Double Cross Page 6

  “We’ve got a unifying signature, Bree. Public executions in front of an audience. Maybe we ought to call him the Audience Killer. That’s the heart of it for him.”

  “Audience Killer? Is that in the DSM-IV?” Sampson’s smile was grim. He coped through humor. A lot of homicide cops did, myself included.

  Bree ran a hand over the top of her head. “I’m with you all the way, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Richter. Thor the Bore isn’t going to let me rule out any possibilities without further cause.”

  “What about the ones that make perfect sense to rule out?” I asked.

  This was the kind of bureaucratic logjam I associated with my time at the FBI, not Metro. Things sure had changed since I’d been away. Or maybe it was just me who had changed.

  I sighed out loud, looked around the stage. “What else do we have?”

  Chapter 29

  I TOOK MY WORK HOME that terrible night, and this wasn’t even my case. Yet.

  It was two in the morning, and I already had the makings of a revised profile spread out on the kitchen table in front of me. I couldn’t get the Audience Killer, as we now thought of him, out of my head. Or Kyle Craig, for that matter. What the hell did he want with me? Why was he making contact now?

  When the light under Nana’s door came on, I flipped the pages over so she wouldn’t see them. As if a bunch of upside-down paper wouldn’t look suspicious to her, or could fool the old night owl in the slightest.

  “You hungry?” was the first thing she said. It had been a long time since she’d asked what I was doing up in the middle of the night.

  A few minutes later, she had a couple of grilled apple-and-cheddar sandwiches going on the stove—half for her and one and a half for me. I cracked a beer and poured a small amount into a juice glass for her.

  “What’s on those pages there that you don’t want me to see?” she asked, her back still to me. “Could it be your last will and testament?”

  “That supposed to be funny?”

  “Not at all, sonnyboy, not funny in the least. Just sad, very sad.”

  She put down our plates and sat across from me at the kitchen table. Just like it’d been for years.

  “I don’t think you’re going to like what I have to say,” I told her.

  “And that’s stopped you when?”

  “I’ve been in private practice for a while. It’s been good for me—the change. I like it most days.”

  Nana bowed her head and clucked a couple of times. “Oh, Alex. I’m not going to like this one bit. Maybe I should go back to my room and sleep.”

  “But,” I said, then corrected myself. “And something’s missing for me.”

  “Mm-hm. I’ll bet. Getting shot at, and missed. Getting shot at, and hit.”

  I didn’t know what she could have done to make this easier, but she sure wasn’t trying.

  “I left law enforcement for some good reasons.”

  “Yes, you did, Alex. They’re all sleeping upstairs.”

  “Nana, I’ve never been someone who works for a paycheck. My work, for better or worse, is part of me. And part of me is missing lately. That’s just the way it is.”

  “I can’t say I haven’t noticed. But I’ll tell you something else. There’s a lot of other things missing around here these days. Things like phone calls in the middle of the night. Things like wondering when you’ll be home again—if you’ll be home again.”

  We went back and forth like that for a while. The thing that surprised me was that the longer it went on, the stronger I felt about what I needed to do.

  Finally I pushed back from the table and wiped my hands on a paper napkin.

  “You know what, Nana? I love you dearly. I’ve tried keeping the peace. I’ve tried doing things your way, and whether or not it shows, it’s not working. I’m going to live my life the way I have to.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, what does that even mean?” she asked as she threw her hands into the air.

  I stood up. My heart was racing. “Whatever it means, I’ll let you know when it’s done. I’m sorry, but that’s as much as I can give you right now. Good night.” I gathered the papers, turned, and walked away from her.

  Her laughter stopped me. It was just a soft chortle at first—the kind of feather that can knock you over, though. I turned back again, and something in my expression sent her into a full cackling belly laugh.

  “What?” I finally had to ask.

  Nana gained control of herself, mostly, and slapped both hands down on the kitchen table. “Well, look who’s back from the dead! Alex Cross.”

