“Where are we going, Daddy?” she giggled against my neck. “Are we going out for ice cream? I’ll have pralines ’n’ cream.”
“In your dreams.”
As I tightly held Jannie in my arms, I couldn’t help thinking about little Shanelle Green. When I had seen Shanelle in that schoolyard, I was scared. I’d thought of Jannie. It was a vicious circle that kept playing inside my head.
I lived in fear of the human monsters coming to our house. One of them had come here a few years back. Gary Soneji. That time no one had been hurt, and we had been very lucky.
Jannie and I had worked out a prayer that we both liked. She knelt beside her bed and said the words in a beautiful little whisper.
Jannie said, “God up in heaven, my grandma and my daddy love me. Even Damon loves me. I thank you, God, for making me a nice person, pretty and funny sometimes. I will always try to do the right thing, if I can. This is Jannie Cross saying goodnight.”
“Amen, Jannie Cross,” I smiled and said to my girl. I loved her more than life itself. She reminded me of her mother in the best possible way. “I’ll see you in the morning. I can’t wait.”
Jannie grinned and her eyes widened suddenly. She popped back up in bed. “You can see me some more tonight. Just let me stay up,” she said. “I scream for ice cream.”
“You are funny,” I said and kissed her goodnight. “And pretty and smart.” Man, I love her and Damon so much. I knew that was why the child murder had really gotten under my skin. The madman had struck too close to our house.
Maybe for that reason Damon and I went for a walk a little later that night. I draped my arm over my son’s shoulders. It seemed as if every day he got a little bigger, stronger, harder. We were good buddies, and I was glad it had worked out this way so far.
The two of us strolled in the direction of Damon’s school. On the way, we passed a Baptist church with angry, dark-red and black graffiti markings: I don’t care ’bout Jeez, ’cause Jeez don’t care ’bout me. That was a common sentiment round here, especially among the young and restless.
One of Damon’s schoolmates had died at the Sojourner Truth School. What a horrible tragedy, and yet he had already seen so much of it. Damon had witnessed a death in the street, one young man shooting another over a parking space, when he was only six years old.
“You ever get afraid to be at the school? Tell me the truth. Whatever you really feel is okay to say, Damon,” I gently reminded him. “I get afraid sometimes, too. Beavis and Butthead scares me. Ren and Stimpy, too.”
Damon smiled, and he shrugged his shoulders. “I’m afraid sometimes, yeah. I was shivering on our first day back. Our school isn’t going to close down, is it?”
I smiled on the inside, but kept a straight face. “No, there’ll be classes as usual tomorrow. Homework, too.”
“I did it already,” Damon answered defensively. Nana has him a little too sensitive about grades, but that probably isn’t so terribly bad. “I get mostly all A’s, just like you.”
“Mostly all A’s.” I laughed. “What kind of sentence is that?”
“Accurate.” He grinned like a young hyena who had just been told a pretty good joke on the Serengeti.
I grabbed Damon in a loose, playful headlock. I gently slid my knuckles over the top of his short haircut. Noogies. He was okay for now. He was strong, and he was a good person. I love him like crazy, and I wanted him to always know that.
Damon wiggled out of the headlock. He danced a fancy Sugar Ray Leonard–style two-step and fired a few quick, testing punches at my stomach. He was showing me what a tough little cub he was. I had no doubt about it.
Right about then I noticed someone leaving the school building. It was the same woman I’d seen in the early morning of Shanelle Green’s murder. The one who had blown me away then. She was watching Damon and me tussle on the sidewalk. She had stopped walking to watch us.
She was tall and slender, almost six feet. I couldn’t see her face very well in the shadows of the school building. I remembered her from the other morning, though. I remembered her self-confidence, a sense of mystery I’d felt about her.
She waved, and Damon waved back. Then she headed down to the same dark blue Mercedes, which was parked up against the wall of the building.
“You know her?” I asked.
“That’s the new principal of our school,” Damon informed me. “That’s Mrs. Johnson.”
