Alex Cross 02 - Kiss the Girls (39 page)

I was close to getting them now; I could feel it. I had to think like that. They caught a red light at the corner of Franklin
and Columbia. Students wearing ratty T-shirts with Champion and Nike and Bass Ale logos jaywalked between the stopped cars.
Shaquille O’Neal’s “I know I Got Skillz” played loudly from somebody’s radio.

I waited a few seconds after the stoplight turned red with a noisy
click-click
sound. Then I went for the whole enchilada.
Ready or not, here I come.

I
SLID out of the Duster and ran in a low crouch down the middle of Franklin Street. The Glock was out, but held flat against
my leg to be less conspicuous.
Nobody panic and scream now. Let this go right one time.

The two of them must have spotted the trailing Duster earlier. I’d figured as much. As soon as I hit the street, they threw
themselves out of opposite sides of the pickup.

One turned and fired off three quick shots.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Only one of them had a gun out. Something clicked inside my head again: I remembered a quick scene from the woods. A connection
made. A flash of recognition.

I ducked down behind a black Nissan Z that was waiting for the light, and yelled at the top of my lungs. “Police! Police!
Get down! Get down on the ground! Get out of these cars!”

Most of the drivers and pedestrians did as they were told. What a difference between Chapel Hill and the streets of D.C.,
in that regard. I took a quick peek up the sheet-metal lane between the cars. I didn’t see either of the killers anywhere.

I slid alongside the black sports car, bent over more than double in a low-slung crouch. Students and store owners watched
me warily from the sidewalk. “Police! Get down. Get down. Get that little boy the hell out of here!” I yelled.

I saw crazy things in my mind’s eye. Flashing images. Sampson… with a knife in his back. Kate… after they had beaten her to
a bloody, helpless mess. The sunken eyes of the women prisoners back at the house.

I was keeping low to the ground, but one of the monsters saw me and went for a head shot. We both fired at almost the same
time.

His bullet barely nicked a sideview mirror that was between us. It probably saved me. I didn’t see the final result of my
shot.

I went down behind the cars again. The stench of motor oil and gas was almost overpowering. A police siren wailing in the
distance told me help was on the way. Not Sampson, though. Not the kind of help I needed.

Just keep moving. Keep them both in sight somehow… two of them! Two versus one. Better way to think about it: two for the
price of one!

I wondered how well they would deal with this. What they were thinking. Planning. Was Casanova the leader now? Who was he?

I looked up quickly and saw a cop. He was near the corner of the street and his revolver was out. I never had a chance to
shout a warning.

A gun fired twice from his left and the patrolman went down hard. People were screaming all over Franklin Street. Jaded college
kids didn’t look so blasé anymore. Some of the girls were crying. Maybe they finally understood that we’re all very mortal.

“Get down!” I shouted again. “Everybody get the hell down!”

I ducked behind the cars again and inched my way up on the side of a minivan. I saw
one
of the monsters as my eyes cleared shiny, silver sheet metal.

My next shot wasn’t so ambitious, no hero crap. I was willing to settle for a hit anywhere. Chest, shoulders, lower torso.
I fired!

Trick shot, fuckhead. Watch this one.
The bullet exploded through both passenger windows of a deserted Ford Taurus. It caught one of the bad guys high in the chest,
just below the throat.

He dropped as if his legs had been pulled from underneath him. I sprinted as fast as I could, toward the place I’d seen him
standing last.
Which one went down?
my brain was screaming.
And where is the other one?

I darted in and out between the parked cars.
He was gone! He wasn’t there!
Where the hell was the one I had shot? And where was the other clever boy hiding?

I saw the one I’d hit. He lay spread-eagled under the traffic light at Columbia and Franklin. The death mask still covered
his face, but he looked almost ordinary in his white hightops, tan khakis, and windbreaker.

I didn’t see a gun anywhere around him. He wasn’t moving, and I knew he was badly hurt. I crouched on my knees over him, my
eyes darting around as I checked him out.
Careful! Careful,
I warned myself. I didn’t see his partner anywhere.
He’s out there someplace. He knows how to shoot.

I peeled the costume mask off his face, the last façade ripped away.
You’re not a god. You bleed like the rest of us.

