Violets Are Blue Page 15

  He partly expected Cross to spin around and look at him. That would be good, so rich, ironic, fitting. Proof of Cross’s instincts, and that he was a worthy adversary.

  He ducked into some lurks and he circled. He was only a few yards away from Cross now. He could close the distance in an instant.

  Cross came to a stop at the old Lafayette Cemetery, the so-called City of the Dead. Inside the gates were lavish aboveground vaults, multi-burial graves.

  The Mastermind stopped as well. He savored this, second by second.

  A New Orleans Police Department sign was posted on the gates: PATROLLED.

  The Mastermind doubted that was true, though. And it didn’t really matter, did it? He could eat the NOPD for lunch.

  Cross looked around, but he didn’t see the Mastermind in the shadows. Should he jump him now? Would they fight hand to hand? It didn’t matter—he knew he would win. He watched Alex Cross breathe. His last breaths on earth? What a thought.

  Cross turned away from the cemetery and started down another side street. He was heading back to the surveillance car, to Inspector Hughes.

  The Mastermind started forward, but then he turned away. This wasn’t the night that Cross would die. He had taken mercy, spared him.

  The reason: It was too dark on this street. He wouldn’t be able to see Cross’s eyes when he died.

  Chapter 66

  SOMETHING SURPRISING happened the next morning; it was an event I don’t think any of us was expecting. I wasn’t, and it threw me for a complete loop. We had gathered at the FBI’s New Orleans office for the morning briefing. There were about thirty of us in a large and sterile room that looked out on the muddy brown Mississippi River.

  At nine o’clock, Kyle addressed the surveillance team that had been on the watch during the previous twenty-four hours. He finished with them and went on to the day’s assignments. He handed them out and was very specific. It was a typical Craig performance: clear, to the point, efficient, never a mistake or the hint of one.

  When he was finished, or thought that he was, a hand shot into the air. “Excuse me, Mr. Craig, you didn’t mention me. What am I supposed to do today?”

  It was Jamilla Hughes and she didn’t sound happy. Kyle was already collecting his notes, shuffling a few papers into his thick black briefcase. He barely glanced up as he said, “That’s up to Dr. Cross, Inspector Hughes. Please see him.”

  The remark and its delivery were unnecessarily curt, even for Kyle. I was taken aback by his rudeness, or at least the lack of any tact.

  “This is complete bullshit!” Jamilla rose from her seat. “It’s unacceptable, Mr. Craig. Especially that irritating, blasé tone of yours.”

  The FBI agents in the room looked at her. Usually, no one dared confront Kyle on anything. After all, he was rumored to be in line for the director’s job someday. Moreover, many of them felt he deserved it. He was certainly smarter than anybody else in the Bureau. He also worked harder than anyone I knew.

  “Look, this is no reflection on Detective Cross,” Jamilla went on, “but my work in California helped open this case up. I don’t want anybody’s pat on the back, no condescending applause, thank you, but I came all the way here and I can contribute. So use me, and respect me. By the way, I couldn’t help noticing there’s only one other woman on this entire task force. Don’t bother to make excuses,” she said, and waved off anything Kyle might have been ready to say in his defense.

  Kyle kept his cool. “Like the supposed vampires, Inspector Hughes, gender doesn’t matter to me. I do applaud your efforts during the early stages of this case. But as I said, you can see Dr. Cross about your assignment. Or, you can go back home right now, if you like. Thank you, everyone,” he said as he saluted the team. “Happy hunting. Hopefully, today will be our day.”

  I was surprised, mostly by Kyle’s response, but also by Jamilla’s quick anger. I was uneasy when she came up to me after the meeting.

  “He got me so mad. Grrrr,” she said, and shook her head and made a face. “I have a bad temper sometimes, but he was wrong. There’s something fucked up about that man. I have a bad feeling about him. Why would he have it in for me? Because I’m working with you? So what do we do today, Dr. Cross? I’m not leaving because he’s a goddamn idiot.”

  “He was wrong. I’m sorry about what happened, Jamilla. Let’s talk about what we do next.”

