Alex Cross's Trial

my astonishment I felt strangely, incredibly happy.

    The White House was bathed in an intensely golden light, and as I walked northwest on the wide avenue, past the tattered rooming houses and saloons, I saw the Washington Monument sparkling in the distance like a gigantic diamond hatpin.

    Certainly I was angry that Theodore Roosevelt had used me as a pawn in one of his electoral chess games. And I dreaded even more the moment when I returned home to find my house empty.

    But still, there was something hopeful in the light sparkling on the monument, and the delightful smell of woodsmoke on the breeze.

    I found myself remembering Abraham Cross a few nights ago, just before he drifted off to sleep.

    “You did fine, Ben. You did just fine.”

    To have a man like Abraham say that… well, that’s all anyone could ever ask for.

    “You did fine, Ben. You did just fine.”

    I turned off South Carolina Avenue onto our street. Everything looked so familiar that I might have left home only a day or two ago. No one had taken a paintbrush to our peeling little house. The second-floor shutters still hung tilted and broken, and the brick walkway was still perilously uneven.

    As I mounted the front steps, three months’ worth of anxiety was twisting my insides into a hard knot.

    I unlocked the door and stepped into the vestibule. All was still.

    I walked to the bottom of the stairs and stood there a few moments. And then—

    I heard Alice’s little voice.

    “I think I heard the front door,” she said.

    I knelt down to remove two identical boxes wrapped in brown paper from my valise. I shucked off the paper and opened them.

    “Do you think it could be Papa?” Amelia asked.

    Then—I heard Meg’s voice.

    “I certainly hope so,” she said. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

    I ran up those stairs clutching the gifts for my girls—identical brown, fuzzy teddy bears, the most popular dolls of the day, inspired by President Roosevelt himself.

    “Daddy!” screamed my girls, all three of them.

    I took the little ones into my arms. “Now, which of you is Alice, and which is Amelia?” I asked as they giggled and snuggled into my chest.

    Then I reached out my free arm. “And you—you must be Meg. I’ve missed you so much.” Then Meg came into my arms too. “I’ll never leave you again,” I whispered.

    True to my word, I never did.

    THE WORLD ALL AROUND YOU.
    LIFE AS YOU KNOW IT.
    EVERYTHING YOU LOVE.
    IT ALL CHANGES—NOW.
    WITCH & WIZARD
    This is the story I was born to tell.
    Read on, while you still can.
    —JAMES PATTERSON
    COMING IN DECEMBER 2009

    Prologue

    WISTY

    IT’S OVERWHELMING. A city’s worth of angry faces staring at me like I’m a wicked criminal—which, I promise you, I’m not. The stadium is filled to capacity— past capacity. People are standing in the aisles, the stairwells, on the concrete ramparts, and a few extra thousand are camped out on the playing field. There are no football teams here today. They wouldn’t be able to get out of the locker-room tunnels if they tried.

    This total abomination is being broadcast on TV and on the Internet too. All the useless magazines are here, and the useless newspapers. Yep, I see cameramen in elevated roosts at intervals around the stadium.

    There’s even one of those remote-controlled cameras that runs around on wires above the field. There it is—hovering just in front of the stage, bobbing slightly in the breeze.

    So, there are undoubtedly millions more eyes watching than I can see. But it’s the ones here in the stadium that are breaking my heart. To be confronted with tens, maybe even hundreds of thousands of curious, uncaring, or at least indifferent, faces… talk about frightening.

    And there are no moist eyes, never mind tears.

    No words of protest.

    No stomping feet.

    No fists raised in solidarity.

    No inkling that anybody’s even thinking of surging forward, breaking through the security cordon, and carrying my family to safety.

    Clearly, this is not a good day for us Allgoods.

    In fact, as the countdown ticker flashes on the giant video screens at either end of the stadium, it’s looking like this will be our last day.

    It’s a point driven home by the very tall, bald man up in the tower they’ve erected midfield—he looks like a cross between a Supreme Court chief justice and Ming the Merciless. I know who he is. I’ve actually met him. He’s The One Who Is The One.

    Directly behind his Oneness is a huge N.O. banner— the New Order.

    And then