I nodded. Mrs. Johnson. “She works late. I’m impressed. How do you like Mrs. Johnson?” I asked Damon as I watched her walk to her car. I remembered that Nana had talked about the principal and been very positive about her, calling her “inspirational” and saying she had a sweet disposition.
She was certainly attractive, and seeing her made my heart ache just a little. The truth was, I missed not having someone in my life. I was getting over a complicated friendship I’d had with a woman—Kate McTiernan. I had been working a lot, avoiding the whole issue that fall. I was still avoiding it that night.
Damon didn’t hesitate with his answer to my question. “I like her. Everybody likes Mrs. Johnson. She’s tough, though. She’s even tougher than you are, Daddy,” he said.
She didn’t look so tough with her Mercedes sedan, but I had no reason not to believe my son. She was definitely brave to be in the school alone at night. Maybe a little too brave.
“Let’s head on home,” I finally said to Damon. “I just remembered this is a school night for you.”
“Let’s stay up and watch the Bullets play the Orlando Magic,” he coaxed and grabbed onto my elbow.
“Oh—sure. No, let’s get Jannie up and we’ll all pull an all-nighter,” I said and laughed loudly. We both laughed, sharing the jokey moment.
I slept in with the kids that night. I was definitely not over the murder at the Truth School. Sometimes, we’ll throw blankets and pillows on the floor and sleep there as if we were homeless. It gives Nana fits, but I believe she thrives on her fits, so we make certain she has one every other week or so.
As I lay there with my eyes open, and both kids sleeping peacefully, I couldn’t help thinking about Shanelle Green. It was the last thing I needed to think about. Why had someone brought the body back to the schoolyard? I wondered. There are always loose ends on cases, but this one made no sense, so it concerned me. It was a piece that didn’t fit in a puzzle that was supposed to be finished.
Then I began thinking about Mrs. Johnson for a moment or two. That was a better place to be. She’s even tougher than you are, Daddy. What a glowing recommendation from my little man. It was almost a dare. Everybody likes Mrs. Johnson, Damon had said.
I wondered what her first name was. I made a wild guess—Christine. The name just came to me. Christine. I liked the sound of it in my head.
I finally nodded off to sleep. I slept with the kids in the pile of blankets and pillows on the bedroom floor. No monsters visited us that night. I wouldn’t let them.
The dragonslayer was on guard. Tired and sleepy and oversentimental, but ever so watchful.
CHAPTER
17
THIS WAS REALLY NUTS, insane, demented. It was so great! The killer wanted to go for it again, right now. Right this minute. He wanted to do the two of them. What a gas that would be. What a large charge. A real shockeroo.
He had watched them from afar—father and son. He thought of his own father, the totally worthless prick.
Then he saw the tall, pretty schoolteacher wave and get into her car. Instinctively, he hated her, too. Worthless black bitch. Phony teacher smile spread all over her face.
POW! POW! POW!
Three perfect headshots.
Three exploding head melons.
That’s what they all deserved. Summary executions.
A really rude thought was forming in his mind as he watched the scene near the school. He already knew a lot of things about Alex Cross. Cross was his detective, wasn’t he? Cross had been assigned to his case, right? So Cross was his meat. A co
p, just like his own father had been.
The really interesting thing was that nobody had paid much attention to the first killing. The murder had almost gone unnoticed. The papers in Washington had barely picked it up. Same with TV. Nobody cared about a little black girl in Southeast. Why the hell should they?
All they cared about was Jack and Jill. Rich white people afraid for their lives. Scar-y! Well, fuck Jack and Jill. He was better than Jack and Jill, and he was going to demonstrate it.
The school principal drove past his hiding place in a cluster of overgrown bushes. He knew who she was, too. Mrs. Johnson of the Truth School. The Whitney Houston of Southeast, right? Screw her, man.
His eyes slowly drifted back to Alex Cross and his son. He felt anger rising inside him, steam building up. It was as if his secret button had been pushed again. The hair on his neck was standing at attention. He was beginning to see red, feeling spraying mists of red in his brain. Somebody’s blood, right? Cross’s? His son’s? He loved the idea of them dying together. He could see it, man.
