Cat and Mouse

finding useful and interesting insights all through the notes, and I was less than a third of the way through. I had already decided that Cross was a sharp police detective but an even better psychologist. His hypotheses and hunches weren’t merely clever and imaginative; they were often right. There’s an important difference in that, which many people fail to see, especially people in medium-high places.
    I looked up from my reading.
    “I’ve had some luck with difficult killers before. All except the one I really want to catch,” I told Sampson.
    He nodded, but his eyes stayed locked onto mine. “This Mr. Smith something of a cult hero now? Over in Europe, especially, the Continent, London, Paris, Frankfurt.”
    I wasn’t surprised that Sampson was aware of the ongoing case. The tabloids had made Mr. Smith their latest icon. The stories were certainly compelling reading. They played up the angle that Smith might be an alien. Even newspapers like the
New York Times
and the
Times
of London had run stories stating that police authorities believed Smith might be an extraterrestrial being who had come here to study humans. To
grok,
as it were.
    “Smith has become the evil E.T. Something for
X-Files
fans to contemplate between TV episodes. Who knows, perhaps Mr. Smith
is
a visitor from outer space, at least from some other parallel world. He doesn’t have anything in common with human beings, I can vouch for that. I’ve visited the murder scenes.”
    Sampson nodded. “Gary Soneji didn’t have much in common with the human race,” he said in his deep, strangely quiet voice. “Soneji was from another planet, too. He’s an ALF, alien life-form.”
    “I’m not sure he fits the same psychological profile as Smith.”
    “Why is that?” he asked. His eyes narrowed. “You think your mass killer is smarter than our mass killer?”
    “I’m not saying that. Gary Soneji was very bright, but he made mistakes. So far, Mr. Smith hasn’t made any.”
    “And that’s why you’re going to solve this hinky mystery? Because Gary Soneji makes mistakes?”
    “I’m not making predictions,” I told Sampson. “I know better than that. So do you.”
    “Did Gary Soneji make a mistake at Alex’s house?” he suddenly asked, his dark eyes penetrating.
    I sighed out loud. “I think someone did.”
    The helicopter was settling down to land outside Princeton. A thin line of cars silently streamed past the airfield on a state highway. People watched us from the cars. It could safely be assumed that everything had started here. The house where Gary Soneji had been raised was less than six miles away. This was the monster’s original lair.
    “You’re sure Soneji’s not still alive?” John Sampson asked one more time. “Are you absolutely sure about that?”
    “No,” I finally said. “I’m not sure of anything yet.”

Chapter 85

    A SSUME NOTHING, question everything.
    As we set down in the small private airfield, I could feel the hair on the back of my neck standing on end.
What was wrong here? What was I feeling about the Cross case?
    Beyond the thin ribbons of landing strip were acre upon acre of pine forests and hills. The beauty of the countryside, the incredible shades of green, reminded me of something Cézanne had once said: “When color is at its richest, form is at its fullest.” I never looked at the world in quite the same way after hearing that.
    Gary Soneji was brought up near here,
I thought to myself.
Was it possible that he could still be alive? No, I didn’t believe that. But could there be connections?
    We were met in New Jersey by two field agents who brought a blue Lincoln sedan for our use. Sampson and I proceeded from Princeton to Rocky Hill and then over to Lambertville, to see his grandfather. I knew that Sampson and Alex Cross had been to Princeton less than a week ago. Still, I had questions of my own, theories that needed field-testing.
    I also wanted to see the entire area where Gary Soneji had grown up, where his madness had been inflicted and nurtured. Mostly I wanted to talk with someone neither Cross nor Sampson had spent much time investigating, a brand-new suspect.
    Assume nothing, question everything… and everyone.
    Seventy-five-year-old Walter Murphy, Gary’s grandfather, was waiting for us on a long, whitewashed porch. He didn’t ask us inside his house.
    The porch had a nice view out from the farmhouse. I saw multiflora rose everywhere, an impenetrable bramble. The