Cross

by James Patterson

  The Butcher shrugged. “I’m looking for a cop’s house.”

  Hats shut his eyes. “Aw, Jeezus. Not a cop. Why a cop?” Then he pulled his fedora down over his face. “See no evil,” he muttered.

  The Butcher shrugged, but he was amused. “Just trust me. Did I ever let you down? Did I ever go too far over the top?”

  They both started to laugh at that one. Did Michael Sullivan ever go too far over the top? Did he ever not go too far over the top was the better question.

  It took another twenty minutes to find the house he was looking for. It was a two-story A-frame, looked as if it had been painted recently, flowers in the window boxes.

  “Cop lives here? Not too bad a place actually. He fixed it up okay.”

  “Yeah, Jimmy. But I’m tempted to waltz in and create a little havoc. Maybe use my saw. Take some photographs.”

  Hats winced. “Is that such a good idea? Really, I’m bein’ serious here.”

  The Butcher shrugged. “I know you are. I can see that, James. I feel the heat from your brain working overtime.”

  “Cop have a name?” asked Hats. “Not that it matters.”

  “Not that it matters. Cop’s name is Alex Cross.”

  Chapter 13

  THE BUTCHER PARKED a block or so up Fourth Street; then he got out of the car and walked quickly back toward the cozy house where the cop had the bottom-floor flat. Getting the correct address had been easy enough for him. The Mafia had ties with the Bureau, after all. He loped around the side, trying not to be seen, but not concerned if he was. People in these neighborhoods didn’t talk about what they saw.

  This job was going to happen fast now. In and out of the house in a few seconds. Then back to Brooklyn to celebrate his latest hit and get paid for it.

  He stepped through a thick patch of pachysandra surrounding the back porch, then boosted himself up. He walked right in through the kitchen door, which whined like a hurt animal.

  No problem so far. He was inside the place easy enough. He figured the rest would be a snap too.

  Nobody in the kitchen.

  Nobody home?

  Then he heard a baby crying and took out his Beretta. He fingered the scalpel in his left-hand pocket.

  This was a promising development. Babies in the house made everybody careless. He’d killed guys like this before, in Brooklyn and in Queens. One mob stoolie he’d cut into little pieces in his own kitchen, then stocked the family fridge to send a message.

  He passed down a short hall, moving like a shadow. Didn’t make a sound.

  Then he peeked into the small living room, family room, whatever the hell it was.

  This wasn’t exactly what he’d expected to see. Tall, good-looking man changing diapers for two little kids. The guy seemed to be pretty good at it too. Sullivan knew because years ago he’d been in charge of his three snot-nosed brothers in Brooklyn. Changed a lot of stinking diapers in his day.

  “You the lady of the house?” he asked.

  The guy looked up—Detective Alex Cross—and he didn’t seem afraid of him. Didn’t even seem surprised that the Butcher was in the house, even though he had to be shocked, and probably scared. So the cop had some brass balls on him anyway. Unarmed, changing his kids’ diapers, but showing some attitude, some real character.

  “Who are you?” Detective Cross asked, almost as if he was in charge of the situation.

  The Butcher folded his arms, keeping the pistol out of sight from the children. Hell, he liked kids okay. It was adults he had a problem with. Like his old man—to take one flagrant example.

  “You don’t know why I’m here? No idea?”

  “Maybe I do. I guess you’re the hit man from the other day. But why are you here? At my house? This isn’t right.”

  Sullivan shrugged. “Right? Wrong? Who’s to say? I’m supposed to be a little crazy. So people tell me anyway. That could be it. You think? They call me the Butcher.”

  Cross nodded. “So I’ve heard. Don’t hurt my kids. No one else is here but me. Their mother’s not home.”

  “Now why would I do that? Hurt your kids? Hurt you in front of your kids? Not my style. Tell you what. I’m outta here. Like I said—crazy. You lucked out. Bye-bye, kiddies.”

  Then the hit man took another bow, like he had after he shot down Jiang An-Lo.