It was Dr. Will Rudolph. The Gentleman Caller lay close to death in the middle of the street in Chapel Hill. His blue-gray
eyes were glazing over. A sopping puddle of arterial blood had already collected under him.

People were pushing in closer from the sidewalk. They were gasping in horror and awe. Their eyes stretched wide. Most of them
had probably never seen anyone actually die. I had.

I lifted his head. The Gentleman. The murdering, maiming scourage of Los Angeles. He couldn’t believe that he’d been shot,
couldn’t accept it. His darting, fearful eyes told me that much.

“Who is Casanova?” I asked Dr. Will Rudolph. I wanted to shake it out of him. “Who is Casanova? Tell me.”

I kept looking around behind me. Where was Casanova? He wouldn’t let Rudolph die like this, would he? Two patrol cars finally
arrived. Three or four local cops ran toward me with their guns drawn.

Rudolph struggled to focus his eyes, to see me clearly, or perhaps to see the world one final time. A bloody bubble formed
on his lips and then popped with a soft spray.

His words came slowly. “You’ll never find him.” He smiled up at me. “You’re not good enough, Cross. You’re not even close.
He’s the best ever.”

A raspy howl rose from the Gentleman’s throat. I recognized the sound of the death rattle as I placed the death mask on the
monster’s face.

I
T WAS a wild, jubilant scene, one that I would never be able to forget. The immediate families and close friends of the captive
women kept arriving at Duke Medical Center all through the night. On the rolling hospital grounds and in the parking lot near
Erwin Road, a large, emotional crowd of students and townspeople gathered and stayed on past midnight. There were nothing
but indelible images for me.

Photographs of the survivors had been blown up and mounted on placards. Faculty and students held hands and sang spirituals
as well as “Give Peace a Chance.” For at least one night everyone chose to forget that Casanova was still out there somewhere.
I tried it for a few hours myself.

Sampson was alive and recovering inside the hospital. So was Kate. People I had never met came up and fiercely shook my hand
inside the suddenly festive facility. A father of one of the surviving victims broke down and wept in my arms. It had never
felt this good to be a policeman.

I took the elevator to the fourth floor to visit Kate. Before I walked into her room, I took a deep breath. Finally, I went
in. She looked like a mysterious mummy with all of her head bandages and wraps. Her condition had stabilized. She wasn’t going
to die, but she remained in a coma.

I held Kate’s hand and I told her the long day’s news. “The captive women are free. I was at the house with Sampson. They’re
safe, Kate. Now you come back to us. Tonight would be a good night,” I whispered.

I ached to hear Kate’s voice again, at least one more time. But no sound came from her lips. I wondered if Kate could hear
me, or make any sense of the words. I kissed her softly before I left for the night. “I love you, Kate,” I whispered against
her bandaged cheek. I doubted that she could hear me.

Sampson was located one floor above Kate. Man Mountain had already come out of surgery, and his condition was listed as good.

He was awake and alert when I came in to see him. “How’s Kate and the other women?” he asked me. “I’m about ready to leave
this place myself.”

“Kate’s still in a coma. I just came from her room. Your condition is ‘good,’ if you’re interested.”

“You tell the doctors to upgrade me to ‘excellent.’ I hear Casanova got away.” He started to cough, and I could tell he was
angry.

“Take it easy. We’ll get him.” I knew it was time for me to go.

“Don’t forget to bring me my shades,” he said as I left. “Too much light in this place. Feel like I’m in Kmart.”

At nine-thirty that night I was back in Scootchie’s hospital room. Seth Samuel was there. The two of them were impressive
to watch together. They were strong, but they were also sweet. I began the happy task of getting to know Naomi-and-Seth.

“Auntie Scootch! Auntie Scootch!”

I heard a familiar voice behind me, and it was the best sound. Nana, Cilla, Damon, and Jannie all trooped into the room. They
had flown in from Washington. Cilla broke down and cried as she saw her baby. I saw Nana Mama also wipe away a few tears.
Then Cilla and Naomi were giving the word
hug
a new meaning.

My kids watched their Auntie Scootch lying in the scary hospital bed. I could see the fear and confusion shining in their
little eyes, especially Damon’s, who tries to rise above all forms of uncertainty and terror in his life.

