Cat and Mouse

medicine. Now I’m part of the Behavioral Science Unit of the FBI. I’m thirty-three years old. Truthfully, the only place I might look like a “Doc” is in an episode of the TV show
ER.
    I was rushed from the training compound at Quantico to Washington early that morning. I had been ordered to help investigate the attack on Dr. Alex Cross and members of his immediate family. To be candid, I didn’t want to be involved in the case for a number of reasons. Most important, I was already part of a difficult investigation, one that had drained nearly all of my energy — the Mr. Smith case.
    Instinctively, I knew that some people would be angry with me because of the shooting of Alex Cross and my being at the crime scene so quickly. I knew with absolute certainty I would be seen as opportunistic, when that couldn’t be farther from the truth.
    There was nothing I could do about it now. The Bureau wanted me there. So I put it out of my mind. I tried to anyway. I was performing my job. The same as Dr. Cross would have done for me under comparably unfortunate circumstances.
    I was certain of one thing, though, from the moment I arrived. I knew I looked as shocked and outraged as anyone else standing sentinel in the crowd gathered at the house of Fifth street. I probably looked angry to some of them. I
was
angry. My mind was full of chaos, fear of the unknown, fear of failure, too. I was close to the state of mind described as “toast.” Too many days, weeks, months in a row with Mr. Smith. Now this new bit of blasphemy.
    I had listened to Alex Cross speak once at a profiler seminar at the University of Chicago. He had made an impression. I hoped that he would live, but the reports were all bad. Nothing I’d heard so far left room for hope.
    I figured that was why they’d brought me in on the case right away. The vicious attack on Cross would mean major headings, and put intense pressure on both the Washington police and the Bureau. I was there on Fifth Street for the simplest of reasons — to relieve the pressure.
    I felt an unpleasant aura, residue from the recent violence, as I approached the tidy, white-shingled Cross house. Some policemen I passed were red-eyed and a few seemed almost to be in shock. It was all very strange and disquieting.
    I wondered if Alex Cross had died since I had left Quantico
. I already had a sixth sense for the terrible and unexpected violence that had taken place inside the modest, peaceful-looking house. I wished that none of the others were at the crime scene, So I could absorb everything without all these distractions.
    That was what I had been brought here to do. Observe the scene of unbelievable mayhem
. Get a gut feeling for what might have happened in the early hours of the morning. Figure everything out quickly and efficiently.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I say Kyle Craig coming out of the house. He was in a hurry, as he always is. I sighed.
Now it begins, now it begins
    Kyle crossed Fifth Street in a quick job. He came up to me and we shook hands. I was glad to see him. Kyle is smart and very organized, and also supportive of those he works with. He’s famous for getting things done.
    “They just moved Alex,” he said, “He’s hanging on.”
    “What’s the prognosis? Tell me, Kyle.” I needed to know everything. I was there to collect facts. This was the start of it.
    Kyle averted his eyes. “Not good. They say he won’t live. They’re sure he won’t live.”

Chapter 73

    T HE PRESS CORPS intercepted Kyle and me as we headed toward the Cross house. There were already a couple dozen reporters and cameramen at the scene. The vultures effectively blocked our way, wouldn’t let us pass. They knew who Kyle was and possibly they knew about me, too.
    “Why is the FBI already involved?” one of them shouted above the street noise and general commotion. Two news helicopters fluttered overhead. They loved this sort of disaster. “We hear this is connected to the Soneji case. Is that true?”
    “Let me talk to them,” Kyle whispered close to my ear.
    I shook my head. “They’ll want to talk to me about it anyway. They’ll find out who I am. Let’s get the silly shit over with.”
    Kyle frowned, but then he nodded slowly. I tried to control my impatience as I walked toward the horde of reporters.
    I waved my hands over my head and that quieted some of them. The media is extremely visual, I’ve learned the hard way, even the print journalists, the so-called