Should I do this crazy thing? she wondered. Do I sign my own death warrant?
Naomi could barely catch her breath. She listened for sounds in the mysterious house, any tiny, insignificant sound at all. The rooms had been soundproofed but if you made enough noise, some sound carried through the eerie building.
She went over what she wanted to say, exactly what she would say.
My name is Naomi Cross. Where are you, Kristen? Green Eyes? I've decided that you're right. We have to do something ... We have to do something together ... He's not coming back.
Naomi had thought this moment through clearly, intelligently, she hoped but she couldn't say the words out loud. She understood that plotting against him could mean her death.
Kristen Miles had called out to her a few times during the past twenty-four hours, but Naomi hadn't answered back. It was forbidden to talk, and she had seen his warning to them. The hanged woman a few days before. Poor Anna Miller. Another law student.
She couldn't hear anything, right now. White noise, that was all. The static of silence. The gentle hum of eternity. There was never even the sound of a car. Not a single backfire or a distant horn. Not even the boom of an airplane passing overhead.
Naomi had decided they must be underground, at least a couple of levels down into the earth. Had he built this underground complex, this sinplex? Had he thought it all through, dreamed about it, and then done it in some burst of psychopathic fury and energy? She thought that he had indeed.
She was getting herself ready to break the silence. She had to talk to Kristen, to Green Eyes. Her mouth was so dry. It felt like cotton wool. Naomi finally licked her lips.
“I would kill for a Coke, I would kill him for a Coke,” she whispered to herself. “I could kill him given the chance.” I could kill Casanova. I could commit a murder. I'm that far gone, aren't I? she thought and had to stifle a sob.
Naomi finally called out in a loud, strong voice. “Kristen, can you hear me? Kristen? It's Naomi Cross!” She was shivering, and warm tears streamed down her cheeks. She'd gone against him and his shitty, sacred rules.
Green Eyes called back immediately. The other woman's voice sounded so good. “I can hear you, Naomi! I think I'm only a few doors away from you. I hear you fine. Keep talking. I'm sure he's not here, Naomi.” Naomi didn't think anymore about what she was doing. Maybe he wasn't there; maybe he was. It didn't matter now.
“He's going to kill us,” she called back. “Something's different about him! He's going to kill us for sure. If we're going to do anything, we have to do it the first chance we get.” “Naomi's right!” Kristen's voice was slightly muffled, as if she were talking from the bottom of a well. “Do you all hear Naomi? Of course you do!” “I have one idea for everyone to consider.” Naomi spoke even more loudly this time. She wanted to keep this communication going now.
They all had to hear her, all the trapped women. “The next time he gets us together we have to go for it. If we rush him all at once, he might hurt some of us. But he can't stop all of us! What do you think?” Just then the heavy wooden door to Naomi's room opened a crack. Light streamed in.
Naomi watched in stark horror as the door swung open. She couldn't move, couldn't speak a word.
Her heart beat painfully in her chest, pounding, and she couldn't get a breath. She felt as if she were about to die. He'd been there, waiting, listening all this time.
The door opened all the way.
“Hello, my name is Will Rudolph,” the tall, good-looking man in the doorway said in a pleasant voice. “I like your plan very much, but I don't think it will work. Let me tell you why.”
Alex Cross 2 - Kiss the Girls
CHAPTER 86.
I WAS at Raleigh-Durham International Airport at a little before nine on Wednesday morning. The cavalry was arriving. Fresh troops were here. Team Sampson was back in town.
In contrast to the creeping terror and paranoia that were present everywhere on the streets of Durham and Chapel Hill, the early-morning business people at the airport seemed oblivious to harm in their dark, pressed suits, their floral print dresses from Neiman Marcus and Dillard. I liked that. Good for them. Denial is an approach.
I finally saw Sampson loping through the US Air gate with long, determined strides. I waved my local newspaper at him. It was characteristic of me to wave and for Man Mountain not to. He gave me a city-cool head nod, though. Bad to the bone. Just what the doctor ordered.
I brought Sampson up to speed while we drove from the airport to Chapel Hill.
I needed to check out the Wykagil River area. It was just another hunch of mine, but it could lead to something ... like the location of the “disappearing house.” I had enlisted the help of Dr. Louis Freed, a mentor and former teacher of Seth Samuel's. Dr. Freed was a noted black historian on the Civil War, a period I was also interested in.
Slaves and the Civil War in North Carolina ... In particular, the Underground Railroad that had been used for slaves escaping to the North.
As we entered Chapel Hill, Sampson got to see for himself what the abductions and grisly murders had done to the once-peaceful college town. The nightmarish scene reminded me of a couple of my subway trips in New York City. It also reminded me a little of home, our nation's capital. The people of Chapel Hill now hurried along the picturesque streets with their heads down. They no longer made eye contact with one another, especially with strangers. Trust had been replaced by fear and terror. The sweet small-town ness had vanished.
“You think Casanova is enjoying this Invasion of the Body Snatchers aura?” Sampson asked as we cruised the side streets bordering the University of North Carolina campus, former home base of Michael Jordan and too many other pro-basketball stars to mention.
“I think he's learned to enjoy being a local celebrity, yes. He likes to play the game. He's especially proud of his handiwork his art.” “Doesn't he want a larger venue? Larger canvas, so to speak?” Sampson asked as we climbed the gentle hills the college town had apparently been named for.
“I don't know about that yet. He might be a very territorial rec killer. Some recs are strictly territoriaclass="underline" Richard Ramirez, the Son of Sam, the Green River killer.” I then told Sampson about my theory on twinning. The more I thought about it, the sounder it got for me. Even the FBI was starting to believe in it a little. “The two of them have to be sharing some big secret. That they abduct beautiful women is only part of it. One of them thinks of himself as a '' and artist. The other is a brutal killer, much more typical of serial-killer cases. They complete each other, they correct each other's weaknesses. Together, I think they're virtually unstoppable. More importantly, I think they do, too.” “Which one is the leader?” Sampson asked a very good question. It was completely intuitive on his part. The way he always solves problems.
“I think it's Casanova. He's definitely the more imaginative of the two. He's the one who hasn't made any major mistakes yet, either. But the Gentleman isn't really comfortable being a follower. He probably moved to California to see if he could succeed on his own. And he couldn't.” “Is Casanova this kinky-assed college professor? Dr. Wick Sachs? The pornography professor you told me about? Is he our man, Sugar?” I peered across the front seat at Sampson. We were into the real deal now. Cop shop talk. “Sometimes, I think it's Sachs, and that he's so goddamn clever and smart he can let us know who he is. He enjoys watching us squirm. That could be the ultimate power game for him.” Sampson nodded one nod. “And other times, Dr. Freud, what is your alternative thought process on Dr. Sachs?” “Other times, I wonder if Sachs has been set up. Casanova is very bright, and he's been extremely careful. He seems to send out misinformation that has everyone chasing his own tail. Even Kyle Craig's getting uptight and crazy.” Sampson finally showed his large, very white teeth. Maybe it was a smile, or maybe he was going to bite me. “Looks like I'm here just in the motherfucking nick of time.” As I slowed for a stop sign on the side street, a man with a gun suddenly moved away from a parked car and toward us. There was nothing I could do to stop him, nothing Sampson could do.