Cat and Mouse

that’s good.
    “I’m fine.” She opened her eyes and offered a smile. “Just a little tired is all. Too many early mornings and late nights.”
    Agent Dampier hesitated, then he said, “I’m sorry it has to be this way.”
    “Thank you,” she whispered. “You make it a lot easier for me with your kindness. And
you’re
a real good driver,” she kidded agent Denjeau, who mostly kept quiet, but laughed now.
    The FBI sedan hurtled down a steep concrete ramp and entered the building from the rear. This was a delivery entrance, she knew by now. She noticed that she was hugging herself again. Everything about the nightly trip seemed so unreal to her.
    Both agents escorted her upstairs, right to the door, at which point they stepped back and she entered alone.
    She gently closed the door and leaned against it. Her heart was pounding — it was always this way.
    “Hello, Christine,” Alex said, and she went and held him so tight,
so tight,
and everything was suddenly so much better. Everything made sense again.

Chapter 98

    M Y FIRST morning back in Washington, I decided to visit the Cross house on Fifth Street again. I needed to look over Cross’s notes on Gary Soneji one more time. I had a deepening sense that Alex Cross knew his assailant, had met the person at some time before the vicious attack.
    As I drove to the house through the crowded D.C. streets I went over the physical evidence again. The first really significant clue was that the bedroom where Cross was attacked had been tightly controlled. There was little or no evidence of chaos, of someone being out of his mind. There was ample evidence that the assailant was in what is called a cold rage.
    The other significant factor was the evidence of “overkill” in the bedroom. Cross had been struck half a dozen times before he was shot. That would seem to conflict with the tight control at the crime scene, but I didn’t think so: Whoever came to the house had a deep hatred for Cross.
    Once inside the house, the attacker operated as Soneji would have. The assailant had hidden in the cellar. Then he copycatted an earlier attack Soneji had made at the house. No weapons had been found, so the attacker was definitely clearheaded. No souvenirs had been taken from Cross’s room.
    Alex Cross’s detective shield had been left behind. The attacker wanted it found. What did that tell me — that the killer was proud of what he had accomplished?
    Finally, I kept returning to the single most striking and meaningful clue so far. It had jumped at me from the first moment I arrived on Fifth Street and began to collect data.
    The attacker had left Alex Cross and his family alive.
Even if Cross died, the assailant had departed from the house with the knowledge that Cross was still breathing.
    Why would the intruder do that? He could have killed Cross. Or was it always part of a plan to leave Cross alive? If so, why?
    Solve that mystery, answer that question — case solved.

Chapter 99

    T HE HOUSE was quiet, and it had a sad and empty feeling, as houses do when a big, important piece of the family is missing.
    I could see Nana Mama working feverishly in her kithen. The smell of baking bread, roast chicken, and baked sweet potatoes flowed through the house, and it was soothing and reassuring. She was lost in her cooking, and I didn’t want to disturb her.
    “Is she okay?” I asked Sampson. He had agreed to meet me at the house, though I could tell he was still angry about my leaving the case for a few days.
    He shrugged his shoulders. “She won’t accept that Alex isn’t coming back, if that’s what you mean,” he said. “If he dies, I don’t know what will happen to her.”
    Sampson and I climbed the stairs in silence. We were in the hallway when the Cross children appeared out of a side bedroom.
    I hadn’t formally met Damon and Jannie, but I had heard about them. Both children were beautiful, though still showing bruises from the attack. They had inherited Alex’s good looks. They had bright eyes and their intelligence showed.
    “This is Mr. Pierce,” Sampson said, “he’s a friend of ours. He’s one of the good guys.”
    “I’m working with Sampson,” I told them. “Trying to help him.”
    “Is he, Uncle John?” the little girl asked. The boy just stared at me — not angry, but wary of strangers. I could see his father in Damon’s wide brown eyes.
    “Yes, he is working with me, and he’s very good at it,” Sampson said. He surprised