Alex Cross 03 - Jack & Jill

by James Patterson

  Jeanne Sterling had pasty-white skin, and she wasn’t in good physical shape. She looked much better in tailored gray and blue suits than in the nude.

  Above her black pubic hair was a soft roll of paunch. Her legs were crisscrossed with varicose veins. She’d had a nosebleed either before she died or while she was dying.

  Neither of the Sterlings seemed to have suffered much. Was that a clue for us? They both had been found dead in their cells at the same 5:00 A.M. guard check.

  They had died close to the same time. According to plan? Of course, according to plan. But whose plan was it?

  Jack and Jill came to Lorton Prison… and what happened to them here? What the hell happened out here last night?… Who finally killed Jack and Jill?

  “They both underwent extensive body searches when they were brought here,” Warden Campbell said to Jay and me. “This may have been a joint suicide, but they had to have help, even for that Someone got them the poison between six last night and early this morning. Somebody got inside their cells.”

  Dr. Marion Campbell looked directly at me. His eyes were bleary and wild and incredibly red-rimmed. “There was a small amount of blood under her right index finger. She fought someone. Jeanne Sterling tried to fight back. She was murdered; at least, I think so. She didn’t want to die, Alex;”

  I closed my eyes for a second or two. It didn’t help. Everything was the same when I opened them again. Jeanne and Brett Sterling still lay naked and dead on the two stainless steel tables.

  They had been executed. Professionally. Without passion. That was the eeriest part—it was almost as if Jack and Jill had been visited and murdered by Jack and Jill.

  Had a “ghost” murdered Jeanne and Brett Sterling? I was afraid we would never know. We weren’t supposed to know. We weren’t important enough to know the truth.

  Except maybe one tenet, one principle: there are no rules.

  Not for some people, anyway.

  CHAPTER

  113

  I ALWAYS WANT everything tied up nice and neat with a bright ribbon and bow on the package. I want to be the mastermind dragonslayer on every case. It just doesn’t work out that way—probably wouldn’t be any fun if it did.

  I spent the next two and a half days at the Sterling house, working side by side with the Secret Service and FBI. Jay Grayer and Kyle Craig both came out to the house in Chevy Chase. I had an idea in the back of my head that maybe Jeanne Sterling had left us a clue to go on—something to get back at her murderers. Just in case. I figured that she was capable of something nasty and vengeful like that—her last dirty trick!

  After two and a half days, we didn’t find anything in the house. If there had been a clue, then someone had gotten into the house first. I didn’t discount that possibility.

  Kyle Craig and I talked out in the kitchen late in the afternoon of the third day. We were both pretty well worn to the bone. We opened a couple of Brett Sterling’s microbrewery ales and had a chat about life, death, and infinity.

  “You ever hear of the notion—too many logical suspects?” I asked Kyle as we sipped our beers in the quiet of the Sterling kitchen.

  “Not that specific language, but I can see how it applies here. We have scenarios that could implicate the CIA, the military, maybe big business, maybe even President Mahoney. History rarely moves in straight lines.”

  I nodded at Kyle’s answer. As usual, he was a quick study. “Thirty-five years after the Kennedy assassination the only thing that’s certain is that there was some kind of conspiracy,” I said to him.

  “No way to reconcile the physical evidence—ballistic and medical—with one shooter in Dallas,” Kyle said.

  “So there’s the same goddamn problem—too many logical suspects. To this day, nobody can rule out the possible involvement of Lyndon Johnson, the Army, a CIA ‘black op,’ the Mafia, your outfit’s old boss. There are such obvious parallels to what’s happened here, Kyle. A possible coup d’ état to eliminate a troublemaker in office—with a much friendlier replacement—LBJ, and now Mahoney—waiting in the wings. The CIA and the military were extremely angry at both JFK and Thomas Byrnes. The system fiercely resists change.”

  “Keep that in mind, Alex,” Kyle said to me. “The system fiercely resists change, and also troublemakers.”

  I frowned, but nodded my head. “I have it in mind. Thanks for all your help.”

  Kyle reached out his hand and we shook. ‘Too many logical suspects,” I said. “Is that part of the nasty, badass plot, too? Is that their idea for cover in daylight?

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if it was. Nothing surprises me anymore. I’m going home to see my kids,” I finally said.

