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  “Very wise. It’s the only way we can be together.”

  I laughed. “Well, I want us to be together. Right now, actually.”

  “You do, do you?”

  “I see you’re into torture.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Then Bree finally reached across my body, and with two quick pulls of the rope, she freed my hands. I would have been impressed by her expertise with knots, but my mind was on other things at that moment. I rolled Bree over and kissed her, and then I was inside her. Deep, very deep. “Slow,” she whispered. “Make this last.” It occurred to me only later that that was exactly what Bree had been going for all along. Make this last.

  Talk about a win-win situation. Talk about a night off from all the craziness.

  Maybe we were even ready for whatever might come next. And maybe we weren’t even close. But right now, none of that mattered.

  “Room has wireless high-speed access. All the amenities you could hope for. Should we check in on the world?” Bree asked after our first time.

  “We definitely . . . shouldn’t . . . check in on anything.”

  Chapter 78

  EARLY THE FOLLOWING MORNING, the great Kyle Craig entered through the gates of the University of Chicago. He was dressed as he thought a college professor might reasonably outfit himself for class these days: khaki trousers and sneakers, a blue denim work shirt, a gray knit vest, a knit tie. Craig found the getup satisfying in a comical sort of way. The very idea of his teaching the nation’s youth. My God! At least he was amusing himself, if no one else.

  He had already studied the school’s Web site, so he went directly to the large library, the Regenstein. He checked a few reference files, and within minutes, he was in a reading room attached to the graduate school—leaving another message for DCAK. This time he decided to be more circumspect, hiding the message in a photograph. He’d learned about the process of steganography while he was in jail, planning for his future.

  We meet again, my good friend. I hope to be in your neck of the woods very soon. It will be a pleasant walk down memory lane for me. Plus the unique chance to experience your work from a slightly closer vantage point. You are making history, after all. We both are. Everything is working so beautifully. If you would like to meet in person, I will be at X marks the spot, midnight, the second Saturday from now.

  If you aren’t there, I will understand completely. You are a busy bee, after all. Such a gifted artist too. I stand in awe of your work and look forward to your next play.

  Kyle Craig stopped typing, reread what he’d written, and then pressed “send.” He whispered to himself, “If he can’t figure out X marks the spot, then he doesn’t deserve to meet me face-to-face.”

  Chapter 79

  KYLE CHANGED CABS three times on his way back to his hotel, which was just off Michigan Avenue. He was excited about so many things now, even being free in Chicago, which had always been a favorite city of his, so much cleaner and more upbeat than New York or Los Angeles, or even Washington.

  Freedom is a hell of a concept, he thought as he rode along in the third and final cab on busy Michigan Avenue. Especially after time spent in that seven-by-twelve hole inside ADX Florence. Life at the prison was cruel and unusual punishment, like being suffocated to death, very slowly and painfully, over several years. ADX Florence literally crushed its prisoners to death, as if the jail were a living thing.

  But now—he was out.

  He had important things to do, not the least of which was carrying out a most exciting plan for revenge against everyone who had hurt him in the past. Everyone! It had usually been about revenge for him, the idea of hurting—sometimes torturing—people who offended him, and that certainly hadn’t changed. This plan—well, it could take years to complete. It was his masterpiece, after all.

  He thought about DCAK for a moment. Actually, Kyle had first come across the killer while still with the FBI. The killer had been living and working on the West Coast—an actor—doing small roles and an occasional murder. Kyle had linked murders in Sacramento, Seattle, and LA to the actor. He’d made contact—twice—by e-mail. But then Kyle had been caught himself, something he had never expected. Ironically, it was while he was in jail that he discovered he had so many fans . . . and imitators. It made sense, actually. Once he was in jail, they knew where to contact the Mastermind, and a few clever ones figured out how to do it.

  But enough ancient history for the moment. That was such a bore. Just look at the zombies out there on the Midway! he thought as he cruised along in the speeding cab. He wished he could kill a few of them too, but alas, he was on a schedule, though one of his own making.