I went to my kids and scooped them up in my arms. I held them both as tightly as I could. “Hello, son, little cue ball in
the side pocket! How’s my Jannie?” I asked. For me, there’s nothing like my family, nothing even close. I imagine that’s part
of why I do what I do. I know it is. Doctor Detective Cross.

“You found Auntie Scootch,” Jannie whispered into my ear. She hugged me tightly with her strong little legs and arms. She
was even more excited than I was.

I
T WASN’T over for me. The job was only half-done. Two days later, I trudged down a well-worn path through the woods separating
Route 22 and the underground house. The local police officers I passed on the way were somber and quiet. They tramped out
of the woods with their heads lowered, not talking with one another, their faces drained of color and affect.

They had met the human monsters on an intimate basis now. They had seen the intricate and ghastly handiwork of Dr. Will Rudolph
and the other monster who called himself Casanova. Some of them had explored the house of horror.

Most of them knew me by now. I was a regular at the hellfires with them. Some nodded or waved hello. I waved back.

I was finally somewhat accepted in North Carolina. Twenty years ago that wouldn’t have been possible, not even under these
extreme circumstances. I was beginning to like it in the South a little, more than I would have thought possible.

I had a new notion, a plausible theory, about Casanova. It had to do with something I’d noticed during the gun-battle scene
in these woods and on the streets of Chapel Hill.
You’ll never find him,
I recalled Rudolph’s dying words. Never say never, Will.

Kyle Craig was at the house of horror that warm, hazy afternoon. So were about two hundred men and women from the Chapel Hill
and Durham police forces, as well as soldiers from Fort Bragg, North Carolina. They were getting to know the human monsters
up close and personal.

“Extraordinary time to be alive, to be a cop,” Kyle said to me. His humor got a shade darker every time I saw him. He worried
me. Kyle was such a loner most of the time. Such a careeraholic. Apparently such a straight arrow. He had even looked that
way in the Duke yearbook pictures I’d found of him.

“I feel sorry for these local people dragged out here for this,” I said to Kyle. My eyes passed slowly over the ghoulish crime
scene. “They won’t be able to forget this until the day they die. They’ll dream of it for years.”

“How about you, Alex?” Kyle asked. His intense, grayish-blue eyes leveled mine. Sometimes, he almost seemed to care about
me.

“Oh, I have so many nightmare images now, it’s hard to pick out just one favorite,” I confessed with a thin smile. “I’ll go
home soon. I’ll make my kids sleep in with me for a while. They love to, anyway. They won’t understand the
real
reason why. I’ll be able to sleep okay with the kids there to protect me. They pound on my chest if I have a nightmare.”

Kyle finally smiled. “You’re an unusual man, Alex. You’re both incredibly open
and
secretive.”

“Getting more unusual every day,” I said to Kyle. “You come on a new monster one of these days, don’t bother to call. I’m
monstered out.” I stared into his eyes, trying to make contact and not completely succeeding. Kyle was secretive too, not
very open with anybody that I knew of.

“I’ll try not to call,” Kyle said. “You rest up, though. There’s a monster working in the city of Chicago right now. Another
in Lincoln and Concord, Massachusetts. Someone very evil is taking children in Austin, Texas. Little babies, actually. Repeat
killers in Orlando and Minneapolis.”

“We’ve still got work here,” I reminded Kyle.

“Do we?” still got asked, his voice dripping with irony. “What work is that, Alex? You mean spadework?”

Kyle Craig and I watched the terrifying scene that was unfolding near the underground house. Seventy to eighty men were busy
digging up the meadow west of the “disappearing” house. They were working with heavy pickaxes and shovels. Searching for bodies
of murder victims. Spadework.

Since 1981, beautiful and intelligent women from all over the South had been abducted by the two monsters and murdered. It
was a thirteen-year reign of horror.
First, I fall in love with a woman. Then, I simply take her.
Will Rudolph had written that in his diaries out in California. I wondered if the sentiment was his or his
twin’s.
I wondered how badly Casanova was missing his friend now. How he grieved. How he planned to cope with his loss. Did he already
have a plan?