More blood ribboned through Jannie’s tight, carefully braided hair. She was so proud of her braids, her beautiful hair. Oh, dear God. How could this happen? How could it be? he remembered her singing “Ja Da,” just the night before.
“You’re okay, baby,” Sampson whispered, the words catching like barbed wire in his throat. “I’m going to be back here with you in a minute. You’re okay, Jannie. I need to run upstairs. I’ll be right back, baby. Be right back, Promise you.”
“What about Damon? What about my daddy?” Jannie whimpered as she softly cried.
Her eyes were wide with fear, with a terror that made Sampson’s heart break all over again. She was just a little girl. How could anyone do this?
“Everybody’s okay, baby. They’re okay,” Sampson whispered again. His tongue was thick, his mouth as dry as Sandpaper. He could barely get out the words. Everybody’s okay, baby. He prayed that was true.
The EMS medics did their best to wave Sampson away, and they carried Jannie down to a waiting ambulance. More ambulances were still arriving in front, and more police cruisers as well.
He pushed his way into the house, which was crowded with police — both street officers and detectives. When the first alarm came, half of the precinct must have rushed over to the Cross house. He had never seen so many cops in one place.
He was late as usual — the late John Sampson, Alex liked to call him. He’d slept at a woman’s house. Cee walker’s and couldn’t be reached right away. His beeper was off, taking a night off after Alex’s party — after the big celebration.
Someone knew Alex would have his guard down, Sampson thought, being a homicide detective already. Who knew? Who did this terrible thing?
What in the name of God happened here?
Chapter 70
SAMPSON BOLTED up the narrow, twisting stairs to the second floor of the house. He wanted to shout above the blaring noise, the buzz of the incipient police investigation, to yell Alex’s name, to see him appear out of one of the bedrooms.
He’d had way too much to drink the night before and he was reeling, feeling shaky, rubbery all over. He rushed into Damon’s room and let out a deep moan. The boy was being transferred from his bed to a litter. Damon looked so much like his father, so much like Alex when he was Damon’s age.
He looked worse than Jannie. The side of his face was beaten raw. One of Damon’s eyes was closed, swollen to twice its size. Deep purple and scarlet bruises were around the eye. There were contusions and lacerations.
Gary Soneji wad dead — he’d gone down in Grand Central Station. He couldn’t have done this horrible thing at Alex’s house.
And yet, he had promised that he would!
Nothing made sense to Sampson yet. He wished he were dreaming this nightmare, but knew he wasn’t
A detective named Rakeem Powell grabbed him by the shoulder, grabbed him hard and shook him. “Damon’s all right, John. Somebody came in here, beat the living hell out of the kids. Looks like he just used fists. Hard punches. Didn’t mean to kill them, though, or maybe the cowardly fuck couldn’t finish the job. Who the hell knows at this point. Damon’s all right. John? Are you all right?”
Sampson pushed Rakeem away, threw him off impatiently. “What about Alex? Nana?”
“Nana was beaten bad. Bus driver found her on the street, took her to St. Tony’s. She’s conscious, but she’s an old woman. Skin rips when they’re old. Alex got shot in his bedroom, John. They’re up there with him.”
“Who’s in there?” Sampson groaned. He was close to tears, and he never cried. He couldn’t help himself now, couldn’t hide his feelings.
“Christ, who isn’t?” Rakeem said and shook his head. “EMS, us, FBI. Kyle Craig is here.”
Sampson broke away from Rakeem Powell and lunged toward the bedroom. Everybody wasn’t dead inside the house — but Alex had been shot. Somebody came here to get him! Who could it have been?
Sampson tried to go into Alex’s bedroom, but he was held back by men he didn’t know — probably FBI from the look of them.
Kyle Craig was in the room. He knew that much. The FBI was here already. “Tell Kyle I’m here,” he told the men at the door. “Tell Kyle Craig it’s Sampson.”
One of the FBI agents ducked inside. Kyle came out immediately, pushed his way into the hall to Sampson.
“Kyle, what the hell?” Sampson tried to talk. “Kyle, what happened?”
