I, Alex Cross

his wrists before he knew they were there.
    Handcuffs?
    Next, the Hispanic intruder dragged him by the collar all the way back into the living room, where he dropped him midpoint on the rug.
    Charlotte was sitting in one of the Barcelona chairs with a strip of silver tape plastered over her mouth.
    A second man — were there really only two of them? — stood over her, watching Nicholson with faint interest, almost boredom, like he did this kind of thing every day.
    They weren’t FBI or police; that much seemed clear. And they were nothing like the two goons from last week. Their clothes were dark, and they wore black balaclavas pulled up off their faces and latex gloves on their hands.
    Not exactly cops, but close. Former cops? Special Forces?
    The one who had attacked him was smash nosed, with dark eyes that seemed to be looking down at an unworthy specimen more than anything.
    "The disk?" was all that he said.
    "Disk?" Nicholson gutted out the word between clenched teeth. "What the hell are you talking about? Who are you two?"
    "
Two
— I like that number."
    The man looked at his stainless-steel watch. "You have about two minutes."
    "Two minutes or what?" Nicholson asked, but then he saw the answer to his question.
    The taller one took out a clear plastic bag and pulled it down over Charlotte’s head. She struggled, but he had no trouble wrapping bands of the silver tape around her neck, sealing her head inside the plastic.
    Nicholson could see Charlotte’s expression change as she realized exactly what was happening. He even felt a pinch of pity, maybe even lost love, something emotional and, well, human. For the first time in years, he felt a connection to Charlotte.
    "You’re insane! You can’t do this!" he yelled at the man holding down his wife.
    "
You’re
the one doing this, Mr. Nicholson. You’re in complete control of the situation, not us. This is all on you. For God’s sake, make us stop."
    "But I don’t even understand what you want. Tell me what it is!"
    He lunged for Charlotte, but the injured knee took him right back down, wedged embarrassingly between the couch and the coffee table.
    "Please, tell me what you want! I don’t understand!" Nicholson begged at the top of his lungs as convincingly as possible. It was the performance of a lifetime, and it had to be.
    By the time he got himself onto the couch, Charlotte had gone still.
    Her familiar blue eyes were wide open. Her head lolled against her shoulder like some marionette waiting to be picked up. It was grotesque, with the plastic bag still on, and easy to respond to.
    "You bastards! You fucking bastards, you killed her! Now do you believe me? Is that what it takes?"
    The two men were as cool as ever. They exchanged a glance. A couple of shrugs.
    "We should go," the white guy said. The other nodded, and for a second Nicholson thought he’d pulled it off, that maybe "we" meant only the two of them. It didn’t. One of them picked up Charlotte and the other dragged Nicholson.
    As he was forced to hobble on his good leg toward the door — and God knew where after that — Nicholson had the strangest thought he’d had all day. He wished he had been nicer to Charlotte.

Chapter 53

    NED MAHONEY AND I were in my car, headed east on I-66 toward Alexandria, when the call came in that we were too late. Virginia State Police were reporting that they’d found Nicholson’s house empty. There were signs of a break-in and a struggle, two packed suitcases left behind, both of the Nicholsons’ cars still in the garage.
    An APB was in effect, but without a specific vehicle to look for, it didn’t carry much hope of an apprehension.
    The plan was still to convene at the Nicholson house. ADIC Hamel was calling in another Evidence Response Team right away. And Mahoney phoned someone at the Hoover Building to do some fast digging on Nicholson.
    He also had one of the Bureau-issue Toughbooks in the car, which let him double up on research. He started feeding me information rapid-fire, the way Ned always does when he’s keyed up.
    "Well, our boy’s never been arrested, naturalized, federally employed, in the military — no big surprises. He doesn’t have any known aliases either. And he doesn’t cross-reference in any Bureau file, under Tony or Anthony Nicholson."
    "I don’t think he’s our killer," I said.
    Mahoney stopped what he was doing and gave me his attention. "Because?"
    "There’re too many loose ends here," I explained.