“I’m not. In fact, I’m going to leave now. Walk right out that door I came in.”
“We’ve got an unbelievably ugly problem on our hands, Alex. Just let me talk, and you listen. Just listen,” Kyle pleaded.
I relented, but just a litte. “I’ll listen. That’s all. I’m not getting involved with this.”
Kyle made a small, ceremonial bow in my direction. “Just listen,” Kyle said. “Listen and keep an open mind, Alex. This is going to blow your mind, I guarantee it. It’s blown mine.”
Then Kyle proceeded to tell me about an agent named Thomas Pierce. Pierce was in charge of the Mr. Smith case. What was intriguing was that Smith had brutally murdered Pierce’s fiancée some years back.
“Thomas Pierce is the most thorough investigator and the most brilliant person I’ve ever met,” Kyle told me. “At first, we wouldn’t let him anywhere near the Smith case, for obvious reasons. He worked it on his own. He made progress where we hadn’t. Finally, he made it clear that if he couldn’t work on Smith, he’d leave the Bureau. He even threatened to try and solve the case on his own.”
“You put him on the case?” I asked Kyle.
“He’s very persuasive. In the end, he made in case to the Director. He sold Burns. Pierce is logical, and he’s creative. He can analyze a problem like nobody I’ve ever seen. He’s been fanatical on Mr. Smith. Works eighteen-and twenty-hour days.”
“But even Pierce can’t crack this case,” I said and pointed at the Big Board.
Kyle nodded. “We’re finally getting close, Alex. I desperately need your input. And I want you to meet Thomas Pierce. You have to meet Pierce.”
“I said I’d listen,” I told Kyle. “But I don’t have to meet anyone.”
Nearly four hours later, Kyle finally let me out of his clutches. He had blown my mind, all right — about Mr. Smith and about Thomas Pierce — but I wasn’t getting involved. I couldn’t.
I finally made my way back to SAS to check on Rosie. Chet Elliott was able to see me right away. He was still wearing his lab coat, gloves, and the gold-tinted goggles. His slow-gaited walk toward me said bad news. I didn’t want to hear it.
Then he surprised me and grinned. “We don’t see anything wrong with her. Alex. I don’t think Soneji did anything to her. He was just mind-humping you. We checked her for volatile compounds — nada. Then for nonvolatile organic compounds that would be unusual in her system — also negative. Forensic serology took some blood. You ought to leave Red with us for a couple of days, but I doubt we’ll find anything. You can leave her here, period, if you like. She’s really cool cat.”
“I know.” I nodded and breathed a sigh of relief. “Can I see her?” I asked Chet.
“Sure can. She’s been asking for you all morning. I don’t know why, but she seems to like you.”
“She knows I’m a cool cat, too.” I smiled.
He took me back to see Rosie. She was being kept in a small cage, and she looked pissed as hell. I’d brought her here, hadn’t I? I might as well have administered the lab tests myself.
“Not my fault,” I explained as best I could. “Blame that nutcase Gary Soneji, not me. Don’t look at me like that.”
She finally let me pick her up and she even nuzzled my cheek. “You’re being a very brave good girl,” I whispered. “I owe you one, and I always pay my debts.”
She purred and finally licked my cheek with her sandpaper tongue. Sweet lady, Rosie O’Grady.
Chapter 32
London, England
MR. SMITH was dressed like an anonymous street person in a ripped and soiled black anorak. The killer was walking quickly along Lower Regent Street in the direction of Piccadilly Circus.
Going to the Circus, oh boy, oh boy! he was thinking. His cynicism was as thick and heavy as the air in London.
No one seemed to notice him in the late-afternoon crowds. No one paid much attention to the poor in any of the large, “civilized” capitals. Mr. Smith had noticed that, and used it to his advantage.
He hurried along with his duffel bag until he finally reached Piccadilly, where the crowds were even denser.
His attentive eyes took in the usual traffic snarl, which could be expected at the hub of five major streets. He also saw Tower Records, McDonald’s, the Trocadero, far too many neon ads. Backpackers and camera hounds were everywhere on the street and sidewalks.