  “Don’t be condescending,” she said.

  “I’m not. Why don’t you get off the soapbox, though.”

  She still wasn’t over her bad scene with Kyle. “He doesn’t like women,” she said. “Trust me on that. He also practices the three C’s that some men are so fond of: compete, criticize, control.”

  “So tell me what you really think about Kyle. And men in general.”

  Jamilla finally managed a smile. “I think, and I’m being pretty objective and measured about this, that he’s a total control freak and a complete asshole. Your so-called friend. As for men, it varies with the individual.”

  Chapter 67

  THE REAL vampires had arrived and they believed they were invincible. William and Michael knew that the exotic city of New Orleans belonged to them from the instant they crossed the bridge. They were a couple of young princes with their long blond ponytails, black shirts and trousers, shining leather boots. Their mission ended here if all went well, and it would.

  William drove the Red Cross van through the French Quarter—they were on the lookout for prey. The van went slowly back and forth on Burgundy, Dauphine, Bourbon, Royal, Chartres, all of the more famous streets. The sounds of Readysexgo blared from the tape deck. “Supernatural Blonde,” then “Radio Tokyo.”

  The brothers finally got out and strolled along Riverwalk. They turned into the Riverwalk Marketplace, and it made William physically ill: Banana Republic, Eddie Bauer, the Limited, Sharper Image, the Gap—mediocrity, tripe, utter stupidity everywhere he looked. “What do you want to do?” William turned to Michael. “Look at all this commercial crap in the middle of this beautiful city.”

  “Let’s take somebody out here in their putrid shopping mall. Maybe we should feed in a changing room at the Banana Republic. I love that idea.”

  “No!” William said. He grabbed hold of Michael’s arm. “We’ve been working too hard for this. I think we need a distraction.”

  They couldn’t take any more prey. Not now. Not so close to where Daniel and Charles had their domain. A distraction was definitely needed. So William drove out of New Orleans along the Bonnet Carre Spillway. He continued on Interstate 10 into the real Louisiana.

  William found what he wanted about an hour outside New Orleans. The rock climb wasn’t much, but at least the face was steep. You had to concentrate; if you didn’t, you fell, and you were dead.

  The brothers chose to free solo, the most extreme version of the sport. Also the most dangerous by far. In free solo, the climbers used no ropes or any other kind of backup protection.

  “We are a couple of hardmen!” Michael laughed and shouted once they were halfway up the two-hundred-foot climb. Hardmen were the toughest climbers of all. They were the best, and it fit the brothers’ self-image.

  “Yes, we are!” William shouted back to his brother. “There are old climbers and there are bold climbers.”

  “But there are no old, bold climbers!” Michael roared with laughter.

  The climb turned out to be more challenging than it had looked. It required lots of different skills. They had to do vertical crack climbing, then suddenly they were face climbing, pressing tight against the rock, using very small handholds.

  “We’re in the climbing groove now!” Michael screamed at the top of his lungs. He had forgotten about hunting for prey, forgotten his hunger. There was nothing but the climb now. Nothing but staying alive, survival of the fittest.

  Suddenly, they had to commit—they were at a point in the climb where, once they made the next couple of moves, they couldn’t go back the way they had come. There was no
thing to do but go straight up. Or quit right now.

  “What do you think, little brother? You make a plan for us. You decide. What does your instinct tell you?”

  Michael laughed so hard he had to grip the rock face with both hands. He looked down—and what he saw was certain death if he fell. “Don’t even think about quitting. We won’t fall, brother. Not ever. We’re never going to die!”

  They climbed to the top, and from there they could see New Orleans. It was their city now.

  “We’re immortal! We’ll never die!” the brothers shouted into the wind.

  Chapter 68

  I STARED out at the great, sweeping live oaks. Then I noticed the plump magnolias and sloppy, fanning banana trees of the Garden District. There was nothing else for me to do. The surveillance continued. Jamilla was starting to repeat herself. We both were, and that became a running gag between us. Sections of the day’s Times-Picayune were all over the backseat of the car. We had read it cover to cover.

