Finally, he saw Jill. She looked so cool and utterly unconcerned.
She was such a great psycho in her own right, wasn't she?
Jill stood there in the middle of all the fuss and bustle. Then she disappeared inside the Waldorf with the rest of them.
The photojournalist finally sauntered away, down Park toward what had once been the Pan Am Building and now belonged to MetLife. A float with Snoopy driving Santa's sleigh stood out on the building's rooftop.
The President ought to buy some term life insurance tonight, he thought, whatever the price. The assassination is as good as done.
It was guaranteed.
But what Kevin Hawkins didn't even suspect, didn't realize, was that he too was being watched. He was under close observation, at that very moment, in New York City.
Jack was watching Kevin Hawkins stroll down Park Avenue.
JACK BE NIMBLEST.
Jack be quickest.
After he had watched Kevin Hawkins disappear on Park Avenue, Sam Harrison left the crowded area near the Waldorf. New York was already as stirred up about Jack and Jill as Washington, D.C. That was good. It would make everything easier.
There was something he had to do now. He had to do this, no matter what the risks. It was the most important thing to him.
At the corner of Lexington Avenue and Forty-seventh Street, he stopped at a pay phone booth. Surprisingly, the damn contraption actually worked. Maybe the only one that did in midtown.
As he dialed, he watched a garish street hooker plying her trade across Lexington. Nearby, a middle-aged gay man was picking up a blond teenager. Urban cowboys and girls sashayed into a peculiar New York bar called Ride'm High. He mourned for the old New York, for America as it had been, for real cowboys and real men.
He had important and necessary work to do in New York. Jack and Jill was heading toward its climax. He was confident that the real truth would go to his grave with him. It had to be like that.
The truth had always been far too dangerous for the public to know. The truth didn't usually set people free, it just got them crazier.
Most people just couldn't handle the truth.
He finally reached a number in Maryland. There was a very small risk in the phone call, but he had to take it. He had to do this one thing for his own sanity.
A little girl's voice came on the phone. Immediately, he felt the most incredible relief, but also a joy he hadn't experienced in days. The girl sounded as if she were right there in New York.
“This is Karon speaking. How may I help you?” she said.
He had taught her to answer the phone.
He closed his eyes tight, and all of New York's depressing tawdriness, everything he was about to do was suddenly, effectively, shut out. Even Jack and Jill was gone from his thoughts for the briefest of moments. He was in a safety zone. He was home.
His little girl was what really counted for him now. She was the only thing that mattered. She'd been permitted to wait up late for his call.
He wasn't Jack as he cradled the phone receiver against his chin.
He wasn't Sam Harrison.
“It's Daddy,” he said to his youngest child. "Hello, pumpkin-eater.
I miss you to bits. How are you? Where's Mommy?“ he asked. ”Are you guys taking good care of each other? I'll be home real soon. Do you miss me? I sure miss you."
He had to get away. with this, he thought as he talked to his daughter, and then to his wife. Jack and Jill had to succeed.
He had to change history. He couldn't go home in a body bag. In disgrace. As the worst American traitor since Benedict Arnold.
No, the body bag was for President Thomas Byrnes. He deserved to die. So had all the others. They were all traitors in their own way Jack and Jill came to The Hill To kill, to kill, to kill.
And soon -- very soon -- it would be finished.
SOMETHING was clearly wrong at the hotel. We hadn't been at the Waldorf for more than a few minutes when I knew there was a serious breach in security I could see the way the Secret Service agents closed around President Byrnes and his wife as they entered the glittery hotel foyer.
Thomas and Sally Byrnes were hurriedly being escorted to their suite of rooms on the twenty-first floor. I knew the drill by heart. NYPD detectives had been working closely with the Secret Service detail. They had checked every conceivable and inconceivable method of infiltration into the Waldorf, including subways, sewers, and all the underground passages. Bomb-sniffing dogs had been marched through the midtown hotel just before our arrival. The dogs had also been taken that afternoon to the Plaza and the Pierre, other possible choices for the President's stay
“Alex.” I heard from behind. “Alex, over here. In here, Alex.”