  “I can’t think of anything better to do,” Kyle said and smiled and waved for me to go on and get out of there.

  CHAPTER

  114

  I CAME HOME and played with the kids—tried to be there for them. I kept flashing on the face of Thomas Byrnes, though. Occasionally, I saw beautiful little Shanelle Green or Vernon Wheatley or even poor George Johnson, Christine’s husband. I saw the corpses of Jeanne and Brett Sterling on those stainless steel gurneys at Lorton Prison.

  I worked some hours at the soup kitchen at St. A’s over the next few days. I’m “Mr. Peanut Butter Man” there. I ration out the PB&J, and occasionally a little pro bono advice for those more or less unfortunate than myself. I really enjoy the work. I get back even more than I give.

  I couldn’t concentrate on much of anything, though. I was there, but I wasn’t really there. The concept of no rules was stuck like a fish bone in my throat. I was choking on it. There really were too many suspects to chase down and ultimately solve the murder of Thomas Byrnes. And there were limitations to how much a D.C. cop could do on such a case. It’s over now, I tried to tell myself, except the parts you will always carry with you.

  One night that week—late—I was out on the sun porch. I was scratching Rosie the cat’s back and she was purring sweetly. I was thinking about playing the piano, but I didn’t do it. No Billie Smith, no Gershwin, no Oscar Peterson. The monsters, the furies, the demons were loose in my mind. They came in all shapes and sizes, all genders, but they were human monsters. This was Dante’s Divine Comedy, all nine circles, and we were all living here together.

  Finally, I began to play my piano. I played “Star Dust” and then “Body and Soul,” and I was soon lost in the glorious sounds. I didn’t think about a call I’d had earlier in the week. I had been suspended from the D.C. police force. It was a disciplinary action. I had struck out at my superior, Chief George Pittman.

  Yes, I had. I was guilty as charged. So what? And now what?

  I heard a knock at the porch door. Then a second rap.

  I wasn’t expecting company and didn’t want any. I hoped it wasn’t Sampson. It was too late for any visitors I needed to see that night.

  I grabbed my gun. Reflex action. Force of habit. Terrifying habit when you stop to think about it—which I did.

  I rose from the piano bench and went to see who was there. After all the bad things that had happened, I almost expected to see the killer Gary Soneji, come to finally get even or, at least, to try his luck.

  I opened the back door—and I found myself smiling. No, I actually glowed. A light went on, or went back on, inside my head. What a nice surprise. I felt much, much better in an instant.

  It just happened that way. Pack up all my cares and woes.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Christine Johnson said to me. I recognized the line I had used once at her house.

  I remembered Damon’s line, She’s even tougher than you are, Daddy.

  “Hello, Christine. How are you? God, I’m glad it’s you,” I whispered.

  “As opposed to?” she asked.

  “Everyone else,” I said.

  I took Christine’s hand in mine, and we went inside the house on Fifth Street.

  Home.

  Where there are still rules, and everybody is safe, and the d
ragonslayer is alive and well.

  CHAPTER

  115

  IT REALLY DOESN’T END—the cruel, relentless nightmare, the roller-coaster ride from hell.

  It was Christmas Eve and the stockings were hung from the chimney with care. Damon, Jannie, and I had almost finished decorating the tree—the final touch being long strings of popcorn and shiny red cranberries.

  The damn telephone rang and I picked it up. Nat King Cole sang carols in the background. A fresh layer of snow glistened on the tiny patch of lawn outside.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Why hello. If it isn’t Doctor/Detective Cross himself. What a neat treat.”

  I didn’t have to ask who the caller was—I recognized the voice. The sound of it had been in my nightmares for a white—years.

  “Long time, no talk,” Gary Soneji said. “I’ve missed you, Doctor Cross. Have you missed me?”

  Gary Soneji had kidnapped two young children in Washington a few years back, then he’d led us on an incredible search that lasted for months. Of all the murderers I’d known, Soneji was the brightest. He had even fooled some of us into believing that he was a split personality. He’d escaped from prison twice.

  “I’ve thought of you,” I finally told him the truth, “often.”

  “Well, I just called to wish you and yours a happy and holy holiday season. I’ve been born again, you see.”

  I didn’t say anything to Soneji. I waited. The kids had picked up that something was wrong about the phone call. They watched me, until I waved for them to finish up with the Christmas tree.