  “There’s no physical evidence tying Daniel or Charles to a single murder. Not in any of the cities, Alex. Everything we have on them is circumstantial or theoretical, hypothetical bullshit. Does that make any sense to you? It doesn’t to me.” She was probably talking just to talk, but she was making sense. “It just doesn’t add up. They can’t be that good. No one is.”

  We were parked four blocks north of the house on LaSalle. The domain. We could get there in seconds if anything developed, but so far nothing had. That was the problem. Daniel and Charles rarely left their two-hundred-year-old mansion, and when they did, it was only to go shopping or to a fancy restaurant downtown. Not surprisingly, they had good taste.

  I tried to answer Jamilla’s question. “It makes some sense to me that we can’t link them to the early murders. You know as well as I do—once a murder case gets old, it’s almost impossible to find witnesses or compelling evidence. I don’t understand why we haven’t found anything on the recent murders, though.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking too. We have witnesses in Las Vegas and in Charleston, but no one recognizes photos of Daniel or Charles. Why not? What are we missing?”

  “Maybe they don’t commit the actual murders themselves,” I said. “Maybe they used to, but not anymore.”

  “Don’t they want to feast on the kills? Drink the blood? What other purpose do the murders serve? Are they symbolic? Is this part of some arcane mythology? Are they creating a new mythology? Jesus, Alex, what the hell are these two monsters doing?”

  I didn’t have answers to her questions or my own. No one did, unfortunately. So we sat in the car, tried to keep cool in the heat, and waited for Daniel and Charles to make their next move.

  If they were so careful and so good, then why did we know about them, why were we here?

  Chapter 69

  WILLIAM FOUND this laughable. God, it was good! Priceless. He was watching the police as they in turn watched the house of horrors owned by Daniel and Charles. It was too much. The young prince walked down LaSalle, puffing on a cigarette, haughty, confident, unafraid of anyone, superior in every way he could imagine. Michael was sleeping, so he had decided to take a stroll.

  This was rich. Maybe he would see one of the local celebrities who lived in the Garden District. Like the fabulous Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails, or some asshole from MTV’s Real World house in the Big Easy.

  There were two nondescript Lincolns parked on the street. He wondered if the magicians had noticed the cars. He smiled, shook his head. He wondered what the hell Daniel and Charles were thinking. They would be careful, of course. They had been committing murders for a long time, years and years. So now what? Something had to give.

  He continued to the end of the block, then walked south. Most of the houses here had screened-in porches crawling with vines. Along the way, he saw a fine physical specimen—a male, twenty-one or so, shirt off, pecs gleaming with sweat. That picked up his spirits. He was hosing down a silver BMW convertible, the James Bond car.

  His chiseled body, the spurting water hose, and the shiny car turned William on like a light switch. But he controlled himself and walked on.

  And then, just down the street, he saw a young girl. She was maybe fourteen, sitting on her front porch, gently stroking a Persian cat. She was pretty, even sultry.

  The girl had long brown hair that flowed down to her small breasts. A diaphanous snakeskin-print top over a belly-length tank top. Tight, dark blue jeans, hip hugging and flared just right. Stud and hoop earrings, both gold and silver. Toe rings. Bracelets of multiple colors on one slender arm. A typical teenager—except that she was so stunning. A complete turn-on. And arrogant, just like he was.

  William stopped and called out to her. “Your cat is beautiful,” he said, and smiled wickedly.

  She looked up, and he saw that she had the same piercing green eyes as the Persian. The girl ran her eyes all over him. He could actually feel her gaze against his skin. He knew that she wanted him. Men and women always did.

  “Why do you hold back?” he asked, and continued to smile. “If you want something, then you should take it. Always. That’s your lesson for the day, free of charge.”

  “Oh, and you’re a teacher?” she called from the porch. “You don’t look like any teacher I’ve ever had.”

  “A teacher, but also a student.”