“He’s been shot twice. Shot and beaten,” Kyle said. “I need to talk to you, John. Listen to me, just listen to me, will you.”
Chapter 71
SAMPSON TRIED to hold back his fears, his true feelings, tried to control the chaos in his mind. Detectives and police personnel were clustered at the bedroom door in the narrow hallway. A couple of them were crying. Others were trying not to.
None of this could be happening!
Sampson turned away from the bedroom. He was afraid he was going to lose it, something he never did. Kyle hadn’t stopped talking, but he couldn’t really follow what Kyle was saying. He couldn’t concentrate on the FBI man’s words.
He inhaled deeply trying to fight off the reverberations of shock. It was shock, wasn’t it? Then not tears started to stream down his cheeks. He didn’t care if Kyle saw. The pain in his heart cut so deep, cut right to the bone. His nerve endings were already rubbed raw. Never anything like this before.
“Listen to me, John,” Kyle said, but Sampson wasn’t listening.
Sampson’s body slumped heavily against the wall. He asked Kyle how he’d gotten here so fast. Kyle had an answer, always an answer for everything. Still — nothing was really making sense to Sampson, not a word of it.
He was looking at something over the FBI man’s shoulder. Sampson couldn’t believe it. Through the window, he could see an FBI helicopter. It was landing in the vacant lot just across Fifth Street. Things were getting stranger and stranger.
A figure lurched out of the helicopter, crouched under the rotor blades, then started toward the Cross house. It almost seemed as if he were levitating above the blowing grass in the yard.
The man was tall and slender, with dark sunglasses, the kind with small round lenses. His long blond hair was bound in a ponytail. He didn’t look like FBI.
There was definitely something different about him, something radical for the Bureau. He almost looked angry as he pushed the looky-loss away. He also looked as if he were in charge, at least in charge of himself.
Now… what was this? Sampson thought. What’s going on here?
“Who the hell is that?” he asked Kyle Craig. “Who is that, Kyle? Who is that goddamn ponytailed asshole?”
Chapter 72
MY NAME is Thomas Pierce, but the press usually call me “Doc.” I was once a medical student at Harvard. I graduated, but never worked a day in a hospital. Never practiced medicine. Now I’m part of the Behavioral Science Unit of the FBI. I’m thirty-three years old. Truthfully, the only place I might look like a “Doc” is in an episode of the TV show ER.
I was rushed from the training compound at Quantico to Washington early that morning. I had been ordered to help investigate the attack on Dr. Alex Cross and members of his immediate family. To be candid, I didn’t want to be involved in the case for a number of reasons. Most important, I was already part of a difficult investigation, one that had drained nearly all of my energy — the Mr. Smith case.
Instinctively, I knew that some people would be angry with me because of the shooting of Alex Cross and my being at the crime scene so quickly. I knew with absolute certainty I would be seen as opportunistic, when that couldn’t be farther from the truth.
There was nothing I could do about it now. The Bureau wanted me there. So I put it out of my mind. I tried to anyway. I was performing my job. The same as Dr. Cross would have done for me under comparably unfortunate circumstances.
I was certain of one thing, though, from the moment I arrived. I knew I looked as shocked and outraged as anyone else standing senti
nel in the crowd gathered at the house of Fifth street. I probably looked angry to some of them. I was angry. My mind was full of chaos, fear of the unknown, fear of failure, too. I was close to the state of mind described as “toast.” Too many days, weeks, months in a row with Mr. Smith. Now this new bit of blasphemy.
I had listened to Alex Cross speak once at a profiler seminar at the University of Chicago. He had made an impression. I hoped that he would live, but the reports were all bad. Nothing I’d heard so far left room for hope.
I figured that was why they’d brought me in on the case right away. The vicious attack on Cross would mean major headings, and put intense pressure on both the Washington police and the Bureau. I was there on Fifth Street for the simplest of reasons — to relieve the pressure.
I felt an unpleasant aura, residue from the recent violence, as I approached the tidy, white-shingled Cross house. Some policemen I passed were red-eyed and a few seemed almost to be in shock. It was all very strange and disquieting.