  The Butcher turned away, and he left the apartment the way he came in. Let the hotshot detective try to figure that one out. There was a method to his madness though—always a method to every move he made. He knew what he was doing, and why, and when.

  Chapter 14

  THAT NIGHT WITH THE BUTCHER shook me more than anything that had happened to me before as a policeman. A killer inside my house. Right in the living room with my kids.

  And what was I supposed to make of it? That I’d been warned? That I was lucky to be alive? Oh, lucky me? The killer had spared my family. But why had he come after me in the first place?

  The next day was one of my worst on the police force. While a squad car watched over the house, I was called into three separate meetings about the screwup at Jiang An-Lo’s. There was talk of a departmental review, the first I’d been involved in.

  On account of all the unscheduled meetings, plus the extra paperwork and my regular workload, I was late picking up Maria at Potomac Gardens that night. I felt guilty about it. I hadn’t gotten used to her spending time inside a project like Potomac Gardens, especially once it got dark. It was dark now. And Maria was pregnant again.

  It was a little past seven fifteen when I got to the projects that night. Maria wasn’t waiting out front as she usually was.

  I parked and got out of the car. I started to walk toward her office, which was located near maintenance, on the ground floor. Finally, I began to jog.

  Then I saw Maria coming out the front door, and everything was suddenly right with the night. Her satchel was filled with so much paperwork that she couldn’t get it closed. She had an armful of folders that wouldn’t fit in the bag.

  She still managed to wave and smile when she saw me coming her way. There was almost never anger from her over mistakes I made—like being more than half an hour late to pick her up.

  I didn’t care how corny or old-fashioned it was, but I was excited to see her, and that’s the way it always was with us. My priorities had shifted to Maria and our family first and then my job. It felt good to me, the right balance.

  Maria had this excited way of calling out my name. “Alex! Alex!” she shouted, and waved one hand as I jogged to meet her in front of the building. A couple of neighborhood gangbangers leaning on the front fence turned our way and got a laugh at our expense.

  “Hey, beautiful,” I called. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “No problem. I was working too. Hey, Reu-ben! You jealous, chico?” she called to one of the bangers propped against the fence.

  He laughed and called back, “You wish, Maria. You wish you had me ’stead of him.”

  “Yeah, sure. In your dreams.”

  We kissed—not a big show because we were in front of where she worked, and the bangers were there watching, but enough of a kiss to show we meant it. Then I took her work folders, and we started to the car.

  “Carrying my books,” Maria teased. “That’s so cute, Alex.”

  “I’ll carry you if you want me to.”

  “I missed you all day. Even more than usual,” she said, and smiled again. Then she tucked her face into my shoulder. “I love you so much.”

  Maria sagged in my arms first, and then I heard the gunshots. Two distant pops that didn’t sound like much of anything. I never saw the shooter, no sign. I wasn’t even sure which direction the shots had come from.

  Maria whispered, “Oh, Alex,” and then she got quiet and very still. I couldn’t tell if she was breathing.

  Before I realized what was happening, she slid away from me, down onto the sidewalk. I could see that she’d been hit in the chest, or high on her stomach. It was too dark and confusing
to tell anything else for certain.

  I tried to shield her, but then I saw a lot of blood pumping from her wound, so I picked her up in my arms and began to run.

  Blood was all over me too. I think I was shouting, but I’m not sure exactly what happened after I realized Maria had been shot, and how bad it looked.

  Close behind me, a couple of the gangbangers were tagging along. One of them was Reuben. Maybe they wanted to help. But I didn’t know if anything could help Maria now. I was afraid she was dead in my arms.

  Chapter 15

  ST. ANTHONY’S HOSPITAL wasn’t far away, and I was running as fast as I could with Maria bundled and sagging heavily in my arms. My heart, the rushing blood, created a loud roar in my ears, like being caught under or maybe inside an ocean wave that was about to crash over both of us and drown us on these city streets.

  I was afraid I might trip and fall because my legs were wobbly and weak. But I also knew I couldn’t go down, couldn’t stop running until I was at the ER.

