Alex Cross 02 - Kiss the Girls (43 page)

Casanova flew back hard against the wall of the house. His body thrashed. His legs didn’t work. Numbness was already spreading
through his body. The expression on his face was one of shock. He realized he was human, after all.

His eyeballs seemed to float upward and disappear into the top of his head. Only the whites of his eyes showed. His legs kicked,
kicked again, then stopped. Casanova died almost instantly on the beach-house floor.

I stood up on rubbery legs. I noticed that I was glazed with sweat. Icy cold. Unpleasant as hell. I struggled over to Kate,
and we held on to each other for a long time. We were both trembling with fear, but also triumph. We had won. We had beaten
Casanova.

“I hated him so much,” Kate whispered. “I never even understood the word before.”

I telephoned the Cape Hatteras police. Then I called the FBI, and my kids and Nana in Washington. It was finally over.

I
SAT on the familiar sun porch of my home sweet home in Washington. I was sipping a cold beer with Sampson.

It was fall, and the crisp, cool bite of winter was already in the air. Our beloved and despised Redskins were already in
football training camp; the Orioles were out of the pennant race again.
“And so it goes,”
Kurt Vonnegut wrote once upon a time, when I was at Johns Hopkins and susceptible to such easy, breezy sentiments.

I could see my kids in the living room. They were on the couch together watching
Beauty and the Beast
for the leventy-leventh time. I didn’t mind. It was a good, strong story and it bore repeating. Tomorrow, it would be
Aladdin
again, my personal favorite.

“I saw today that D.C. deploys three times as many police as the national average,” Sampson was telling me.

“Yeah, but we have twenty times as much crime. We didn’t get to be the
capital
city of America for nothing,” I said. “Like one of our past mayors said, ‘Outside of the killings, Washington has one of
the lowest crime rates in the country.’”

Sampson laughed. We both did. Life was finally returning to normal.

“You all right?” Sampson asked me after a while. He hadn’t asked that since I’d been back from the South, from the Outer Banks,
my “summer vacation,” as I called it.

“I’m just fine. I’m a big macho, kickass detective like you.”

“You’re a lying sack of shit, Alex. Ten pounds in a one-pound bag.”

“That, too. Goes without saying.” I admitted to my faults with him.

“I asked you a serious damn question,” he said. He was giving me a flat, cold stare from behind his shades. Kind of reminded
me of Hurricane Carter when he was a fighter. “You miss her, man?”

“Of course I miss her. Hell, yes. I
told
you that I’m all right, though. I never had a woman friend like that. You?”

“No. Not like that. You understand that
both
of you are very
odd?
” He shook his head and didn’t know what to make of me. I didn’t either.

“She wants to set up practice where she grew up. She made a promise to her family. That’s what she’s decided to do for the
time being. I need to be here right now. Make sure you grow up all right. That’s what I decided to do. That’s what we decided
together down in Nags Head. It’s the right thing.”

“Uh, huh.”

“It’s the right thing, John. It’s what the two of us decided.”

Sampson sipped his beer thoughtfully, as us macho men often do. He rocked in his easy chair, and watched me suspiciously over
the mouth of the beer bottle. He “watched over me” is what he did.

Later that night, I sat all alone on the porch.

I played “Judgment Day,” then “God Bless the Child” on the piano. I thought about Kate again and about the thorny subject
of loss. Most of us learn to deal with it somehow. We get better at it anyhow.

Kate had told me a powerful story while we were in Nags Head. She was a good storyteller, a reincarnated Carson McCullers.

When she was twenty, she said, she learned that her father was tending bar in a honky-tonk near the Kentucky border, and she
went to the bar one night. She told me that she hadn’t seen her father in sixteen years. She sat in the seedy, bad-smelling
bar and watched him for almost half an hour. She hated what she saw. Finally she left, without ever introducing herself to
her own father, without even telling him who she was. Kate just left.

She was so tough, and mostly in good ways. That was how she had survived all of those deaths in her family. It was probably
why she was the one who had escaped from Casanova’s house.

I remembered what she had told me—
just one night, Alex.
A night neither of us would ever be able to forget. I hadn’t been able to forget it. I hoped Kate hadn’t either.

As I stared out the porch window into the darkness, I couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that I was being watched. I solved
the problem in true Doctor-Detective fashion. I stopped staring out the grime-stained window.

I know they are out there, though.

They know where I live.

I finally went to bed, and had no sooner fallen off to sleep, when I heard a banging sound in the house. Loud banging. Persistent
noise. Trouble.

I grabbed my service revolver and hurried downstairs, where the banging noise continued. I glanced at my wristwatch. It was
three-thirty. A witching hour. Trouble for me.

I found Sampson lurking at the back door. He was the noise-maker.

“There’s been a murder,” he said as I unlocked, unchained, and opened up for him. “This one is a honey, Alex.”