I was getting hot under the collar. “I’m in the middle of an exercise.”
“I know what you’re doing. I wrote the program and the schedule,” he said. “I want to talk to you about the front page of today’s Washington Post,” he went on. “You see it?”
“I saw it.”
“I spoke to your former chief of detectives this morning. He told me that you’ve used the Post before. He said you have friends there.”
I tried hard not to roll my eyes. “I used to have a good friend at the Post. He was murdered. I don’t have friends there anymore. Why would I leak information about the abductions? What would I gain?”
Nooney pointed a rigid finger my way. He raised his voice. “I know how you work. And I know what you’re after—you don’t want to be part of a team. Or to be controlled or influenced in any way. Well, it’s not going to happen that way. We don’t believe in golden boys or special situations. We don’t think that you’re more imaginative or creative than anyone else in your class. So get back to your exercise, Dr. Cross. And wise up.”
Without saying another word, I left the office, fuming. I returned to the fake accident scene which Agent Marilyn May soon neatly connected to the fake robbery that had been staged in Hogans Alley. Some program that Nooney had written. I could have done a better one in my sleep. And yeah, now I was mad. I just didn’t know who I was supposed to be mad at. I didn’t know how to play this game.
But I wanted to win.
Chapter 29
ANOTHER PURCHASE HAD BEEN MADE—a large one.
On Saturday night, the Couple had entered a bar called the Halyard, on the water in Newport, Rhode Island. The Halyard was different from most of the gay clubs in Newport’s so-called Pink District. There was the occasional glimpse of a bad-ass boot or spike-studded wristband, but most of the men who frequented the place sported tousled hairdos and boating dress, and the ever-popular Croakie sunglasses.
The deejay had just selected a Strokes tune, and several couples were dancing the night away. The Couple fit in, which is to say that they didn’t stand out. Slava wore a baby blue T-shirt and Dockers, and had gelled his longish black hair. Zoya had on a raffish sailing cap and had made herself up to look like a pretty young man. She had succeeded beyond her own expectations, for she had already been hit on.
She and Slava were looking for a certain physical type, and they had found a promising prospect soon after they arrived. His name, they would learn later, was Benjamin Coffey, and he was a senior at Providence College. Benjamin had first become aware that he was gay while serving as an altar boy at St. Thomas’ in Barrington, Rhode Island. No priest had ever touched or abused him while he was there, or even come on to him, but he had discovered a like-minded altar server, and they became lovers when they were both fourteen. The two had continued to meet through high school, but then Benjamin had moved on.
He was still keeping his sex life a secret at Providence College, but he could be himself in the Pink District. The Couple watched the very handsome boy as he chatted up a thirty-something bartender whose toned muscles were set off by the track lighting over his head.
“The boy could be on the cover of GQ,” said Slava. “He’s the one.”
A strapping man in his fifties approached the bar. Close behind him were four younger men and a woman. Everyone in the group was wearing white ducks and blue Lacoste shirts. The bartender turned away from Benjamin and shook hands with the older man, who then introduced his companions: “David Skalah, crew. Henry Galperin, crew. Bill Lattanzi, crew. Sam Hughes, cook. Nora Hamerman, crew.”
“And this,” the bartender said, “is Ben.”
“It’s Benjamin,” the boy corrected, and smiled brilliantly.
Zoya snuck a look at Slava, and the two of them couldn’t help grinning at the skit. “The boy is just what we want,” she said. “He’s like a cleaned-up version of Brad Pitt.”
He was definitely the physical type that the client had specified: slender, blond, boyish, probably still a teenager, luscious red lips, intelligent looking. That was a must—intelligence. And the buyer wanted no part of “chickens,” young boys who sold themselves on the street.
Ten minutes or so passed, then the Couple followed Benjamin to the bathroom, which was white on white and sparkling clean. Illustrations of nautical knots had been drawn on the walls. There was a table elaborately set with colognes, mouthwashes, and a teak box filled with amyl nitrite poppers.