And a single alien creature — himself.
One being who didn’t fit in any way with the others.
Mr. Smith suddenly felt so alone, incredibly lonely in the middle of all these people in London town.
He set down the long, heavy duffel bag directly under the famous statue in the Circus — Eros. Still, no one was paying attention to him.
He left the bag sitting there, and he walked along Piccadilly and then onto Haymarket.
When he was a few blocks away, he called the police, as he always did. The message was simple, clear, to the point. Their time was up.
“Inspector Drew Cabot is in Piccadilly Circus. He’s in a gray duffel bag. What’s left of him. You blew it. Cheers.”
Chapter 33
SONDRA GREENBERG of Interpol spotted Thomas Pierce as he walked toward the crime scene at the center of Piccadilly Circus. Pierce stood out in a crowd, even one like this.
Thomas Pierce was tall; his long blond hair was pulled back in ponytail; and he usually wore dark glasses. He did not look like your typical FBI agent, and, in fact, Pierce was nothing like any agent Greenberg had ever met or worked with.
“What’s all the excitement about?” he asked as he got up close. “Mr. Smith out for his weekly kill. Nothing so unusual.” His habitual sarcasm was at work.
Sondra looked around at the packed crowd at the homicide scene and shook her head. There were press reporters and television news trucks everywhere.
“What’s being done by the local geniuses? The police?” said Pierce.
“They’re canvassing. Obviously, Smith has been here.”
“The bobbies want to know if anyone saw a little green man? Blood dripping from his little green teeth?”
“Exactly, Thomas. Have a look?”
Pierce smiled and it was entirely captivating. Definitely not the American FBI’s usual style. “You said that like, spot of tea?… Have a look?”
Greenberg shook her head of dark curls. She was nearly as tall as Pierce, and pretty in a tough sort of way. She always tried to be nice to Pierce. Actually, it wasn’t hard.
“I guess I’m finally becoming jaded,” she said. “I wonder why.”
They walked toward the crime scene, which was almost directly under the towering, waxed aluminum figure of Eros. One of London’s favorite landmarks, Eros was also the symbol for the Evening Standard newspaper. Although people believed the statue was a representation of erotic love, it had actually been commissioned as a symbol for Christian charity.
Thomas Pierce flashed his ID and walked up to the “body bag” that Mr. Smith had used to transport the remains of Chief Inspector Cabot.
“It’s as if he’s living a Gothic novel,” Sondra Greenberg said. She was kneeling beside Pierce. Actually, they looked like a team, even like a couple.
“Smith called you here, too — to London? Left a voice mail?” Pierce asked her.
Greenberg nodded. “What do you think of the body? The latest kill? Smith packed the bag with body parts in the most careful and concise way. Like you would if you had to get everything into a suitcase.”
Thomas Pierce frowned. “Freak, goddamn butcher.”
“Why Piccadilly? A hub of London. Why under Eros?”
“He’s leaving clues for us, obvious clues. We just don’t understand,” Thomas Pierce said and continued to shake his head.
“Right you are, Thomas. Because we don’t speak Martian.”
Chapter 34
CRIME MARCHES on and on.
Sampson and I drove to Wilmington, Delaware, the following morning. We had visited the city made famous
by the Du Ponts during the original manhunt for Gary Soneji a few years before. I had the Porsche floored the entire ride, which took a couple of hours.
I had already received some very good news that morning. We’d solved one of the case’s nagging mysteries. I had checked with the blood bank at St. Anthony’s. A pint of my blood was missing from our family’s supply. Someone had taken the trouble to break in and take my blood. Gary Soneji? Who else? He continued to show me that nothing was safe in my life.
“Soneji” was actually a pseudonym Gary had used as part of a plan to kidnap two children in Washington. The strange name had stuck in news stories, and that was the name the FBI and media used now. His real name was Gary Murphy. He had lived in Wilmington with his wife, Meredith, who was called Missy. They had one daughter, Roni.
