He did like the girl and had been watching her for twenty-four hours now, which was how she came to break his heart. She'd gone and shot her mouth off. He knew it for sure because he'd heard her talking to her best friend, Cindi, about a "counselor" she'd spoken to a few days before. Then she'd gone back for a second "counseling" session, against his explicit order and warning.
Mistake, Marianne.
After her noon class in hoity-toity eighteenth-century British literature, Marianne, Marianne left the campus, and he followed her in a group of at least twenty students. He could tell right away that she was headed to her apartment. Good deal.
Maybe she was done for the day, or maybe she had a long break between classes. Didn't matter either way. She'd broken the rules, and she had to be dealt with.
Once he knew where she was going, he decided to beat her there. As a senior, she was allowed to live off campus, and she shared a small two-bedroom off of Thirty-ninth Street on Davis with young Cindi. The place was a fourth-floor walk-up, and he had no trouble getting inside. The front door had a key lock. What a joke that was.
He decided to get comfortable while he waited, so he stripped down, took off his shoes and all his clothes. Truth was, he didn't want to get blood on his duds.
Then he waited for the girl, read some more of his book, hung out. As soon as Marianne walked inside her bedroom, the Butcher wrapped both arms around her and placed the scalpel under her chin.
"Hello, Marianne, Marianne," he whispered. "Didn't I tell you not to talk?"
"1 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 talk about what they saw.
This job was going to happen fast now. In and out of the house in a few seconds. Then back to Brooklyn to celebrate his latest hit and get paid for it.
He stepped through a thick patch of pachysandra surrounding the back porch, then boosted himself up. He walked right in through the kitchen door, which whined like a hurt animal.
No problem so far. He was inside the place easy enough. He figured the rest would be a snap too.
Nobody in the kitchen.
Nobody home?
Then he heard a baby crying and took out his Beretta. He fingered the scalpel in his left-hand pocket.
This was a promising development. Babies in the house made everybody careless. He'd killed guys like this before, in Brooklyn and in Queens. One mob stoolie he'd cut into little pieces in his own kitchen, then stocked the family fridge to send a message.
He passed down a short hall, moving like a shadow. Didn't make a sound.
Then he peeked into the small living room, family room, whatever the hell it was.
This wasn't exactly what he'd expected to see. Tall, good-looking man changing diapers for two little kids. The guy seemed to be pretty good at it too. Sullivan knew because years ago he'd been in charge of his three snot-nosed brothers in Brooklyn. Changed a lot of stinking diapers in his day.
"You the lady of the house?" he asked.
The guy looked up – Detective Alex Cross – and he didn't seem afraid of him. Didn't even seem surprised that the Butcher was in the house, even though he had to be shocked, and probably scared. So the cop had some brass balls on him anyway. Unarmed, changing his kids' diapers, but showing some attitude, some real character.