Jay Grayer beckoned with his hand. “We've got a little problem already I don't know how they managed it, but they're definitely here in New York. Jack and Jill are here.”
“What the hell is going on here, Jay?” I asked the Secret Service agent as we hurried past glass cases filled with quart-size perfume bottles and expensive clothing accessories.
Jay Grayer led me to the hotel's administrative offices, which were directly behind the front desk on the lobby floor. The room was already filled with Secret Service, FBI agents, and New York City police honchos. Everybody seemed to be listening to earphones or hand transmitters. They looked stressed-out, including the hotel management, with their own director of security and the proud claim that every president since Hoover had stayed at the Waldorf.
Grayer finally turned to me and said, “A delivery of flowers came about ten minutes ago. They're from our friends Jack and Jill. There's another rhyme with the flowers.”
“Let's take a look at it. Let me see the message, please.”
The note was on a mahogany desk next to an arrangement of blood-red roses. I read it as Grayer looked over my shoulder.
Jack and Jill went up The Hill And surprised the Chief with flowers.
We're here in town We're counting down Your last remaining hours.
“They want us to believe they're a couple of kooks,” I said to Jay
“Do you?”
“I sure as hell don't, but they're sticking with it. It's consistent as hell and it's all a plan. They definitely know what they're doing, and we definitely don't.”
And Jack and Jill were definitely in New York City THE HEAVY WOODEN DOOR into President Thomas Byrnes's master bedroom opened at a few minutes past midnight. The Waldorf's presidential suite consisted of four bedrooms and two sitting rooms in the tower portion of the hotel. No other hotel guests were staying on that floor, or the floors immediately above and below.
“Who is it?” The President looked up from the book he was reading to try and calm his nerves. The book was the massive Truman by David McCullough. The President nearly dropped the heavy tome when the door opened unexpectedly Thomas Byrnes smiled when he saw who was standing between the doorway and a large antique armoire.
“Oh, it's you. I thought it might be Jill. I think she secretly likes me. Just a gut feeling I have,” he said and chuckled.
Sally Byrnes forced a smile. “Only me. I wanted to say goodnight. And to see if you were all right, Tom.”
The President looked fondly at his wife. They had been sleeping in separate bedrooms for the past few years. They'd had problems.
But they were still close friends. He believed they still loved each other, and always would.
“You didn't come to tuck me in?” he asked. “That's a shame.”
“Of course I did. That, too. Tonight, you deserve a tuck-in.”
Her husband smiled in a way that reminded both of them of better times, much better times. He could be a charmer when he wanted to be. Sally Byrnes knew that all too well. Tom could also be a major heartbreaker. Sally knew that, too. It had been that way for most of their years together. The agony and the ecstasy, she called the relationship. In truth, though, to be fair, it had been more ecstasy than agony They both believed that
, and knew what they had was rare.
Thomas Byrnes lightly patted the edge of the bed, which was king-size with a partial canopy Sally came and sat beside him. He reached for her hand, and she gave it to him willingly She loved to hold hands with her Tom. She always had. She knew she still loved him in spite of past hurts and all their other troubles. She could forgive him for his affairs. She knew they meant nothing to him. She was secure in herself. Sally Byrnes also understood her husband better than anybody else. She knew how disturbed he was right now, how deeply frightened, and how vulnerable.
And she did love him, the whole complex package -- the arrogance, the diffidence, the insecurities, the very large ego at times.
She knew that he loved her and that they would always be best friends and soul mates.
“Tell you something weird,” he said as he pulled her closer, as he tenderly held his wife of twenty-six years.
“Tell me. I expect nothing less than full disclosure, Mr. King.”
It was a phrase they had both laughed over in the London stage play The Madness of George IlL The queen had called George III “Mr. King” in bed.
“I think it's somebody we know. I had a talk about it with that homicide detective. He's the only one who had the balls to come to me with bad news. I think it could be somebody close to us, Sally That makes it all the more horrible.”