I wondered if Alex Cross had died since I had left Quantico. I already had a sixth sense for the terrible and unexpected violence that had taken place inside the modest, peaceful-looking house. I wished that none of the others were at the crime scene, So I could absorb everything without all these distractions.
That was what I had been brought here to do. Observe the scene of unbelievable mayhem. Get a gut feeling for what might have happened in the early hours of the morning. Figure everything out quickly and efficiently.
Out of the corner of my eye, I say Kyle Craig coming out of the house. He was in a hurry, as he always is. I sighed. Now it begins, now it begins
Kyle crossed Fifth Street in a quick job. He came up to me and we shook hands. I was glad to see him. Kyle is smart and very organized, and also supportive of those he works with. He’s famous for getting things done.
“They just moved Alex,” he said, “He’s hanging on.”
“What’s the prognosis? Tell me, Kyle.” I needed to know everything. I was there to collect facts. This was the start of it.
Kyle averted his eyes. “Not good. They say he won’t live. They’re sure he won’t live.”
Chapter 73
THE PRESS CORPS intercepted Kyle and me as we headed toward the Cross house. There were already a couple dozen reporters and cameramen at the scene. The vultures effectively blocked our way, wouldn’t let us pass. They knew who Kyle was and possibly they knew about me, too.
“Why is the FBI already involved?” one of them shouted above the street noise and general commotion. Two news helicopters fluttered overhead. They loved this sort of disaster. “We hear this is connected to the Soneji case. Is that true?”
“Let me talk to them,” Kyle whispered close to my ear.
I shook my head. “They’ll want to talk to me about it anyway. They’ll find out who I am. Let’s get the silly shit over with.”
Kyle frowned, but then he nodded slowly. I tried to control my impatience as I walked toward the horde of reporters.
I waved my hands over my head and that quieted some of them. The media is extremely visual, I’ve learned the hard way, even the print journalists, the so-called wordsmiths. They all watch far too many movies. Visual signals work best with them.
“I’ll answer your questions,” I volunteered and served up a thin smile, “as best I can anyway.”
“First question, who are you?” a man with a scraggly red beard and Salvation Army store taste in clothes hollered from the front of the pack. He looked like the reclusive novelist Thomas Harris, and maybe he was.
“That’s an easy one,” I answered, “I’m Thomas Pierce. I’m with BSU.”
That quieted the reporters for a moment. Those who didn’t recognize my face knew the name. The fact that I’d been brought in on the Cross case was news in itself. Camera flashes exploded in front of me, but I was used to them by now.
“Is Alex Cross still alive?” Someone called out. I had expected that to be the first question, but there’s no way to predict with the press corps.
“Dr. Cross is alive. As you can see, I just got here, so I don’t know much. So far, we have no suspects, no theories, no leads, nothing particularly interesting to talk about,” I said.
“What about the Mr. Smith case,” a woman reporter shouted at me. She was a dark-haired anchorperson type, perky as a chipmunk. “Are you putting Mr. Smith on hold now? How can you work two big cases? What’s up, Doc?” the reporter said and smiled. She was obviously smarter and wittier than she looked.
I winced, rolled my eyes, and smiled back at her. “No suspects, no theories, no leads, nothing interesting to talk about,” I repeated. “I have to go inside. The interview’s over. Thanks for your concern. I know it’s genuine is this god-awful case. I admire Alex Cross, too.”
“Did you say admire or admired?” another reporter shouted at me from the back.
“Why did they bring you in on this, Mr. Pierce? Is Mr. Smith involved?”
I couldn’t help arching my eyebrows at the question. I felt an unpleasant itch in my brain. “I’m here because I get lucky sometimes, all right? Maybe I’ll get lucky again. I have to go into the trenches now. I promise that I’ll tell you if and when we have anything. I sincerely doubt that Mr. Smith attacked Alex Cross last night. And I said admire, present tense.”
I pulled Kyle Craig out of there with me, holding on to his arm for support as much as anything. He grinned as soon as we had our backs to the horde.