Benjamin headed into one of the stalls, and the Couple pushed in after him. It was a tight squeeze.
He turned when he felt a hard shove. “Taken,” he said. “I’m in here. Jesus, are you two stoned? Give me a break.”
“Arm or leg?” said Slava, and laughed at his own joke.
They forced him to his knees. “Hey, hey,” he called out in alarm. “Somebody help me. Somebody!”
A gauzy cloth was pressed tightly against his nose and mouth, and he lost consciousness. Then the Couple lifted Benjamin up and, supporting him on either side, carried him from the bathroom as if they were buddies helping someone who’d passed out.
They took him out a back door to a parking lot filled with convertibles and SUVs. The Couple didn’t care if they were seen, but they were careful not to hurt the boy. No bruises. He was worth a lot of money. Somebody wanted him badly.
Another purchase.
Chapter 30
THE BUYER’S NAME was Mr. Potter.
It was the code name he used when he wanted to make a purchase from Sterling, when he and the seller communicated for any reason. Potter was very happy with Benjamin and he’d told this to the Couple when they dropped the package at his farm in Webster, New Hampshire, population of a little more than fourteen hundred—a place where no one bothered you. Ever. The farmhouse he owned there was partially restored, with white antique wood shingling, two stories, a new roof. About a hundred yards behind it sat a red barn, the “guest house.” This was where Benjamin would be kept, where the others before him had been stored as well.
The house and barn were surrounded by more than sixty acres of woods and farmland that had belonged to Potter’s family and now were his. He didn’t live on the farm, but in Hanover, about fifty miles away, where he toiled as an assistant professor of English at Dartmouth.
God, he couldn’t take his eyes off Benjamin. Of course, the boy couldn’t see him. Couldn’t speak. Not yet. He was blindfolded and gagged, and his hands and legs were bound by police handcuffs.
Other than that, Benjamin wore nothing but a sliver of silver thong, which looked precious on him. The sight of the very handsome young man took Potter’s breath away for the third or fourth or tenth time since he’d taken possession of him. The maddening thing about teaching at Dartmouth these past five years was that you could watch, but you could not touch the boys who went there. It was frustrating beyond belief to be that close to his heart’s desire, but now—it almost seemed worth it. Benjamin was his reward. For waiting. For being good.
He moved close to the boy, inches at a time. Finally he slid his hand through the waves of thick blond hair. Benjamin jumped. He actually shivered and shook uncontrollably. That was nice.
“It’s all right . . . to be afraid,” Potter whispered. “There’s a strange joy to be found in fear. Trust me on that, Benjamin. I’ve been there. I know exactly what you’re feeling now.”
Potter could barely stand it! This was just too much of a great thing, a dream come true. He had been denied this forbidden pleasure—and now here was this absolutely perfect, beautiful, stunning young man.
What was this? Benjamin was trying to speak through his gag. Potter wanted to hear the boy’s sweet voice, to see his luscious mouth move, to look into his eyes. He bent forward and kissed the gag over the boy’s mouth. He actually felt Benjamin’s lips underneath, their softness.
Then Mr. Potter couldn’t stand it for one second more. His fingers fumbling, incoherent whispers seeping from his mouth, his body shaking as if he had pa
lsy, he removed the blindfold and looked into Benjamin’s eyes.
“May I call you Benjy?” he whispered.
Chapter 31
ANOTHER OF THE CAPTIVES, Audrey Meek, watched her obscene, deviate, possibly insane captor as he calmly and coolly fixed her breakfast. She was bound by rope—loosely, but she couldn’t run. She couldn’t believe any of this was happening, had happened, and presumably would continue happening. She was being held in a nicely furnished cabin somewhere, who knew where, and she was still flashing back to the incredible moment when she had been grabbed at the King of Prussia Mall, when they had yanked her away from Sarah and Andrew. Dear God, were the children all right?
“My children?” Audrey asked again. “I have to know for sure they’re all right. I want to talk to them. I won’t do anything you ask until I speak to them. Not even eat.”