He followed Alex Cross and his kid home—in his rage state—but keeping a safe distance. He was thinking about what he was going to do next.
He was better than Jack and Jill. He’d prove it to Cross and everyone else.
CHAPTER
18
THE FESTIVE charity gala for the Council on Mental Health was being held at the Pension Building on F Street and Fourth on Friday night. The grand ballroom was three stories, with huge marble columns everywhere, and more than a thousand guests noisily seated around a glistening working fountain. The waiters and waitresses wore Santa Claus hats. The band broke into a lively swing version of “Winter Wonderland.” What great fun.
The guest speaker for the evening was none other than the Princess of Wales. Sam Harrison was there as well. Jack was there.
He observed Princess Di closely as she entered the glittering, stately ballroom. Her entourage included a financier rumored to be her next husband, the Brazilian ambassador and his wife, and several celebrities from the chic American fashion world. Ironically, two of the models in the group appeared to suffer from anorexia nervosa—the flip side of bulimia, the nervous disorder that had plagued Diana for the previous dozen years.
Jack moved a few steps closer to Princess Di. He was intrigued, and had serious questions about the quality of her security arrangement. He watched the Secret Service boys make a discreet sweep, then remain on duty nearby, earphones at the ready.
A formal toastmaster had been brought all the way from England to properly salute the queen—the council’s president—and host Walter Annenberg. The ambassador spoke briefly, then a lavish, though overcooked and underspiced, dinner followed: baby lamb with sauce Niçoise and haricots verts.
When the princess finally rose to speak during dessert, an orange almond tart with orange sauce and Marsala cream, Jack was less than thirty feet away from her. She wore an expensive gold sheath of taffeta with sequins, but he found her somewhat gawky, at least to his taste. Her large feet made him think of the cartoon character Daisy Duck. Princess Daisy, that was his moniker for Di.
Diana’s speech at the gala was very personal, if familiar, to those who had followed her life closely. A troubled childhood and adolescence, a debilitating search for perfection, feelings of self-revulsion and low personal esteem. All this had led to what she spoke of as her “shameful friend,” bulimia.
Jack found the speech strangely off-putting and cloying. He wasn’t at all touched by Diana’s self-pity, or the near hysteria that seemed to reside just below the surface of her performance—perhaps her entire life.
The audience clearly had a different reaction, even the usually cool-as-ice Secret Service guards seemed to react emotionally to the popular Di. The applause when she had finished speaking was thunderous and seemed heartfelt and sincere.
Then the entire room stood up, Jack included, and continued the warm, noisy tribute. He could almost have reached out and touched Di. Here’s to bulimia, he wanted to call out. Here’s to worthwhile causes of all kinds.
It was time for him to move into action again. It was time for number two in the Jack and Jill story. Time for a lot of things to begin.
It was also his turn to be the star tonight—to solo, as it were. He had been watching another well-known personality that evening at the party. He had watched her, studied her habits and mannerisms on a few other occasions as well.
Natalie Sheehan was physically striking, much more so than Di, actually. The much-admired TV newswoman was blond, about five eight in heels. She wore a simple, classic, black silk dress. She oozed charm, but especially class. First class. Natalie Sheehan had been aptly described as “American royalty,” “an American princess.”
Jack started to move at a little past nine-thirty. Guests were already dancing to an eight-piece band. The breezy chitchat was flowing freely: Marion Gingrich’s business dealings, trade problems with China, John Major’s problems du jour, planned ski trips to Aspen, Whistler, or Alta.
Natalie Sheehan had downed three margaritas—straight up, with salt around the rim. He had watched her. She didn’t show it, but she had to be feeling something, had to be a little high.
She’s an extremely good actor, Jack was thinking as he came up beside her at one of the complimentary bars. She’s a master of the one-night stand and the one-weekend affair. Jill had researched the hell out of her. I know everything about you, Natalie.
He took two sidelong steps, and suddenly they were face-to-face. They nearly collided, actually. He could smell her perfume. Flowers and spices. Very nice. He even knew the delightful fragrance’s name—ESCADA acte 2. He’d read that it was Natalie’s favorite.