  He had desire for this girl. Not only was she a beautiful physical specimen, she had good instincts. She was sexual and knowing for her age. She used her gifts, unlike most young people, who wasted their talent and potential. She wouldn’t speak again, wouldn’t even smile, but she didn’t look away either.

  William loved her confidence, the way her bright green eyes tried to mock him but couldn’t quite do it. The way she thrust her small breasts at him, her only weapons. He wanted to go up on the porch and take the beautiful girl right there. Bite her, drink her. Spill her blood all over the whitewashed wooden planks.

  No. Not now, not yet, not here. God, he hated this, hated not being himself. He wanted to exercise his power, to use his gifts.

  Finally, William began to walk away. It took all his will, all his power, to leave this beautiful prize sitting so invitingly on the porch.

  It was then that the girl finally spoke again. “Why do you hold back?” she called, and laughed pitilessly.

  William smiled, and then he turned around.

  He walked back toward the girl.

  “You’re very lucky,” he said. “You’ve been chosen.”

  Chapter 70

  SOMETHING HAD to break for us. At seven in the morning, I sat alone at a table outside the Café Du Monde across from Jackson Square. I ate sugar-dusted beignets and sipped chickory-laced coffee. I stared off in the direction of the spires of St. Louis Cathedral and listened to the bleating horns of riverboats coming down the Mississippi.

  It should have been a nice time in the morning, except that I was frustrated and angry and filled with energy that I didn’t know what to do with.

  I had seen a lot of bad cases, but this was possibly the most difficult to comprehend. The gruesome murders had been going on for more than eleven years, but the pattern was still unclear and so was the motivation of the killers.

  As soon as I reached the FBI offices, I got the disturbing news that a fifteen-year-old girl was missing and that she lived less than six blocks from the magicians. It was possible that she was a runaway, but it didn’t seem likely to me. Still, she had been gone less than twenty-four hours.

  There was a briefing scheduled, and I went upstairs to find out more, and also why I hadn’t been alerted earlier. When I entered the session that morning, I sensed the frustration everywhere I looked. It was hard to imagine a worse result: We suspected that we had tracked down the murderers, but there was nothing we could do about it. And now, possibly, they had murdered another victim right under our noses.

  I sat down beside Jamilla. Both of us had containers of hot coffee plus the morning edition of the Times-Picayune
. There was nothing about the missing girl. Apparently the New Orleans police had sat on the disappearance until early that morning.

  Kyle was as angry as I’d ever seen him. He just wasn’t himself. He was storming about the front of the room, his right hand nervously combing back through his dark hair. I didn’t blame him—everything about the investigation depended on cooperation between the local police and the FBI. The NOPD had broken that trust, broken it badly.

  “For once, I sympathize with Mr. Craig,” Jamilla said. “The locals were way out of line.”

  “We could have been working on the girl’s disappearance for hours,” I agreed. “What a mess, and it’s getting worse.”

  “Maybe that’s our opportunity. I wonder if we could get inside the house during the party tonight. What do you think? I’d love to give it a try,” she whispered. “Everybody who comes to the so-called fetish ball will be in costume, right? Presumably? Somebody needs to get inside that house. We need to do something.”

  Kyle stared directly at Jamilla and me. He raised his voice. “Can we have one meeting?”

  “He means can he have his meeting,” she whispered. I wondered why she had taken such a dislike to Kyle. He was acting strange, though; the pressure of the case was getting to him. Something had him on edge.

  “Tell him what you think,” I said. “He’ll listen. Especially now that the girl is missing.”

  “I doubt it. But what can he do—fire me?”

  She swiveled around to face Kyle. “I think we could probably get inside the house tonight during the party. And if we don’t, what do we lose? The missing girl might be in there.”

  Kyle hesitated, but then he said, “Do it. Let’s see what’s in the house.”

  Chapter 71

  IT COULD only happen like this in New Orleans. I spent part of the afternoon securing a couple of printed invitations, and then Jamilla and I prepared our costumes for that night. The ball began at midnight, but we’d heard that most of the crowd wouldn’t start to arrive until closer to two.