  Maria hadn’t made a sound since she had whispered my name. I was afraid, maybe in shock, and definitely affected by tunnel vision. Everything around me was a fuzzy blur that made the moment seem even more unreal.

  But I was definitely running.

  I reached Independence Avenue and finally saw St. Anthony’s glowing red EMERGENCY ROOM sign less than a block away.

  I had to stop for traffic, which was heavy and moving fast. I began to shout for help. From where I was standing, I could see a clique of hospital attendants huddled together, talking among themselves, but they hadn’t seen me yet and couldn’t hear me over the traffic noise.

  There was no other choice, so I edged my way out onto the busy street.

  Cars swerved and skidded around me, and a silver station wagon stopped completely. An exasperated father was at the wheel, kids leaning forward from the backseat. No one honked, maybe because they could see Maria in my arms. Or maybe it was the look on my face. Panic, despair, whatever it was.

  More cars braked to let me through.

  I was thinking to myself, We’re going to make it. I told Maria, “We’re at St. Anthony’s. You’re going to be all right, sweetheart. We’re almost there. Hang on, we’re almost at the hospital. I love you.”

  I reached the other side of the street, and Maria’s eyes suddenly blinked wide open. She looked at me, peered deeply into my eyes. At first she seemed confused, but then she focused on my face.

  “Oh, I do love you, Alex,” Maria said, and she gave me that wonderful wink of hers. Then my sweet girl’s eyes closed for the last time, and she was gone forever from me. Even while I was standing there holding on to her for dear life.

  Chapter 16

  MARIA SIMPSON CROSS DIED in my arms—which was something I told almost no one, except Sampson and Nana Mama.

  I didn’t want to talk about our last few moments together; I didn’t want anyone’s pity, or their prying. I didn’t want to satisfy some people’s need for petty gossip, the latest dramatic story to whisper in hushed tones. All through the murder investigation over the next several months, I never discussed what had happened in front of St. Anthony’s. That was between Maria and me. Sampson and I talked to hundreds of people, but nobody gave us a lead on her killer. The trail went cold fast and stayed that way. We checked out the crazy mob killer but discovered he’d been on a flight back to New York the previous night—apparently he left town shortly after he left my kitchen. The FBI helped us there because a cop’s wife had been shot. The killer wasn’t the Butcher.

  At two o’clock the morning after she died, I was inside our apartment, still wearing my holster and gun, pacing the living room with a screaming Janelle in my arms. I couldn’t get the idea out of my head that our baby girl was crying for her mother, who had died that night just outside St. Anthony’s, where Jannie had been born six months before.

  Suddenly tears were rolling from my eyes, and I felt overwhelmed by what had happened, both the reality and the unreality of it. I couldn’t deal with any of this, but especially the baby girl I was holding, and whom I couldn’t get to stop crying.

  “It’s all right, baby. It’s all right,” I whispered to my poor girl, who was being tortured by the insidious colic and who probably wanted to be in her mother’s arms rather than mine. “It’s all right, Jannie, it’s all right,” I repeated, though I knew it was a lie. I was thinking, It’s not all right! Your mama is gone. You’ll never see her anymore. Neither will I. Dear, sweet Maria, who had never hurt another person that I could remember and whom I loved more than my own life. She had been taken away from us so suddenly and for no reason anyone—not even God—could ever explain to me.

  Oh, Maria, I spoke to her as I walked back and forth carrying our baby, how could this have happened? How can I do what I have to do from now on? How can I do it without you? I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I’m just crazed right now. I’ll get it together. I’ll get it together, I promise. Just not tonight.

  I knew she wouldn’t answer me, but it was strangely comforting to imagine that Maria could talk back, that maybe she could hear me at least. I kept hearing her voice, the exact sound of it and the words. You’ll be fine, Alex, because you love our kids so much.

  “Oh, Jannie, you poor baby. I do love you,” I whispered against the top of our baby’s damp, overheated head.

  And then I saw Nana Mama.

  Chapter 17

  MY GRANDMOTHER WAS STANDING in the doorway of the hall leading to the apartment’s two small bedrooms. Arms folded, she’d been watching me all this time. Had I been talking to myself? Talking out loud? I had no idea what I’d been doing.