  No one paid the least bit of attention to him back at the hotel. Imagine that. No respect, no disrespect—which was a good thing. Wasn’t it? He had cut his hair down to the scalp and usually wore one of the half-dozen prosthetic masks he kept in his suitcase.

  He got to the room—thinking about DCAK and what he was planning for him—slid in the key card, and heard someone inside.

  What was this? A visitor? He’d left the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door.

  He took out his gun, a small Beretta that was easy to conceal under his loose-fitting clothes.

  Yes, somebody was definitely in there. Interesting development. Who was it? Alex Cross? No, that wasn’t even a remote possibility. DCAK? Here in Chicago? He doubted it. Chicago police? That would be more likely.

  He turned the corner—and saw a housekeeper, a young black woman. Listening to her iPod. Oblivious to the world, and who could blame her? Not bad-looking, actually. Chesty, long skinny legs, working barefoot on the rug. Smooth skin. Hair in a tight ponytail. Lord, he had missed this—longed for it every day in jail, several times a day.

  “I’m sor-ry,” the girl drawled when she saw him standing there, the gun tucked behind his back now. No need to frighten the poor thing half to death.

  “Oh, it’s not a problem. Just finish up what you’re doing,” he said, slipping the gun back into the holster under his vest.

  He took out his ice pick instead. Fingered it, like Queeg with those metal balls.

  “You’re too pretty to be working here like this, cleaning rooms. I’m sorry if that’s insulting. I’ve forgotten my manners lately.”

  The girl stammered without looking at him. “I’ll c-come back,” she said.

  “No,” Kyle said. “Actually, you won’t. There is no afterlife.” Then, “In my honor,” he whispered as he struck the maid’s chest, once, twice—for symmetry, for art’s sake, for the joy of it. And he thought, She reminds me of one of Alex Cross’s girlfriends. And he stabbed her again.

  He even left another little clue before he abandoned the room—a bobble-head figure of the great outlaw Jesse James.

  Jesse James! Would anybody get that one?

  Anybody in their right mind?

  Chapter 80

  NANA SWEARS that good, positive things happen in twos and threes, though I can’t remember that actually happening to me. Lately, even one positive thing in a row was hard to come by.

  In the morning, I spoke with Tess Olsen’s editor at a New York publishing house, then to the author’s personal assistant in Maryland, and I was able to get a copy of the proposal for the book that Olsen had planned to write about Kyle Craig. A few lines from the thirty-page outline and pitch were particularly interesting to me.

  Olsen had written:

  It is important that I gain Kyle Craig’s trust and confidence so that he believes I will write a flattering book detailing his cunning and his brilliance.

  Based on our meetings at ADX Florence, I am fairly certain I can do this. Kyle Craig likes me. I can tell that already. I know the criminal mind as well as anyone out there, don’t I?

  In my opinion, Kyle Craig believes that he will get out of ADX Florence someday. He is making plans for the future.

  He even went so far as to tell me that he is innocent. Is that possible?

  Clearly, Kyle had fooled
someone else . . . and then what? Had he arranged her murder? Or had the killer, or killers, in Washington murdered Tess Olsen as some kind of homage to Craig? Was that a possibility?

  Either way, there had to be a connection, and it was one of the few real leads we had toward the capture of DCAK. Or Kyle Craig, for that matter.

  The second positive thing happened while I was going over everything about the case again. Suddenly I figured out a piece of the puzzle, and it tied into my earlier findings about Tess Olsen.

  The Hallmark card—I finally got it! It hit me that Hallmark’s headquarters were in Kansas City—KC.

  KC—Kyle Craig.

  A couple of other clues quickly became clear.

  A figurine of The Scout had been left at the apartment of a murdered woman in Iowa City. Kyle Craig was a suspect in the homicide. The Scout was a famous statue located in Kansas City.