An uncomfortable silent moment passed, and then the Art Director chose to speak.
“Your children are just fine. That’s all I’ll tell you,” he said. “You should eat.”
“How could you know my children are all right?” She sniffed. “You can’t.”
“Audrey, you’re in no position to make demands. Not anymore. That life is behind you.”
He was tall, maybe six-foot-two, and well built, with a bushy black beard and flashing blue eyes that seemed intelligent to her. She guessed that he was around fifty. He’d told her to call him Art Director. No reason for the name, not yet, anyway, nor any other explanation for what had happened so far.
“I was concerned myself, so I called your house. The children are there with your nanny and husband. I promise. I wouldn’t lie to you, Audrey. I’m different from you in that respect.”
Audrey shook her head. “I’m supposed to trust you? Your word?”
“I think it would be a good idea, yes. Why not? Who else can you trust out here? Yourself, of course. And me. That’s all there is. You’re miles and miles away from anybody else. It’s just us two. Please get used to it. You like your scrambled eggs a little soft, right? Fluffy? Isn’t that the word you use?”
“Why are you doing this?” Audrey asked, getting braver, since he hadn’t actually threatened her yet. “What are the two of us doing here?”
He sighed. “All in due time, Audrey. For now, let’s just say it’s an unhealthy obsession. It’s more complicated, actually, but let’s leave it at that for now.”
She was surprised by the answer—he knew he was a freaking nutcase, didn’t he? Was that good or bad, though, that he knew exactly what he was doing?
“I’d like to keep you free like this as much as possible. I don’t want you kept in bondage, for God’s sake. Not even the ropes. Please don’t try to run away or it won’t be possible. Okay?”
He seemed so reasonable at times. Seemed. Christ! Wasn’t this the most insane thing? Of course it was. But insane things happened all the time to people.
“I want to be your friend,” he said as he served her breakfast—the eggs cooked just so, twelve-grain toast, herbal tea, boysenberry jam. “I’ve cooked all the things you like. I want to treat you like you deserve. You can trust me, Audrey. Start by trusting me just a little bit. . . . Try your eggs. Fluffy. They’re delish.”
Chapter 32
I WAS MARKING TIME at Quantico and I didn’t like it much. I attended my classes the next day, then an hour of fitness training. At five, I went to see what Monnie Donnelley had collected so far on White Girl. She had a small, cramped cubicle on the third floor of the dining hall building. On one wall was a collage of photos and photocopies of bits of evidence from brutally violent crimes arranged in an eye-catching cubist’s fantasy.
I rapped my knuckles against her metal nameplate before entering the cube.
Monnie turned and smiled when she saw me standing there. I noticed glossy photos of her sons, a funny portrait of Monnie and the sons, and also a picture of Pierce Brosnan as a debonair, sexy James Bond. “Hey, look who’s back for more punishment. You can tell by the size of my digs that the Bureau doesn’t realize yet that this is the Information Age, what Bill Clinton used to call the Third Way. You know the joke—the Bureau supports yesterday’s technology tomorrow.”
“Any information for me?”
Monnie swiveled back to her computer, an IBM. “Let me print up a few of these choice pieces for your burgeoning collection. I know you like hard copies. Dinosaur.”
“It’s just the way I work.”
I had asked around about Monnie and heard the same thing everywhere: She was bright, an incredibly hard worker, woefully underappreciated by the powers at Quantico. I’d also found out that Monnie was a single mother of two and struggling to make ends meet. The only “complaint” against her was that she worked too hard, brought stuff home just about every night and weekend.
Monnie shuffled together a thick batch of pages for me. I could tell she was obsessive by the way she evened out all the pages. They had to be just so.
“Anything pop out at you?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I’m just a researcher, right? More corroboration. Upscale white women who’ve been reported missing in the last year or so. The numbers are out of whack, way too high. A lot of them are attractive blondes. Blondes do not have more fun in these instances. No particular regional skew, which I want to look into more. Geographic profiling? Sometimes it can pinpoint the exact locus of criminal activity.”