  “I woke you, didn’t I?” I said in a whisper that was hardly necessary given the crying baby.

  Nana was calm, and she seemed in control of herself. She’d stayed at the apartment to help with the kids in the morning, but now she was up, and that was my fault, and little Jannie’s.

  “I was awake,” she said. “I was up thinking that you and the kids have to come back to my house on Fifth Street. It’s a big enough house, Alex. Plenty big. That’s the best way for this to work from now on.”

  “For what to work?” I asked, a little confused by what she was saying, especially as Jannie was wailing loudly in my other ear.

  Nana’s back arched. “You need me to help you with these children, Alex. It’s as obvious as the nose on your face. I accept that. I want to do it, and I will.”

  “Nana,” I said. “We’ll be fine. We’ll do this ourselves. Just give me a little time to get my bearings.”

  Nana ignored me as she continued to bring me in on her thinking. “I’m here for you, Alex, and I’m here for the babies. That’s the way it has to be now. I don’t want any more back talk on it. So just stop, please.”

  She walked toward me then and put her thin arms around me, hugged me tighter than it looked like she could. “I love you more than I love my own life.” Then she said, “I loved Maria. I miss her too. And I love these babies, Alex. Now more than ever.”

  We were both tearing up now—all three of us were crying in the close, cramped living room space of the apartment. Nana was right about one thing: This place couldn’t be our home anymore. Too many memories of Maria lived here.

  “Now give me Jannie. Give her over,” she said, and it wasn’t exactly a request. I sighed and handed over the baby to this five-foot-tall warrior of a woman who had raised me from the time I was ten and already orphaned.

  Nana began to pat Jannie’s back and to rub her neck, and then the baby produced a righteous belch. Nana and I both laughed in spite of ourselves.

  “Not very ladylike,” Nana whispered. “Now, Janelle, you stop this awful crying. You hear me? You just stop it right now.”

  And Jannie did as she was told by Nana Mama, and that was the beginning of our new life.

  Part Two

  COLD CASE—2005

  Chapter 18

  A LETTER FROM THAT PSYCHOPATH Kyle Craig arrived for me
today, and it blew my mind. How could he get a letter to me? It came to the house on Fifth Street. As far as I knew, Kyle was still locked away in the max-security facility out in Florence, Colorado. Even so, getting a message from him was disturbing.

  Actually, it made me sick to my stomach.

  Alex,

  I’ve been missing you a great deal lately—our regular talks and whatnot—which is what prompts this little missive. To be honest with you, what I still find distressing is how beneath me you are, both in terms of intellect and imagination. And yet you were the one to catch me and put me in here, weren’t you? The circumstances and ultimate result might lead me to believe in divine intervention, but of course I’m not quite that incapacitated yet.

  At any rate, I know that you are a busy boy (no slur intended), so I won’t keep you. I just wanted you to know that you’re constantly in my thoughts, and that I hope to see you soon. In fact, you can count on it. I plan to kill Nana and the kids first, while you watch. Can’t wait to see all of you again. I’m going to make it happen—promise.

  K

  I read the note twice, then I shredded it and tried to do the opposite of what Kyle obviously wanted me to do. I put him out of my mind.

  Sort of.

  After I called the max-security facility out in Colorado and told them about the letter—and made certain that Kyle Craig was still there in his padded cell.

  Chapter 19

  ANYWAY, IT WAS SATURDAY. I was off from work. No crime and punishment today. No psychopaths on the horizon, at least none that I knew about yet.

  The Cross “family car” these days was an ancient Toyota Corolla that had been Maria’s. Other than the obvious sentimental value, and its longevity, I didn’t think much of the vehicle. Not in terms of form or function—not the off-white paint job, not the various pockmarks on the trunk and hood. The kids had given me a couple of bumper stickers for my last birthday—I MAY BE SLOW, BUT I’M STILL AHEAD OF YOU and ANSWER MY PRAYER, STEAL THIS CAR. They didn’t like the Corolla, either.