I scrambled to my knees. Drew my gun and aimed it at the car.
I shot twice through the side window. I was screaming at Sullivan – at the Butcher – whoever the hell he was. I wanted him dead, and I wanted to be the one to do it.
This has to end.
Right here, right now.
Somebody dies.
Somebody lives.
Chapter 119
I FIRED AGAIN at the monster who had killed my wife and so many others, usually in unthinkable ways, with butcher hammers, saws, carving knives. Michael "the Butcher" Sullivan, die. Just die, you bastard. You deserve to die if anyone does on this earth.
He was climbing out of the car now.
What was happening? What was he doing?
He started to hobble in the direction of his wife and three sons. Blood was running down his shirt, seeping through, dripping onto his pants and shoes. Then Sullivan plopped down on the lawn beside his family. He hugged them to his sides.
Sampson and I moved forward at a slow run, puzzled by what was happening, unsure what to do next.
I could see streaks of blood on the boys, and all over Caitlin Sullivan. It was their father's blood, the Butcher's. When I got closer, I saw that he looked dazed, as if he might pass out or even die. Then he spoke to me. "She's a good person. She didn't know what I do, still doesn't. These are good boys. Get them away from here, from the Mafia."
I still wanted to kill him, and I was afraid he might live, but I lowered my gun. I couldn't point it at his wife and his kids.
Sullivan laughed, and he suddenly raised his gun to his wife's head. He yanked her up from the ground. "Put down the guns or I'll kill her, Cross. I'd do it in a heartbeat. I'll kill her. Even the boys. It's not a problem for me. That's who I am."
The look on Caitlin Sullivan's face wasn't so much surprise or shock as terrible sadness and disappointment in this man whom she probably loved, or had loved at one time anyway. The youngest boy was screaming at his father, and it was heart-wrenching. "No, Daddy, no! Don't hurt Mommy! Daddy, please!"
"Put the guns down!" Sullivan yelled.
What could I do? I had no choice. Not in my mind, not in my ethical universe. I dropped my Glock.
And Sullivan took a bow.
Then a shot exploded from his gun.
I felt a hard punch in the chest, and I was lifted halfway off the ground. For a second maybe, I was standing on my tiptoes. Dancing? Levitating? Dying?
I heard a second explosion – and then there wasn't much of anything. I knew that I was going to die, that I would never see my family again, and that I had no one to blame but myself.
I'd been warned enough times. I just didn't listen.
The Dragon Slayer no more.
Chapter 120
I WAS WRONG. I didn't die that night outside the Butcher's house, though I can't exactly say that I dodged another bullet.
I got shot up pretty bad, and I spent the next month at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston. Michael Sullivan took his bow, but then Sampson shot him twice in the chest. He died right there at the house.
I don't regret it. I don't have sympathy for the Butcher. And that probably means I haven't changed as much as I wanted to, that I'm still the Dragon Slayer at least.
Nearly every morning these days, after I see patients, I have a session with Adele Finaly She handles me as well as anybody could. One day, I tell her about the final shootout at the Sullivan house, and how I wanted the satisfaction of revenge, and justice, but I didn't get it. Adele says she understands, but she doesn't have any sympathy, not for Sullivan and not for me, either. We both see the obvious connections between Sullivan and me. Then one of us dies in front of his family.
"He told me that he didn't kill Maria," I tell Adele during the session.
"So what, Alex? You know he was a liar. A psychopath. Killer. Sadist. Piece of dog shit."
"Yes, all of that and more. But I think I believe him. I do. I just don't understand what it means yet. Another mystery to solve."
In another session, we talk about a road trip I made to Wake Forest, North Carolina, which is north of Raleigh. I took the new R350, the family car, the crossover vehicle. I went down there to visit Kayla Coles, to talk to her, to stare into her eyes when she talked to me.
Kayla was in great shape, mentally and physically, and said that she liked her life down there more than she'd expected. She told me that she was staying in Raleigh. "Lots of people to help down here in North Carolina, Alex," she said. "And the quality of life, for me anyway, is better than in Washington. Stay around awhile and check it out."
"Was that an invitation Kayla was giving you?" Adele asks after a silence between us.
"Could have been. An invitation she knew I wouldn't accept."
"Because?"
"Because? Because… I'm Alex Cross," I say.
"And that isn't going to change, is it? I'm just asking. Not as a therapist, Alex, as your friend."
"I don't know if it is. I want to change some things about my life. That's why I'm here. Besides the fact that I kind of enjoy shooting the breeze with you. All right, the answer is no, I'm not going to change all that much."
"Because you're Alex Cross?"
"Yes."
"Good," says Adele. "That's a start. And Alex -"
"Yeah?"
"I enjoy shooting the breeze with you too. You're one of a kind."
Chapter 121
ONE MORE MYSTERY TO BE SOLVED.
On a night in the spring, Sampson and I walked on Fifth Street, just hanging out together. Comfortable, like it's always been between the two of us. We were brown-bagging it with a couple of beers. Sampson had on Wayfarer sunglasses and an old Kangol hat I hadn't seen on his big head in years.
We passed old clapboard houses that have been here since we were kids and didn't look all that different now, though a lot of DC has changed tremendously, for good and bad, and something in between.
"I was worried about you up there in that hospital," he said.
"I was worried about myself. I was starting to get a Massachusetts accent. All those broad a's. And I was becoming politically correct."
"Something I need to talk to you about. Been on my mind a lot."
"I'm listening. Nice night for a talk."
"Little hard to get into it, to get started. This happened maybe two, three months after Maria was killed," Sampson continued. "You remember a neighborhood guy, Clyde Wills?"
"I remember Wills very well. Drug runner with lofty aspirations. Until they got him killed and dumped in a trash bin behind a Popeyes Chicken, if I recall."
"You got it right. Wills was a snitch for Rakeem Powell when Rakeem was a detective in the 103."
"Uh- huh. I'm not surprised Wills played both sides of the street. Where is this going?"
"That's what I'm going to tell you, sugar. That's what I'm trying to do. Clyde Wills found out some things about Maria – like who might have killed her," Sampson went on.
I didn't say anything, but a chill ran down my back. I kept walking forward, legs a little unsteady.
"It wasn't Michael Sullivan?" I asked. "Just like he said."
"He had a partner those days," Sampson said. "Tough guy from his old neighborhood in Brooklyn, name of James 'Hats' Galati. Galati was the one who shot Maria. Sullivan wasn't there. He may have put Galati up to it. Or maybe Galati was gunning for you."
I didn't say anything. To be honest, I couldn't. Besides, I wanted to let Sampson finish what he had come here to do. He stared straight ahead as he walked and talked, never once looking at me.
"Rakeem and I investigated. Took us a few weeks, Alex. We worked the case hard. Even went to Brooklyn. But we couldn't get any hard proof against Galati. We knew he did it, though. He'd talked about the hit to friends in New York. Galati had been trained as a sniper in the army down at Fort Bragg."
"You met Anthony Mullino back then, didn't you? That's why he remembered you?"