  A bottle of Arthur Bryant’s barbecue sauce had been left out in his mother’s kitchen. Arthur Bryant’s was a famous restaurant in KC.

  We were finally making some breakthroughs, even if they were clues the killers wanted us to find.

  Why was that? Were we proving ourselves worthy? Was I proving myself worthy of this manhunt?

  Was I?

  Chapter 81

  WE FOUND OUT about DCAK’s next move less than three days later. After I saw my slate of morning patients—including the vet Anthony Demao, who was back and who had had a minor meltdown during our session to prove it—I connected with Bree at the Daly Building. My own desk at the Daly was counterproductively stuffed with DCAK case materials, most of them attached to dead leads, unfortunately. Our plan that day was to weed through and archive everything that needed to come off the radar so we could refocus our efforts where they might do some good.

  It never happened.

  The phone on my desk rang around two thirty. I picked up and heard a voice that I recognized.

  “Detective Cross? It’s Jeanne Phillips at the Post. I’m wondering if you’ve seen the latest e-mail yet and if you’d care to comment on it?”

  “Don’t know what e-mail you mean, Jeanne,” I said. Jeanne had funneled some pretty good information my way in the past, which was the reason I was willing to stay on the line with her.

  “Trust me on this, you want to know. How about if I hold on while you check your in-box?”

  Suddenly, I realized that whatever this was, I didn’t want to be on the phone with a reporter from the Washington Post when I saw it.

  “I’ll call you back,” I said.

  What I found moments later was another stunner. The message was from DCAK and had been sent to my e-mail, Bree’s, and what looked like just about every news desk, TV channel, and radio station in the DC metro area. He had authenticated it in his usual way, with an image of his latest calling card scanned right into the message. The image was of the postal ID from the Smithsonian, which we’d kept out of the press like the others before it.

  The message was written in his familiar taunting style.

  Detectives:

  Does anyone besides me think you aren’t giving this case the attention it deserves? By my count, it’s DCAK six, cops zero. That’s right, I said six. Or maybe five and a half—since this one isn’t quite dead yet.

  I’ve gone and found that piece of shit copycat, no thanks to any of you. It wasn’t hard—just took a little thought. More than you’ve given it, anyway; more than you’re capable of, I suspect.

  But here’s what I’m going to do for you. In one hour, you’ll receive another message—with an address. That’s where you’ll find your copycat, and if you’re lucky, he’ll still be alive. I haven’t decided yet. My call, of course. Dead or alive? Dead or alive? We’ll have to see.

  Now do you understand why the public is so scared of me? I’m better at this than you are, and they know it. That’s your problem. It will always be your problem. Time and time again. For years to come, since I plan to be at this for a long while. In the meantime, you can do what you do best. Sit on your asses and wait to see what I do next.

  Until then . . .

  Keep on living, fuckers.

  Chapter 82

  BREE SAW TO IT that just about every available cruiser in the entire city was put on standby. I called Sampson myself and told him to keep his line open. I tried Kitz to see if we could preemptively trace an incoming e-mail, but I got his voice mail—and the same thing when I tried his assistant. I fielded calls from Superintendent Davies, the chief’s office, the mayor’s office, and then Nana herself. DCAK’s story was already out there on the airwaves. Of course it was. He’d put it there to stoke all the fires that he possibly could.

  Word from downstairs was that we had a growing press army waiting for us on the street too. It didn’t feel like anything was going our way, probably because it wasn’t, and that wasn’t likely to change anytime soon, from what I could tell.

  Finally Bree and I stopped taking calls altogether. We holed up in the office, waiting, just like the bastard wanted us to. We put our energy into examining the latest e-mail, scanning for a hidden meaning, some indication of his state of mind, anything we might use—anything to keep us from spinning our wheels in another wrong direction.

  The MO was basically the same. His online stuff was just another kind of disguise—electronic—but it all came from the same narcissistic mind. This was a deeply disturbed person, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t enjoying himself. He was organized and clever, and he knew it.