“That was pretty goddamn good,” he said. “I think you managed to confuse the hell out of the, even beyond the usual blank stares.”
“Mad dogs of the Fourth Estate,” I shrugged. “Smears of blood on their lips and cheeks. They couldn’t care less about Cross or his family. Not one question about the kids. Edison said, ‘We don’t know a millionth of one per cent about anything!’ The press doesn’t get that. They want everything in black-and-white. They mistake simplicity, and simplemindedness, for the truth.”
“Make nice with the D.C. police,” Kyle cajoled, or maybe he was giving me a friendly warning. “This is an emotional time for them. That’s Detective John Sampson on the porch. He’s a friend of Alex. Alex’s closest friend, in fact.”
“Great,” I muttered. “Just who I don’t want to see right now.”
I glanced at Detective Sampson. He looked like a bad storm about to happen. I didn’t want to be here, Didn’t want or need any of this.
Kyle patted my shoulder. “We need you on this one. Soneji promised this would happen,” he suddenly told me. “He predicted it.”
I stared at Kyle Craig. He’d delivered his stunning thunderbolt of news in his usual deadpan, understated way, sort of like Sam Shepard on Quaalude.
“Say again? What was that last bit?”
“Gary Soneji warned Alex that he’d get him, even if he died Soneji said he couldn’t be stopped. It looks like he made good on his promise. I want you to tell me how. Tell me how Soneji did it. That’s why you’re here, Thomas.”
Chapter 74
MY NERVES were already on edge. My awareness was heightened to a level I found almost painful. I couldn’t believe I was here in Washington, involved in this case. Tell me how Gary Soneji did this? Tell me how it could have happened. That’s all I had to do.
The press had one thing right. It’s fair to say that I am the FBI’s current hotshot profiler. I should be used to graphic, violent crime scenes, but I’m not. It stirs up too much white noise, too many memories of Isabella. Of Isabella and myself. Of another time and place, another life.
I have a sixth sense, which is nothing paranormal, nothing like that at all. It’s just that I can process raw information and data better than most people, better than most policemen anyway. I feel things very powerfully, and sometimes my “felt” hunches have been useful not only to the FBI but also to Interpol and Scotland Yard.
My methods differ radically from the Federal Bureau’s famed investigative process, however. In spite of what t
hey say, the Bureau’s Behavioral Science Unit believes in formalistic investigation with much less room for surprising hunches. I subscribe to a belief in the widest possible array of hunches and instincts, followed by the most exacting science.
The FBI and I are polar opposites, yet to their credit they continue to use me. Until I screw up badly, which I could do at any moment. Like right now.
I had been working hard at Quantico, reporting in on the gruesome and complex “Mr. Smith” investigation, when the news arrived about the attack on Cross. Actually, I had been in Quantico for less than a day, having just returned from England, where “Smith” was blazing his killer trail and I was in lukewarm pursuit.
Now I was in Washington, at the center of a raging storm over the Cross family attack. I looked at my watch, a TAG Heuer 6000 given to me by Isabella, the only material possession I really care about. It was a few minutes past eight when I entered the Cross front yard. I noted the time. Something about it bothered me, but I wasn’t sure what it was yet.
I stopped beside a battered and rusting EMS truck. The roof lights were flashing, the rear doors thrown open. I looked inside and saw a boy — it had to be Damon Cross.
The boy had been badly beaten. His face and arms were bloody, but he was alert and talking in a soft voice to the medics, who tried to be gentle and comforting.
“Why wouldn’t he have killed the children? Why just thrash out at them?” Kyle said. We had the same mind-set on that question.
“His heart wasn’t in it.” I said the first thing that came into my head, the first feeling I had. “He was compelled to make a symbolic gesture toward the Cross children, but no more than that.”
I turned to look at Kyle. “I don’t know, Kyle. Maybe he was frightened. Or in a hurry. Maybe he was afraid of waking Cross.” All of those thoughts invaded my mind, almost in an instant. I felt as if I had briefly met the attacker.
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