Double Cross

of his, so much cleaner and more upbeat than New York or Los Angeles, or even Washington.
    Freedom
is a hell of a concept
, he thought as he rode along in the third and final cab on busy Michigan Avenue. Especially after time spent in that seven-by-twelve hole inside ADX Florence. Life at the prison was cruel and unusual punishment, like being suffocated to death, very slowly and painfully, over several years. ADX Florence literally crushed its prisoners to death, as if the jail were a living thing.
    But now—
he was out
.
    He had important things to do, not the least of which was carrying out a most exciting plan for revenge against everyone who had hurt him in the past.
Everyone
! It had usually been about revenge for him, the idea of hurting—sometimes torturing—people who offended him, and that certainly hadn’t changed. This plan—well, it could take years to complete. It was his masterpiece, after all.
    He thought about DCAK for a moment. Actually, Kyle had first come across the killer while still with the FBI. The killer had been living and working on the West Coast—an actor—doing small roles and an occasional murder. Kyle had linked murders in Sacramento, Seattle, and LA to the actor. He’d made contact—twice—by e-mail. But then Kyle had been caught himself, something he had never expected. Ironically, it was while he was in jail that he discovered he had so many fans . . . and imitators. It made sense, actually. Once he was in jail, they knew
where
to contact the Mastermind, and a few clever ones figured out how to do it.
    But enough ancient history for the moment. That was such a bore.
Just look at the zombies out there on the Midway
! he thought as he cruised along in the speeding cab. He wished he could kill a few of them too, but alas, he was on a schedule, though one of his own making.
    No one paid the least bit of attention to him back at the hotel. Imagine that. No respect, no disrespect—which was a good thing.
Wasn’t it
? He had cut his hair down to the scalp and usually wore one of the half-dozen prosthetic masks he kept in his suitcase.
    He got to the room—thinking about DCAK and what he was planning for him—slid in the key card, and heard someone inside.
    What was this? A visitor?
He’d left the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door.
    He took out his gun, a small Beretta that was easy to conceal under his loose-fitting clothes.
    Yes, somebody was definitely in there. Interesting development. Who was it? Alex Cross?
No, that wasn’t even a remote possibility.
DCAK? Here in Chicago?
He doubted it.
Chicago police?
That would be more likely.
    He turned the corner—and saw a housekeeper, a young black woman. Listening to her iPod. Oblivious to the world, and who could blame her? Not bad-looking, actually. Chesty, long skinny legs, working barefoot on the rug. Smooth skin. Hair in a tight ponytail. Lord, he had missed this—longed for it every day in jail, several times a day.
    “I’m sor-ry,” the girl drawled when she saw him standing there, the gun tucked behind his back now. No need to frighten the poor thing half to death.
    “Oh, it’s not a problem. Just finish up what you’re doing,” he said, slipping the gun back into the holster under his vest.
    He took out his ice pick instead. Fingered it, like Queeg with those metal balls.
    “You’re too pretty to be working here like this, cleaning rooms. I’m sorry if that’s insulting. I’ve forgotten my manners lately.”
    The girl stammered without looking at him. “I’ll c-come back,” she said.
    “No,” Kyle said. “Actually, you won’t. There is no afterlife.” Then, “In
my
honor,” he whispered as he struck the maid’s chest, once, twice—for symmetry, for art’s sake, for the joy of it. And he thought,
She reminds me of one of Alex Cross’s girlfriends
. And he stabbed her again.
    He even left another little clue before he abandoned the room—a bobble-head figure of the great outlaw Jesse James.
    Jesse James! Would anybody get that one?
    Anybody in their right mind?

Chapter 80

    NANA SWEARS that good, positive things happen in twos and threes, though I can’t remember that actually happening to me. Lately, even
one
positive thing in a row was hard to come by.
    In the morning, I spoke with Tess Olsen’s editor at a New York publishing house, then to the author’s personal assistant in Maryland, and I was able to get a copy of the proposal for the book that Olsen had planned to write about Kyle