Cross

tell you not to talk?”
    “I didn’t tell anyone,” she said. “Please.”
    “You’re lying. I told you what was going to happen. Hell, I even
showed
you.”
    “I didn’t tell. I promise.”
    “I made a promise too, Marianne. Made it on my mother’s eyes.”
    Suddenly he sliced left to right across the college girl’s throat. Then he cut her again, going the other way.
    While she writhed on the floor, choking to death, he took some photos.
    Prizewinners, no doubt about it. He didn’t ever want to forget Marianne, Marianne.

Chapter 12
    THE NEXT NIGHT the Butcher was still in DC. He knew exactly what Jimmy Hats was thinking, but Jimmy was too much of a coward and a survivor to ask,
Do you have any idea what the hell you’re doing now? Or why we’re still in Washington?
    Well, as a matter of fact, he did. He was driving a stolen Chevy Caprice with tinted windows through the section of DC known as Southeast, searching out a
particular
house, getting ready to kill again, and it was all because of Marianne, Marianne and her big mouth.
    He had the address in his head and figured he was getting close now. He had one more hit to take care of, then he and Jimmy could finally blow out of Washington. Case closed.
    “Streets around here remind me of back home,” Jimmy Hats piped up from the passenger seat. He was trying to sound casual and unconcerned about their hanging around DC so long after the shooting of the Chinaman.
    “Why’s that?” asked the Butcher, his tongue planted firmly in his cheek. He knew what Jimmy was going to say. He almost always did. Truth be told, Jimmy Hats’s predictability was a comfort to him most of the time.
    “Everything’s fallin’ to shit, y’know, right before our eyes. Just like in Brooklyn. And
there’s
your reason why. See the shines hanging out on every other street corner? Who the hell else is gonna live here? Live like that?”
    Michael Sullivan smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. Hats could be moronic and irritating at times. “Politicians wanted to, they could fix this whole mess. Wouldn’t be so hard, Jimmy.”
    “Aw, Mikey, you’re such a bleedin’ heart. Maybe you should run for political office.” Jimmy Hats shook his head and turned to face the side window. He knew not to push it too far.
    “And you’re
not
wondering what the hell we’re doing here? You’re not thinking that I’m crazier than the last of the Coney Island shithouse rats? Maybe you want to jump out of the car. Head over to Union Station, hop a train back to New York, Jimmy my boy.”
    The Butcher was smiling when he said it, so Hats knew it was probably okay for him to laugh too.
Probably.
But in the past year he’d seen Sullivan kill two of their “friends,” one with a baseball bat, one with a plumber’s wrench. You had to be careful at all times.
    “So what
are
we doing here?” Hats asked. “Since we should be back in New York.”
    The Butcher shrugged. “I’m looking for a cop’s house.”
    Hats shut his eyes. “Aw, Jeezus. Not a cop. Why a cop?” Then he pulled his fedora down over his face. “See no evil,” he muttered.
    The Butcher shrugged, but he was amused. “Just trust me. Did I
ever
let you down? Did I
ever
go too far over the top?”
    They both started to laugh at that one. Did Michael Sullivan ever go too far over the top? Did he ever
not
go too far over the top was the better question.
    It took another twenty minutes to find the house he was looking for. It was a two-story A-frame, looked as if it had been painted recently, flowers in the window boxes.
    “Cop lives here? Not too bad a place actually. He fixed it up okay.”
    “Yeah, Jimmy. But I’m tempted to waltz in and create a little havoc. Maybe use my saw. Take some photographs.”
    Hats winced. “Is that such a good idea? Really, I’m bein’ serious here.”
    The Butcher shrugged. “I know you are. I can see that, James. I feel the heat from your brain working overtime.”
    “Cop have a name?” asked Hats. “Not that it matters.”
    “Not that it matters. Cop’s name is Alex Cross.”

Chapter 13
    THE BUTCHER PARKED a block or so up Fourth Street; then he got out of the car and walked quickly back toward the cozy house where the cop had the bottom-floor flat. Getting the correct address had been easy enough for him. The Mafia had ties with the Bureau, after all. He loped around the side, trying not to be seen, but not concerned if he was. People in these neighborhoods didn’t