Sally Byrnes tried not to show her fear. Her eyes traveled up and around the high-ceilinged bedroom. There was a chair rail halfway up the walls. Baby-blue-and-cream wallpaper rose above the rail. God, how she wished they could go home to Michigan.
That's what she really wanted more than anything, for her and Tom to go back home.
“Have you told that to Don Hamerman?”
“I'm telling you,” he whispered. “You, I can trust. You, I do trust.”
Sally kissed his forehead softly, then his cheek, and finally his lips. “You sure about that?”
“Hundred percent,” he whispered. “Although you have some good reasons to want to get me. Better reasons than most. Better than Jack and Jill, I'll bet.”
“Hold me tight,” she said. “Don't ever let go.”
“Hold me tight,” the President continued to whisper to his wife. "Don't you ever let go. I could stay like this with you forever.
And please, Sally, forgive me."
It's somebody close. It's somebody very close to me. President Thomas Byrnes couldn't turn off the disturbing thought as he held his wife. Somebody close.
“What would you like for Christmas, Tom? You know the press -- they always want to know.”
President Byrnes thought for a moment.
“Peace. For this to be over.”
IT WAS TIME to prove he was better than Jack and Jill. In his heart, he knew that he was. No contest. Jack and Jill were basically full of crap.
The Cross house stood in dark, shifting shadows on Fifth Street in Washington's Southeast. It looked as if everyone inside had finally fallen asleep. We'll soon see. We'll just see about that, the killer thought to himself.
His name was Danny Boudreaux, if you really wanted to know the truth. He watched the streetlamp-lit scene from a clump of gum trees sprouting in an otherwise empty lot.
He was thinking about how much he hated Cross and his family. Alex Cross reminded him of his real father, who'd also been a cop devoted to his stupid job and who had left him and his mother because of it. Deserted them as if they were so much spit on the sidewalk. Then his mother had killed herself and he'd wound up with foster parents.
Families made him sick, but bigshot Cross tried to be such a perfect daddy He was such a phony, a real scam artist. Worse than that, Cross had severely underestimated him and also “dissed” him several times.
Danny Boudreaux had been a classmate of Sumner Moore at Theodore Roosevelt. Sumner Moore had always been the perfect suck-up cadet, the perfect student, the perfect student-athlete asshole. Moore had been his goddamn tutor since the previous summer. Danny Boudreaux had to go to the Moore house twice a week. He'd hated Sumner Moore from day one for being such a condescending and stuck-up little prick. He'd hated the whole condescending Moore family Well, he'd taught them a lesson.
He'd turned out to be the tutor.
His first totally outrageous idea had been to make it look as if Sumner Moore, the perfect cadet, were the child killer. He'd logged into the Moore's Prodigy account and led the cops right to their house. What a great frigging prank that had been -- the best. Then he'd decided to get rid of Sumner. That was the second outrageous idea. He'd enjoyed killing Sumner Moore even more than the little kids.
''He wanted to teach Cross a lesson now, too. Cross obviously didn't think the so-called Sojourner Truth School killer was worth much of his precious time. Danny Boudreaux was no Gary Soneji in the eyes of Alex Cross. He was no Jack and Jill. He was Nobody, right?
Well, we'll see about that, Dr. Cross. We'll just see how I stack up against Jack and Jill and the others. Watch this one real closely, Doctor Hotshit Defective. You just might learn something.
In the next hour or so, a lot of people would learn not to underestimate Danny Boudreaux, not to snub him ever again.
Danny Boudreaux crossed Fifth Street, careful to keep his body in tree shadows. He walked right into the well-kept yard that bordered the Cross house.
He was thirteen, but small for his age. He was five three and only a hundred and ten pounds. He didn't look like much. The other cadets called him Mister Softee because he would melt into tears whenever they teased him, which was just about all the time.
For Danny Boudreaux hell week had lasted the whole school year.