“No obvious regional differences so far. That’s too bad. Anything in terms of the victims’ appearances? Any patterns at all?”
Monnie clucked her tongue, shook her head. “Nothing sticks out. There are women missing in New England, the South, out West. I’ll check into it more. The women are described as very attractive, for the most part. And none of them have been found. They go missing, they stay missing.”
She looked at me for a few uncomfortable seconds. There was sadness in her eyes. I sensed that she wanted out of this cubicle.
I reached down for the pages. “We’re trying. I made a promise to the Connolly family.”
There was a flicker of humor in her light green eyes. “You keep your promises?”
“Try,” I said. “Thanks for the pages. Don’t work too hard. Go home and see your kids.”
“You too, Alex. See your kids. You’re working too hard already.”
Chapter 33
NANA AND THE KIDS, not to mention Rosie the cat, were lying in wait for me on the front porch when I got home that night. Their cranky body language and the sullen looks on their faces weren’t good signs. I figured I knew why everybody was so happy to see me. You always keep your promises?
“Seven-thirty. It’s getting later and later,” Nana said, and shook her head. “You mentioned we might go see Drumline at the movies. Damon was excited.”
“It’s orientation,” I told her.
“Exactly,” Nana said, and the frown on her face deepened. “Wait until the real stuff starts up. You’ll be coming home at midnight again. If at all. You have no life. You have no love life. All those women who like you, Alex—though God knows why—let one of them catch you. Let somebody in. Before it’s too late.”
“Maybe it’s too late already.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“You’re tough,” I said, and plopped down on the porch steps next to the kids. “Your Nana is tough as nails,” I said to them. “Still light out. Anybody want to play hoops?”
Damon frowned and shook his head. “Not with Jannie. No way that’s gonna happen.”
“Not with the big superstar Damon.” Jannie smirked. “Even though Diana Taurasi could kick his butt at O-U-T.”
I got up and headed inside. “I’ll get the ball. We’ll play O-U-T.”
When we returned from the park, Nana had already put Little Alex to bed. She was back sitting on the porch. I’d brought a pint of pralines and cream and a pint of Oreos and cream. We ate, then the kids wandered up to their rooms to sleep, or study, or mess around on the Internet.
“You’re becoming hopeless, Alex,” Nana pronounced, as she sucked the last ice cream off her spoon. “That’s all I can say to you.”
“You mean consistent. And dedicated. That’s getting harder to find. You like that Oreos and cream, don’t you?”
She rolled her eyes. “Maybe you ought to catch up with the times, son. Duty isn’t everything anymore.”
“I’m here for the kids. And even for you, old woman.”
“Never said you weren’t. Well, not lately, anyway. How’s Jamilla?”
“We’ve both been busy.”
Nana nodded her head, up and down, up and down, like one of those dolls that people keep on the dashboards of their automobiles. Then she pushed herself up and started to gather the ice-cream dishes the kids had left around the porch.
“I’ll get those,” I told her.
“Kids should get them. They know better too.”
“They take advantage when I’m around.”
“Right. Because they know you feel guilty.”
“For what?” I asked. “What did I do? What am I missing here?”
“Now, that is the main question you have to answer, isn’t it? I’m going in to bed. Good-night, Alex. I love you. And I do like Oreos and cream.”
Then she muttered, “Hopeless.”
“Am not,” I said to her back.
“Are too.” She spoke without turning. She always got the last word.
I eventually moseyed up to my office in the attic and made a phone call I’d been dreading. But I’d made a promise.
The phone rang and then I heard a man’s voice say, “Brendan Connolly.”
“Hello, Judge Connolly, this is Alex Cross,” I said. I heard him sigh, but he said nothing, so I continued. “I don’t have any specific good news about Mrs. Connolly yet. We have over fifty agents active in the Atlanta area, though. I’m calling because I told you I’d keep in touch and to reassure you that we’re working.”
Because I made a promise.