  Chapter 30

  IT WAS BUSINESS AS USUAL the next day, or maybe I should say business as unusual. Sampson and I were canvassing the neighborhood around the Kennedy Center that afternoon when Bree called.

  “You will not be sorry if you drop whatever you’re doing and come back over here.” She hung up without a hello or good-bye.

  “What happened?” Sampson must have seen the confusion on my face.

  “Something. That’s all I know. Let’s go.”

  We found Bree parked at a computer terminal when we got to the office.

  “Please tell me we didn’t come back here to play solitaire,” Sampson said.

  “Guess who’s got a blog?” Bree said. “I actually got a call from a reporter on this. She didn’t even know it was the first time I was hearing about it.”

  She sat back to make room as we crowded in.

  The home page she showed us was both simple and impressive. It had an all-black background with white writing. In the upper-left corner, there was an animated graphic of a television set with what looked like live static on the screen. White block letters that read MY REALITY faded up, then out, then back again, like credits on a TV show. Underneath that, there were menu options for “Channel One,” “Channel Two,” down through “Channel Eight.”

  Weblog entries took up the bulk of the page, with the most recent one on top. It was marked for twelve thirty a.m., only fourteen hours prior. The title on it was simply Thanks.

  “Death is more universal than life; everyone dies but not everyone lives.”—A. Sachs

  Thanks for all the comments. I really like hearing from people who appreciate what I do. I read the negative ones too—just don’t like them as much (grin). So to most of you, I say keep it coming. To the rest, I say get a life.

  Some of you have asked why I’m doing this. I am doing it for myself. Let me repeat that. I am doing it for myself. Anyone who says they know what I’ll do next is full of shit ’cause even I don’t know what I’ll do next. Don’t be fooled by the police! They have no clue what to do with me because they have never seen anything like me before. The only thing they have control of is their sound bites. Be skeptical.

  I can tell you this much: there is more. If that fact pleases you, I can tell you this much again: you won’t be disappointed.

  Keep on living, fuckers.

  Bree scrolled further down the page. “The entries go back a ways, but they’re not all this directed. Sometimes he talks about his day. What he had for lunch. It’s a little bit of everything.”

  “Does he talk about the murders?” I asked.

  “Only indirectly. The entries from those days are all, like, ‘Had a good time tonight’ and ‘Did you see the news?’ ”

  “What about these?” Sampson touched the screen where the menu of channel numbers was.

  “Oh, you’ll like this.” Bree clicked on Channel One. The little television screen in the corner switched from static over to a grainy still image. I recognized it as one of the phone-camera captures from Matthew Jay Walker’s murder, taken by someone in the audience and already shown on several news broadcasts.

  “And then there’s this.” She clicked another one, and an audio file opened. Now the little screen showed a horizontal green line that jumped and spiked with the recorded sound of a woman screaming. I recognized Tess Olsen’s voice right
away.

  “That’s her,” I said.

  “Definitely?” Sampson asked.

  “Definitely.” Bree and I said it at the same time. We had watched the videotape of her murder so often, the individual modulations of every scream were familiar, like some sick song we knew by heart.

  The recording that now played had to have been made separately, we realized, given that the video was left behind in the apartment. That fact went a long way toward authenticating this site.

  “Little handheld recorder in the pocket? Easy.” There was a kind of grudging respect in Sampson’s voice. “It’s all elaborate, but within that, he’s using the fewest possible strokes. Like a big, efficient machine.”

  “Otherwise, we’d have his ass in custody,” Bree said. “He knows how good he is.” She grunted in disgust.

  This was the admiring/hating phase of the game. His methods were undeniably bold and well executed. On the other hand, you can start to hate a killer, and even yourself a little, for every day that he gets to be free in the world. I think all three of us felt it.

  “Well, the good news is that he likes attention,” Bree said.

  “I thought that was the bad news,” Sampson said.

  “Both.” They looked at me. “He’s going to be out there in the world more, which means that his reactivation time could be a lot quicker. But at some point, his confidence is going to outpace his skill. That’s when he’ll blow it. Has to happen.”

