“Funny,” he said. “You look so much like her.” When the woman didn’t respond, he stepped in closer, crossing that invisible line of personal space between them. “Almost exactly like her, in fact.”
Now, as she turned around, the annoyance on her face was clear, even through the Botox.
“Listen,” she said, “I don’t mean to be rude—”
“You never do, Miranda.”
As he came right up on top of her, she put a hand out to deflect him. But Dr. Creem was stronger than the old man he appeared to be. Stronger than Darcy Vickers, too. His left hand clamped over her mouth as she tried to call out.
“It’s me, sweetheart,” he whispered. “It’s your husband. And don’t worry. All is forgiven.”
He paused, just long enough to see the surprise come up in her eyes, before he drove the steak knife deep into her abdomen. A scalpel would have been nice, but it seemed best to stay away from the tools of his own trade for the time being.
All the air seemed to leave Darcy Vickers’s lungs in a rush, and she collapsed forward, bending at the middle. It was a bit of work to get the knife out, but then it came free all at once.
With a quick sweep of his leg, Creem kicked her ankles off the ground and lifted her into the trunk. She never even struggled. There were just a few gurgling sounds, followed by the glottal stoppage of several half-realized breaths.
He leaned in close, to make sure it would all reach Bergman’s ears over the phone. Then he stabbed again, into the chest this time. And once more down below, opening the femoral artery with a swift, L-shaped motion, so there could be no chance of recovery.
Working quickly, he took a hank of her long blond hair in his hand and sawed it off with the serrated edge of the knife. Then he cut another, and another, and another, until it was nearly gone, sheared down to where the scalp showed through in ragged patches. He kept just one handful of it for himself, tucked into a Ziploc bag, and left the rest lying in tufts around her body.
She died just as ugly as she had lived. And Dr. Creem was starting to feel better already.
When it was done, Creem closed the trunk and walked away, taking the nearest stairs down toward M Street. He didn’t speak until he was clear of the garage and outside on the sidewalk.
“Joshua?” he said. “Are you still there?”
Bergman took a few seconds to answer. “I’m . . . here,” he said. His breath was ragged, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Are you . . .” Creem grinned, though he was also a little disgusted. “Joshua, were you masturbating?”
“No,” his friend said, too quickly. Bergman had an ironic sense of modesty, all things considered. “Is it done?” he asked then.
“Signed, sealed, delivered,” Creem said. “And you know what that means.”
“Yes,” Bergman said.
“Your move, old pal. I can’t wait to see what you cook up.”
Part One
WIN, LOSE, OR DRAW
CHAPTER
1
IN THE PREDAWN DARKNESS OF APRIL 6, RON GUIDICE SAT BEHIND THE WHEEL of his car, keeping an eye on the house across the way.
Alex Cross’s place was nothing special, really. Just a white three-story clapboard on Fifth Street in Southeast DC. The shutters were ready for a coat of paint. There was a tidy little herb garden on the front stoop.
Cross lived here with his grandmother, his wife, and two of his three children, Janelle and Alex Jr., aka Ali. The oldest Cross child, Damon, was home for spring break, but he spent most of his time at boarding school these days. And there was a foster kid, too. Ava Williams. It wasn’t clear whether she was on track for adoption, or what. Guidice still had some digging to do. He liked to know as much as possible about his subjects.
There were a dozen Metro police officers on his list, and he’d been keeping tabs on all of them, mostly as a point of comparison. But Cross was special. Alex was the one that Guidice wanted to kill.
Just not yet.
Killing a man was easy. Any half-wit with a gun could put a bullet in someone’s head. But really knowing a man—learning his weak spots first, getting to know his vulnerabilities, and taking his life apart, piece by piece? That took some doing.