Kill Alex Cross

With a few pieces of missing siding near the peak, the whole thing looked like a face with black gaps for orifices. He always thought of the entrance as the mouth.
    Just inside, he untrussed the fat little rabbit and let it roll out onto the floor, right next to the last one. From his pack, he took a plastic travel container of granular lye and a small Poland Spring bottle he’d filled from the tap at home. He sprinkled both over the animal. The lye sped up the breakdown of tissue, and the water sped up the lye. It was an old farm trick, and a half-decent little insurance policy, too. Nothing said keep walking like a goopy carcass in your path.
    Not that anyone ever came back this far anymore — but just in case.
    At the back of the barn, in the last stall, he moved aside the stack of rotting wooden pallets and lifted the layers of moldy cardboard away.
    There was no handle on the trapdoor anymore, but just enough gap in the floorboards to get a grip. He raised the flap and let it rest against the stall wall. Then he climbed down the ladder inside.
    The root cellar — if that’s what it had been — was no more than six by six in the antechamber, and then maybe twice that on the other side of the door.
    There was just enough light from above to show him the sliding panel he’d installed a long time ago. He opened it now and dropped in the granola bars and the juice boxes.
    Neither of the two inside spoke to him. They’d stopped trying after the first few days. But he heard one of them stir, and a soft scrabble across the floor.
    Then, “Ethan? Ethan, here.”
    There was the crinkle of plastic wrappers, and the sound of them gobbling down the food. If they’d figured out what was in the juice by now, they didn’t much care.
    He sat crouched with his back against the door, listening. It never took too long once the juice was gone. Their breathing slowed and became regular. Within a few minutes, they were both out cold.
    Record .
    “Everyone’s going to want to know what I was thinking. They’re going to wonder what kind of monster could do something like this, and they’re going to make a lot of assumptions.
    “But maybe — just maybe — this is all for a reason that you can’t see right now. Did that ever cross your mind?
    “I know that Ethan and Zoe don’t deserve their fate, but then again, neither did I. You think I wouldn’t rather be somewhere else right now, with nothing to say? I only wish I was that lucky.
    “So, here it is. If you want to know what I’m thinking while I’m doing this, I’ll tell you. The answer’s simple. I’m thinking about my son. My love.
    “What are you thinking about?”
    Stop .

RYAN TOWNSEND WAS a fidgety kid. Not that I could really blame him. He had a police detective staring him down from one side, and his parents from the other. His feet never stopped swinging, back and forth, the whole time we talked.
    It had taken half a dozen phone calls, but Congressman and Mrs. Townsend had finally given me some time to speak with their son. All on their terms, of course. We met on Saturday, eight thirty a.m., at their sprawling mansard-roofed house on Thirtieth Street in Georgetown.
    “This shouldn’t take too long,” I told Ryan up front. “I’ve read everything you told the FBI agents already. Most of it’s about the fight between you and Zoe on the morning of the kidnapping —”
    “It wasn’t a fight,” the congressman cut me off. He and his wife were both perched on a clawfoot settee across from me. “ With all due respect, Zoe hit Ryan with a book and bloodied his nose. Let’s just be clear about that.”
    Ryan sank lower in his chair. His bare feet scuffed the walnut floorboards a little faster.
    “Fair enough,” I said. “Ryan, what I’d really like to know is how things got so bad between you and Zoe to begin with.”
    “Is that even relevant?” Mrs. Townsend asked. “Surely you’re not suggesting Ryan had anything to do with this.”
    “Nothing like that,” I said. “I’m just trying to learn as much about Ethan and Zoe as I can. I think your son might have a unique perspective.”
    This was why I wanted to meet with Ryan alone, but that issue had been a nonstarter with his parents. They had every right to sit in, and every intention of doing so.
    “Go ahead, Ryan,” his father told him. “We’ve got nothing to hide here. You can answer the question.”
    Ryan took a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks. “Zoe started it,” he