No, it had lasted for his entire life so far. Christ, he had enjoyed killing Sumner Moore! It was like killing his whole goddamn school]
He smeared gray eye shadow over his face, his neck, and his hands as he waited across from the Cross house. He had on dark jeans and a black shirt, and also a dark camo face mask made by Treebark. He had to fit in with the African-American neighborhood, right? Well, no one had paid much attention to him on Sixth Street, or even walking along E Street on his way to Fifth.
Danny Boudreaux touched the butt of the Smith & Wesson semiautomatic in the deep pocket of his poncho. The gun held a dozen shots. He was loaded for bear. The safety was off. He started crying again. Hot tears were streaming down his face. He wiped them away with his sleeve. No more Mr. Softee.
He did perfect murders.
NOTHING IN HEAVEN or on earth could save Alex Cross's cute little family now. They were next in line to die. It was the move he had to make. The right move at the right time. Hey, hey, what do you say ?
Danny Boudreaux inched his way up the back-porch steps of the house. He didn't make a freaking sound.
He could be a damn good cadet when he needed to be. A fine young soldier. He was on maneuvers tonight, that's all it was. He was on a nocturnal mission.
Search and destroy.
He didn't hear any noises coming from inside the house. No late-night TV sounds. No Letterman, Leno, and Beavis and Butt-head, NordicTrack commercials. No piano playing, either. That probably meant Cross was sleeping now, too. So be it. The sleep of the dead, right ?
He touched the doorknob and immediately wanted to pull his fingers away The metal felt like dry ice against his skin. He held on, though. He turned the knob slowly, slowly Then he pulled it toward him.
The goddamn door was locked! For some crazy reason he'd imagined it wouldn't be. He could still get in the house through this door, but he might make some noise.
That wouldn't do.
That wasn't perfect.
He decided to go around front and check the situation there.
He knew there was a sun porch. A piano on the porch. Cross played the blues out there -- but the blues were only just beginning for the good doctor. After tonight, the rest of his life would be nothing but the blues.
Still no sound came from inside the house. He knew Cross hadn't moved his family out of
harm's way That showed more disrespect on his part. Cross wasn't afraid of him. Well, he ought to be afraid. Dammit, Cross ought to be scared shitless of him!
Danny Boudreaux reached out to try the door to the sun porch. The young killer broke out in a sweat. Boudreaux could hardly breathe. He was seeing his worst nightmare, and his nightmares were really bad.
Detective John Sampson was staring right at him! The black giant was there on the porch. Waiting for him. Sitting there, all smug as hell.
He'd been caught!Jesus. They'd set a trap for him. He'd fallen for it like a true chump.
But, hey, wait a damn minute. Wait a minute!
Something was wrong with this picture... or rather something was very right with the picture!
Danny Boudreaux blinked his eyes, then he stared real hard.
He concentrated hard. Sampson was sleeping in the big, fluffy armchair next to the piano.
His stockinged feet were propped up on a matching hassock.
His holstered gun was on a small side table, maybe twelve inches from his right hand. His holstered gun.
Twelve inches. Hmmm. Just twelve little inches, the killer thought, mulled it over.
Danny Boudreaux held on to the doorknob for dear life. He didn't move. His chest hurt as if he'd been punched.
What to do? What to do? What in hell to do?... TWELVE MEASLY INCHES...
His mind was going about a million miles a second. There were so many thoughts blasting through his brain that it almost shut down on him.
He wanted to go at Sampson. To rush in and take the big moke out. Then hurry upstairs and do the family. He wanted it so much that the thought burned in him, scared the inside of his brain, fried his thought waves.
He slid in and out of his military mind. The better part of valor and all that shit. Logic conquers all. He knew what he had to do.
Even more slowly than he'd come up the steps, he backed away from the porch door of the Cross house. He couldn't believe how close he'd come to stumbling right into the huge, menacing detective.
Maybe he could have snuck up on the big moke -- blown his brains out. Maybe not, though. The big moke was a really big moke.
Alex Cross 3 - Jack and Jill Page 25