  “Oh, there’s one other thing, Doctor Cross,” Soneji whispered after a long pause.

  I knew there was something. “What is it, Gary? What’s the one other thing?”

  “Are you enjoying her? I just had to ask. I have to know. Do you like her?”

  I held my breath. He knew about Christine, goddamn him!

  “You see, I was the one who left Utile Rosie the cat for your family. Nice touch, don’t you think? So whenever you see the little cutie, you just think—Gary’s in the house! Gary’s real close! I am, you know. Have a joyous and safe New Year. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

  Gary Soneji hung up the phone with a gentle click.

  And then so did I. I went back to the beautiful tree and Jannie and Damon and Nat King Cole.

  Until next time.

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  IT’S WAY TOO EARLY in the morning for dead people.

  That’s what I’d be thinking, were I actually thinking clearly right now. I’m not.

  The second I turn the corner on my way to work and see the crowd, the commotion, the dingy gray body bags being wheeled out of that oh-so-chichi hotel, I reach for my camera. I can’t help it. It’s instinct on my part.

  Click, click, click.

  Don’t think about what’s happened here. Just shoot, Kristin.

  My head whips left and right, the lens of my Leica R9 leading the way. I focus first on the faces around me—the gawkers, the lookie-loos. That’s what Annie Leibovitz would do. A businessman in wide pinstripes, a bike messenger, a mother with her stroller, they all stand and stare at the -terrible murder scene. Like it or not, this is the highlight of their day. And it’s not yet eight a.m.

  I move forward, even as something inside me is saying, “Look away, walk away.” Even as something says, “You know where you are. This hotel. You know, Kristin.”

  I’m weaving my way toward the entrance to the hotel. Closer and closer, I’m being pulled—as if by an undertow that I can’t resist. And I keep shooting pictures as though I’m on assignment for the New York Times or Newsweek.

  Click, click, click

  Parked at jagged angles, police cars and ambulances fill the street. I look up from their sirens, tracing the twirling beams of blue-and-red light as they dance against the surrounding brownstones.

  I spy more gawkers in the windows of nearby apartments. A woman wearing curlers takes a bite of a bagel. Click

  Something catches my eye. It’s a reflection, the sun bouncing off the rail of the last gurney being wheeled out of the hotel. That makes four. What happened in there? Murder? Mass murder?

  They sit, gathered on the sidewalk—four gurneys— each holding a body bag. It’s horrifying. Just awful.

  My wrist twists, and I go wide-angle to shoot them as a group—like a family. My wrist twists back, and I go tight, shooting them one by one. Who were they? What happened to these poor people? How did they die?

  Don’t think Kristin, just shoot.

  Two muscular paramedics walk out of the hotel and approach a couple of cops. Detectives, like on Law & Order. They all talk, they all shake their heads, and they all have that hardened New York look to them, as if they’ve seen it all before.

  One of the detectives—older, rail thin—looks my way. I think he sees me.

  Click click click.

  Having burned through a roll of film, I furiously load another.

  There’s really nothing more to shoot, and yet I keep firing away. I’m late for work, but it doesn’t matter. It’s as if I can’t leave.

  Wait!

  My head snaps back to the gurneys as something catches my eye. At first, I can’t believe it. Maybe it’s the wind, or just my mind playing tricks early in the morning.

  Then it happens again, and I gasp. The last body bag… it moved!

  Did I just see what I think I saw?

  I’m terrified and want to run away. Instead, I edge even closer. Instinct? Undertow?

  I’m staring at that zipped-up body bag, and all I know is that there’s been a horrible mistake by the police or the EMS.

  The zipper!

  It’s creeping backward. That body bag is opening from the inside!

  My eyes bulge, and my knees buckle. Literally. I stagger through the crowd, staring through my lens in shock and disbelief.

  I see a finger emerge, then an entire hand. Oh, God, and there’s blood!

  “Help!” I scream, lowering my camera. “That person is alive!”

  The crowd turns, the cops and paramedics too. They glance at me and scoff in disbelief or reproach, shaking their heads as if I just escaped from Bellevue. They think I’m nuts!

  I stab the air, pointing at the body bag as the hand pushes through the plastic, desperately reaching out for help. I think it’s a woman’s hand.

  Do something, Kris! You have to save her!

  I raise my camera again, and?—

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