  Three thirty came and went.

  Then four o’clock.

  Then five.

  He was obviously toying with us, saying in no uncertain terms, I’m in control here. Bree and I eventually began to wonder if another e-mail was coming at all.

  Then at five thirty, it arrived.

  The message we’d been waiting for was all of six words. He was efficient, wasn’t he?

  19th SE and Independence Ave. Now.

  Chapter 83

  MY STOMACH HAD NEVER been tied in so many knots, not that I could remember, anyway. DCAK was bad enough, but now I was sure Kyle Craig had been added to the mix, and I couldn’t figure out why, or where this freight train could be headed. Nowhere I wanted to go.

  The drive over to Nineteenth and Independence was a paparazzi nightmare of the sort that had probably killed Princess Diana and Dodi Al Fayed in a dark, scary tunnel in Paris. We cut diagonally through the city toward Southeast, sirens wailing and an unbelievable entourage following us the whole way. Hell, we were like the pied pipers of DC, with trailing rats that wanted nothing more than to take our picture and run it in the National Enquirer. If they were gambling we wouldn’t stop to issue traffic violations right now, they had that right.

  Six MPD units were already at the scene when we got there, and they had closed off the main intersections to foot and vehicle traffic.

  But what exactly was this scene? What had happened here?

  No obvious clues. The neighborhood was a mix of residential and industrial. Two lines of newly refurbished row houses extended along both Nineteenth and Independence from the northwest corner. I remembered that I’d actually read about this project in the paper, all primary colors and funky angles. Just the extra touch of visual drama our killer would go for. The bastard was making a movie, wasn’t he? Shooting it all in his head.

  The new St. Coletta School was across the street in one direction, and the Armory Building in the other. It was a huge area to cover—a giant haystack, with somebody’s body for a needle. Or, God willing, a living victim this time. Was that a possibility? Maybe DCAK wanted a change of pace.

  More squad cars arrived, over a dozen of them, and then I stopped counting. I wondered when Kitz and his people would get here. We needed the FBI techies on this, all the help we could possibly get.

  First thing, we made the residential buildings our priority, working in teams of two and knocking on every door up and down the street. Everything else had to wait, including any attempt at cr
owd control. The scene was already too crazy—camera crews matched us step for step, shooting from every angle.

  We hadn’t been searching long when one of the uniformed officers called out, “Detectives. Something over here. Detectives!”

  Bree and I ran to see what was up. The house in question was bright yellow, with large single-pane windows facing out onto Nineteenth Street. The front door was ajar and had been heavily gouged around the doorknob and faceplate. It looked like somebody had recently broken in.

  “Good enough for me,” Bree said. “Sufficient evidence of a break-in. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 84

  WE WENT IN CAREFULLY, silently, along with one of the neighborhood officers, a scared kid named DiLallo. The other uniforms stayed outside to keep back any particularly reckless reporters, or even a daring looky-loo on the scene.

  Inside, the house was perfectly still. The air was stale and thick with heat—no open windows, no air-conditioning. The decor was modern, like the exterior. I saw an Eames-lounger knockoff in the living room to my left, a red lacquered table, mesh chairs in the dining room beyond. Nothing to go on yet, but I sensed something had happened here.

  Bree ticked her head to the left—she’d take the living room—and motioned for the patrol officer to go straight back, probably to the kitchen.

  I took the stairs.

  They were solid floating slabs of wood with an iron railing that made no sound as I climbed. The place was too quiet—Dead-body quiet, I couldn’t help thinking, and I dreaded what we might find here.

  Were we the audience this time? Was that the big, new twist here? Had this all been staged for us?

  A domed skylight overhead let in plenty of sunshine, and I could feel the sweat dripping down my back.

  At the top, the stairs doubled around to an open hallway that overlooked the first floor. A door was closed on the left, with an open one, closer to me, showing off an empty bathroom. It looked empty from this angle, anyway.