Actually, Soneji was the name Gary had appropriated when he fantasized about his crimes as a young boy locked in the cellar of his house. He claimed to have been sexually abused by a neighbor in Princeton, a grade-school teacher named Martin Soneji. I suspected serious problems with a relative, possibly his paternal grandfather.
We arrived at the house on Central Avenue at a little past ten in the morning. The pretty street was deserted, except for a small boy with Rollerblades. He was trying them out on his front lawn. There should have been local police surveillance here, but, for some reason, there wasn’t. At least I didn’t see any sign of it yet.
“Man, this perfect little street kills me,” Sampson said. “I still keep looking for Jimmy Stewart to pop out of one of these houses.”
“Just as long as Soneji doesn’t,”I muttered.
The cars parked up and down Central Avenue were almost all American makes, which seemed quaint nowadays: Chevys, Olds, Fords, some Dodge Ram pickup trucks.
Meredith Murphy wasn’t answering her phone that morning, which didn’t surprise me.
“I feel sorry for Mrs. Murphy and especially the little girl,” I told Sampson as we pulled up in front of the house. “Missy Murphy had no idea who Gary really was.”
Sampson nodded. “I remember they seemed nice enough. Maybe too nice. Gary fooled them. Ole Gary the Fooler.”
There were lights burning in the house. A white Chevy Lumina was parked in the driveway. The street was as quiet and peaceful as I remembered it from our last visit, when the peacefulness had been short-lived.
We got out of the Porsche and headed toward the front door of the house. I touched the butt of my Glock as we walked. I couldn’t help thinking that Soneji could be waiting, setting some kind of trap for Sampson and me.
The neighborhood, the entire town, still reminded me of the 1950s. The house was well kept and looked as if it had recently been painted. That had been part of Gary’s careful facade. It was the perfect hiding place: a sweet little house on Central Avenue, with a white picket fence and a stone walkway bisecting the front lawn.
“So what do you figure is going on with Soneji?” Sampson asked as we came up to the front door. “He’s changed some, don’t you think? He’s not the careful planner I remember. More impulsive.”
It seemed that way. “Not everything’s changed. He’s still playing parts, acting. But he’s on a rampage like nothing I’ve seen before. He doesn’t seem to care if he’s caught. Yet everything he does is planned. He escapes.”
“And why is that, Dr. Freud?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out. And that’s why we’re going to Lorton Prison tomorrow. Something weird is going on, even for Gary Soneji.”
I rang the front doorbell. Sampson and I waited for Missy Murphy on the porch. We didn’t fit into the small-town-America neighborhood, but that wasn’t so unusual. We didn’t exactly fit into our own neighborhood back in D.C. either. That morning we were both wearing dark clothes and dark glasses, looking like musicians in somebody’s blues band.
“Hmm, no answer,” I muttered.
“Lights blazing inside,” Sampson said. “Somebody must be here. Maybe they just don’t want to talk to Men In Black.”
“Ms. Murphy,” I called out in a loud voice, in case someone was inside but not answering the door. “Ms. Murphy, open the door. It’s Alex Cross from Washington. We’re not leaving without talking to you.”
“Nobody home at the Bates Motel,” Sampson grunted.
He wandered around the side of the house, and I followed close behind. The lawn had been cut recently and the hedges trimmed. Everything looked so neat and clean and so harmless.
I went to the back door, the kitchen, if I remembered. I wondered if he could be hiding inside. Anything was possible with Soneji — the more twisted and unlikely the better for his ego.
Things about my last visit were flashing back. Nasty memories. It was Roni’s birthday party. She was seven. Gary Soneji had been inside the house that time, but he had managed to escape. A regular Houdini. A very smart, very creepy creep.
Soneji could be inside now. Why did I have the unsettling feeling that I was walking into a trap?
I waited on the back porch, not sure what to do next. I rang the bell. Something was definitely wrong about the case, everything about it was wrong. Soneji here in Wilmington? Why here? Why kill people in Union and Penn Stations?
“Alex!” Sampson shouted. “Alex! Over here! Come quick. Alex, now!”