“I’m sorry. Excuse me,” he said, feeling his cheeks redden.
“No, no. I wasn’t looking where I was going. Clumsy me,” Natalie said and smiled. It was her killer TV close-up smile. Really something to experience firsthand.
Jack smiled back, and suddenly his eyes communicated recognition. He knew her. “You never forgot a name, or a face, not in eleven years of broadcasting,” he said to Natalie Sheehan. “That’s an accurate quote, I believe.”
Natalie didn’t miss a beat, “You’re Scott Cookson. We met at the Meridian. It was in early September. You’re a lawyer with… a prestigious D.C. law firm. Of course.”
She laughed at her small joke. Nice laugh. Beautiful lips and perfectly capped teeth. The Natalie Sheehan. His target for the evening.
“We did meet at the Meridian?” she said, checking her facts like the good reporter she was. “You are Scott Cookson?”
“We did, and I am. You had another affair to attend after that, at the British embassy.”
“You seem never to forget a face or factoid, either,” she said. The smile remained fixed. Perfect, glowing, almost effervescent. The TV star in real life, if this was real life.
Jack shrugged, and acted shy, which wasn’t so hard to do with Natalie. “Some faces, some factoids,” he said.
She was classically beautiful, extremely attractive at any rate, he couldn’t help thinking. The warm heartland smile was her trademark, and it worked very well for her. He had studied it for hours before tonight. He wasn’t completely immune to her charms—not even under the circumstances.
“Well,” Natalie said to him. “I don’t have another party after this one. Actually, I’m cutting back on parties. Believe it or not. This is a good cause, though.”
“I agree. I believe in good causes.”
“Oh, and what’s your favorite cause, Scott?”
“Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,” he said. “That’s my pet cause.”
He tried to look pleasantly surprised that she would remain talking with him. He could play parlor games as well as anyone—when he had to, when he wanted to.
“If I might be just a little bold,” he said, “would you consider the two of us cutting back together?” His very natural and unassuming smile undercut the forwa
rd-sounding line. It was a come-on just the same. There was no disguising that. Natalie Sheehan’s answer was tremendously important, to both of them.
She stared at him, slightly taken aback. He’d completely blown it, he thought. Or maybe she was acting now.
Then Natalie Sheehan laughed. It was a hearty laugh, almost raucous. He was sure that no one in America had ever heard it in her prim and proper role as a network television reporter.
Poor Natalie, Jack thought. Number two.
CHAPTER
19
NATALIE TOOK another margarita for the trip home. “A roadie,” she told him and laughed that deep, wonderful laugh of hers again.
“I learned how to party a little bit at St. Catherine’s Academy in Cleveland. Then at Ohio State,” she confided as they walked to the garage under the Pension Building. She was trying to show him that she was different from her television persona. Looser, more fun. He got that much, got the message. He even liked her for it. He was noticing that her usually crisp and exact enunciation was just a little off now. She probably thought it was sexy, and she was right. She was actually very nice, very down-to-earth, which surprised him a little.
They took her car, as Jill had accurately predicted. Natalie drove the silver-blue Dodge Stealth a little too fast. All the while she talked rapid-fire, too, but kept it interesting: GATT, Boris Yeltsin’s drinking problems, D.C. real estate, campaign-financing reform. She showed herself to be intelligent, informed, high-spirited, and only slightly neurotic about the ongoing struggle between men and women.
“Where are we going?” he finally thought he should ask. He already knew the answer, of course. The Jefferson Hotel. Natalie’s honey trap in D.C. Her place.
“Oh, to my laboratory,” she said. “Why, are you nervous?”
“No. Well, maybe a little nervous,” he said and laughed. It was the truth.
She brought him upstairs to her private office in the Jefferson Hotel on Sixteenth Street. Two beautiful rooms and a spacious bath overlooked downtown. He knew that she also had a house in Old Town Alexandria. Jill had visited there. Just in case. Just to be thorough. Measure twice. Measure five times, if necessary.