  “Because you say so?” Sampson asked me with a grin.

  “That’s right,” I said. I wadded up a page and shot it across the room into the garbage can with a metallic swish. “Because I say so.”

  Part Two

  INFAMOUS!

  Chapter 31

  THE LAWYER MASON WAINWRIGHT arrived for his meeting with Kyle Craig at four o’clock sharp, as he always did. Kyle insisted that he be punctual. But this visit wasn’t to be like any of the past ones. This would be his final time with Kyle Craig, and that was cause for some sadness but also celebration.

  He wore his usual cowboy boots and hat, an oversize buckskin jacket, the horn-rimmed glasses, the snakeskin belt, his Far West professorial look. As soon as he entered the space, he and Kyle hugged, as they always did. “The beauty of rituals,” said Kyle.

  “Everything is ready,” the lawyer whispered against the prisoner’s cheek. “No cameras permitted. We’re alone in here. As you know, Washington is under way.”

  “Then let’s get started here. Nobody will believe this . . . nobody. This is greatness, Mason.”

  The two men pulled apart and immediately began to shed their clothing, stripping down to shorts. Kyle’s were off-white prison issue with yellow stains. “They’re not from piss. It’s burn marks from the laundry,” he told the lawyer.

  “Well, these are from piss.” Wainwright laughed as he pointed to his own shorts. “That’s how frightened I am.”

  “Well,” said Kyle Craig, “I can’t really blame you.”

  The lawyer opened his briefcase next. He pried apart the top of the case and took out what first appeared to be molded flesh. Actually, it was a custom-made prosthesis, a realistic face mask originally developed for skin burns and cancer victims, and occasionally used in Hollywood films like Mission: Impossible. The mask was made of silicone rubber, and every detail had been hand painted by a renowned costume artist in Los Angeles.

  There were two prosthetic applications: one of Mason Wainwright, the other of Kyle Craig.

  Once the masks were fitted properly, Kyle spoke to the lawyer. “Yours looks perfectly fine. Very good, actually. And mine? How do I look?”

  “You look like me.” The lawyer grinned crookedly. “I think I got the better of the deal.”

  “Are there any problems inherent with the masks?” Kyle asked next, as thorough as ever.

  “Only one flaw with these prosthetics, from what I’ve been told. The likenesses are perfect. That’s not a problem. But the eyelids don’t blink.”

  “Important to know. Let’s finish dressing, then.”

  Kyle put on the lawyer’s clothes quickly—just in case a guard came by, which happened occasionally, though not usually during the legal sessions, when Kyle and the lawyer were left alone by law.

  Mason Wainwright had worn clothes a couple of sizes too small that day, including his trademark cowboy hat. When Kyle got to the boots, he inserted two-inch lifts from out of the briefcase.

  Now he stood at a little over six two, close enough to the lawyer’s height.

  Dressed in the prison jumpsuit, the lawyer was still taller than Kyle, but he would walk with the prisoner’s habitual slump, so it wouldn’t matter that much, if at all. They were ready now, but the plan called for them to stay together for the full hour. Just as they always did. Everything exactly the same. Rituals to be observed.

  “Do you want to ask your questions—the eight?” the lawyer said. “Or should I ask them?”

  Kyle went through the usual questions. Then neither of them spoke for the remainder of the time they had together. Kyle Craig seemed to be almost in a trance. But he was just thinking ahead, making plans.

  Finally, when only a minute or so of the meeting remained, Kyle rose first, looking like the lawyer, of course.

  Then the lawyer stood, looking like Kyle Craig.

  Kyle extended his arms, and Mason Wainwright moved into them. “In your honor,” the lawyer whispered. “I apologize that this took so long to arrange.”

  “Masterpieces take time,” said Kyle Craig.