I hurried across the yard with my heart in my throat. Sampson was down on all fours. He was crouched in front of a doghouse that was painted white and shingled to look like the main residence. What in hell was inside the doghouse?
As I got closer, I could see a thick black cloud of flies.
Then I heard the buzzing.
Chapter 35
“OH, GODDAMN it, Alex, look at what that madman did. Look at what he did to her!”
I wanted to avert my eyes, but I had to look. I crouched down low beside Sampson. Both of us were batting away horse-flies and other unpleasant swarming insects. White larvae were all over everything — the doghouse, the lawn. I held a handkerchief bunched over my nose and mouth, but it wasn’t enough to stifle the putrid smell. My eyes began to water.
“What the hell is wrong with him?” Sampson said. “Where does he get his insane ideas?”
Propped up inside the doghouse was the body of a golden retriever, or what remained of it. Blood was spattered everywhere on the wooden walls. The dog had been decapitated.
Firmly attached to the dog’s neck was the head of Meredith Murphy. Her head was propped perfectly, even though it was too large proportionately for the retriever’s body. The effect was beyond grotesque. It reminded me of the old Mr. Potato Head toys. Merdith Murphy’s open eyes stared out at me.
I had met Meredith Murphy only once, and that had been almost four years before. I wondered what she could have done to enrage Soneji like this. He had never talked much about his wife during our sessions. He had despised her, though. I remembered his nicknames for her: “Simple Cipher,” “The Headless Hausfrau,” “Blonde Cow.”
“What the hell is going on inside that sick, sorry son of a bitch’s head? You understand this?” Sampson muttered through his handkerchief-covered mouth.
I thought that I understood psychotic rage states, and I had seen a few of Soneji’s, but nothing had prepared me for the past few days. The current murders were extreme, and bloody. They were also clustered, happening much too frequently.
I had the grim feeling Soneji couldn’t turn off his rage, not even after a new kill. None of the murders satisfied his need anymore.
“Oh, God.” I rose to my feet. “John, his little girl,” I said. “His daughter, Roni. What has he done with her?”
The two of us searched the wooded half lot, including a copse of bent, wind-battered evergreens on the northeast side of the house. No Roni. No other bodies, or grossly severed parts, or other grisly surprises.
We looked for the girl in the two-car garage. Then in the tight, musty crawl space under the back porch. We checked the trio of metal garbage cans neatly lined alongside the garage. Nothi
ng anywhere. Where was Roni Murphy? Had he taken her with him? Had Soneji kidnapped his daughter?
I headed back toward the house, with Sampson a step or two behind me. I broke the window in the kitchen door, unlocked it, and rushed inside. I feared the worst. Another murdered child?
“Go easy, man. Take it slow in here,” Sampson whispered from behind. He knew how I got when children were involved. He also sensed this could be a trap Soneji had set. It was a perfect place for one.
“Roni!” I called out. “Roni, are you in here? Roni, can you hear me?”
I remembered her face from the last time I’d been in this house. I could have drawn her picture if I had to.
Gary had told me once that Roni was the only thing that mattered in his life, the only good thing he’d ever done. At the time, I believed him. I was probably projecting my feelings for my own kids. Maybe I was fooled into thinking that Soneji had some kind of conscience and feelings because that was what I wanted to believe.
“Roni! It’s the police. You can come out now, honey. Roni Murphy, are you in here? Roni?”
“Roni!” Sampson joined in, his deep voice just as loud as mine, maybe louder.
Sampson and I covered the downstairs, throwing open every door and closet as we went. Calling out her name. Dear God, I was praying now. It was sort of a prayer anyway. Gary — not your own little girl. You don’t have to kill her to show us how bad you are, how angry. We get the message. We understand.
I ran upstairs, taking the creaking wooden steps two at a time. Sampson was close behind me, a shadow. It usually doesn’t show on his face, but he gets as upset as I do. Neither of us is jaded yet.
I could hear it in his voice, in the shallow way he was breathing. “Roni! Are you up here? Are you hiding somewhere?” he called out.
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