,” he said as he welcomed them with a broad smile and a hand extended.
Alexei and Ilia nodded his way, but neither of the hockey players shook his hand. The Wolf was offended, but he didn’t reveal his feelings. He smiled some more and figured that the hockey players were too stupid to understand who he was. Too many wooden sticks to the skull.
“Drinks, anyone?” he asked his guests. “Stolichnaya? Whatever you like.”
“I’ll pass,” said the cable operator, who seemed incredibly self-important, but a lot
of Americans were that way.
“Nyet,” Ilia said with disinterest, as if his host were a hotel barman or a waiter. The hockey player was twenty-two years old, born in Voskresensk, Russia. He was six-foot-five, with close-cropped hair, stubble not quite amounting to a beard, and a block of a head sitting on an enormous neck.
“I don’t drink Stoly,” said Alexei, who, like Ilia, wore a black leather jacket with a dark turtleneck underneath. “Maybe you have Absolut? Or some Bombay gin?”
“Of course.” The Wolf nodded cordially. He walked to the suite’s mirrored wet bar, where he made the drinks and decided what to do next. He was starting to enjoy this. It was different. No one here was afraid of him.
He plopped down on the pillowed couch between Ilia and Alexei. He looked back and forth into their faces, smiling broadly again. “You’ve been away from Russia for a long time, no? Maybe too long,” he said. “You drink Bombay gin? You forget your manners?”
“We hear you’re a real tough man,” said Alexei, who was in his early thirties and obviously lifted weights, a lot of weights, and often. He was around six feet and over two hundred twenty pounds.
“No. Not really,” said the Wolf. “I am just another American businessman these days. Nothing very special. Not tough anymore. So, I was wondering, do we have a deal for the game with Montreal?”
Alexei looked over at the cable guy. “Tell him,” he said.
“Alexei and Ilia are looking for a little more action than what we originally talked about,” he said. “You understand what I’m saying? Action?”
“Aahhh,” said the Wolf, and grinned broadly. “I love action,” he said to the businessman. “I love shalit too. Means mischief in my country. Shalit.”
He was up off the couch faster than anyone would have thought possible. He’d pulled a small lead pipe from beneath a couch cushion and he cracked it across Alexei Dobushkin’s cheek. Then he swung it off the bridge of Ilia Teptev’s nose. The two hockey stars were bleeding like stuck pigs in seconds.
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