  Chapter 32

  MASON WAINWRIGHT WAS SLUMPED over slightly and looking down at the floor when the guard opened the door to the small meeting room. “Let’s go, Craig,” the guard ordered. “Play period’s over. Time to go back to your suite.”

  Wainwright muttered his assent, then he moved down the hallway in front of the ill-tempered turnkey. He was bent over and shuffling like the “dead man walking” he was supposed to be. Just don’t let him see you blink, he reminded himself.

  This was the time when the whole plan could go up in flames. Everything could be lost in the next few minutes. His part was an easy one to play, though—stay calm, keep quiet, head down—unless the guard noticed some change, some error on his part. The lawyer had studied Kyle Craig’s mannerisms for months and believed he pretty much had everything down. Still, he couldn’t be certain until this was over.

  Suddenly the guard’s nightstick was in the small of his back. What was this? Shit, no!

  He’d obviously made a mistake and wondered what it was. Where had he messed up and ruined the escape Kyle Craig had been planning since the first day he arrived at the supermaximum-security prison? Maybe even before then, since the Mastermind seemed to anticipate everything that could possibly happen.

  “This way, Mastermind. You forget the way to your own cell, genius?” the guard said, and laughed derisively. “C’mon, let’s move it! Gotta get back to my Court TV.”

  The lawyer didn’t look around at the prison guard, didn’t acknowledge him in any way, just turned down the indicated corridor and continued to slump along.

  Fortunately nothing else went wrong on the way back to Kyle Craig’s cell. Finally the guard slammed the door, and Wainwright was alone. He’d done it!

  Only then did the lawyer raise his eyes and dare to look around. So, this was where the Mastermind had lived, and how he had lived for the past several years. What a disgrace that such a fine mind would be trapped in a space with virtually no stimulation and that Kyle had been subject to the urges and whims of bestial prison guards and slow-witted administrators.

  “In your honor,” the lawyer whispered again, then he prepared himself to follow the rest of Kyle Craig’s instructions.

  The lawyer checked out the small cell, which was made of poured concrete. The bed, desk, stool, and bedside table were screwed into the floor as a safety precaution. The toilet had an automatic shutdown so cells couldn’t be flooded. Kyle had “earned” a black-and-whi
te TV, but it only played self-help and religious programming, so who would want to watch it?

  The lawyer felt claustrophobic, terribly so, and thought that it would be difficult not to lose one’s sanity in this tiny hellhole. Mason Wainwright finally had to laugh at that. Most people would feel that he had lost his sanity a long time ago, even before he became one of the Mastermind’s disciples.

  When a guard did a check just before mealtime at six that night, he couldn’t believe what he saw. He immediately pushed the panic button on his belt. Then he waited for help to come running. Still, the guard couldn’t take his eyes away from the jail cell.

  Kyle Craig had hung himself!

  Chapter 33

  THE SUN WAS SHINING in Kyle Craig’s eyes, and what a glorious thing that was. The sun! Imagine. He drove Mason Wainwright’s Jaguar coupe a couple of miles over the speed limit to a mall outside Denver, where a Mercedes SUV was waiting for him. Now this was more like it, power and comfort. Plus, nobody would be looking for the Mercedes.

  Kyle Craig had doubters to confound and frustrate.

  Followers to delight.

  Promises to keep, promises written in blood, promises recorded in the august Washington Post and the New York Times.

  Yes, he would see the sun again, and he’d see a whole lot more than that too.

  He was traveling to Washington, but he thought he’d take a roundabout route, visit a few enemies, maybe kill them in their own homes.

  He was going to make a name for himself again, and he had a plan on how to do it.

  Not a word of it on paper, though—everything in his head.

  “My God, just look at that sun!” he exclaimed.

  Chapter 34

  I WAS HOME on Fifth Street and had just finished eating a late dinner with Nana and the kids when the phone started to ring off the hook. Most of us were in the kitchen doing a family cleanup. Damon, Jannie, and I were taking care of everything; Ali was supervising; and Nana was reading the papers in the living room—the Washington Post and USA Today, her favorites.