And then Christine showed the kind of warmth that could melt a heart. She was looking at little Alex. ‘What a sweetheart he is. What a sweet, darling little boy. Oh, Alex, my little Alex, how I missed you. You have no idea.’
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Christine Johnson in D.C. again.
Why had she come back now? What did she want with us?
The questions throbbed in my head, but also deep inside my heart. They made me afraid, even before I had a clear idea what to fear. Of course, I had a suspicion – Christine had changed her mind about little Alex. That was it, had to be. Why else would she be here? She certainly hadn’t come back to see me. Or had she?
I was still on I-95, but just minutes away from Quantico when Monnie Donnelley got through to me on my cell. Miles Davis played on the radio in the car. I’d been trying to chill before I got to work.
‘You’re late again,’ she said, and though I knew it was a joke, it still cut me some.
‘I know, I know. I was out partying last night. You know how it is.’
Monnie got right to it. ‘Alex, did you know they grabbed a couple more suspects last night?’
Them again. I was so surprised that I didn’t answer Monnie right away. I hadn’t been told anything about a bust!
‘I guess not,’ Monnie answered her own question. ‘It took place in Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania. Joe Nameth’s old hometown? Two UNSUBS in their forties, ran an adult bookstore, sort of named after the town. The press got a hold of it a few minutes ago.’
‘Did they find any of the missing women?’ I asked Monnie.
‘Don’t think so. It’s not in the news reports. Nobody seems to know for sure here.’
I didn’t understand. ‘Do you know how long they were under surveillance? Forget it, Monnie, I’m getting off 95 right now. I’m almost there. I’ll see you in a couple of minutes.’
‘Sorry to ruin your day so early,’ she said.
‘It was already ruined,’ I muttered.
We worked straight through the day, but at seven, we still didn’t have very good answers to several questions about the takedown in Pennsylvania. I knew a few things, mostly unimportant details, and it was frustrating. The two men had criminal records for selling pornography. Agents from the field office in Philly had gotten a tip that the two of them were involved in a kidnapping scheme. It was unclear who in the FBI’s chain of command knew about the suspects, but there seemed to have been an internal communication breakdown of the sort I had been hearing about years before I arrived at Quantico.
I talked with Monnie a couple of times during the day, but my buddy Ned Mahoney never called me about the bust; Burns’s office didn’t try to contact me either. I was shook. For one thing, there were reporters out in the parking lot at Quantico. I could see a USA Today van and a CNN truck from my window. Very strange day. Odd and unsettling.
Late in the afternoon, I found myself thinking about Christine Johnson’s visit to the house. I kept playing back the scene of her holding the baby, playing with Alex. I wondered if I could believe that she’d come to D.C. just to see him and a few of her old friends. It made my heart ache to think about losing ‘the big boy’, as I always called him. The big boy! What a joy he was to me, and the kids, and to Nana Mama. What an unbearable loss it would be. I just couldn’t imagine it. Nor could I imagine being Christine, and not wanting him back.
Before I left for the night, I forced myself to pick up the phone and make a call that I was dreading. Judge Brendan Connelly answered after a few rings. Thinking about little Alex made me remember the promise I’d made.
‘It’s Alex Cross,’ I said. ‘Just wanted to check in with you. Tell you about the news stories you’ve been seeing today.’
Judge Connelly asked me if his wife had been found, if there was any news about Lizzie.
‘They didn’t find her yet. I don’t think those two men were involved with your wife. We’re still very hopeful that we’ll find her.’
Abruptly he began to mutter words that I couldn’t make out. After listening to him for a few seconds, trying to make sense of it, I told him I’d keep him informed. If someone informed me.
After the difficult phone call, I just sat at my desk. Suddenly, I realized I’d forgotten something else – my class had graduated today! We were officially agents. The others in my class had gotten their credentials, or ‘creds’, as well as their assignments. Right now, cake and punch were being served in the lobby of the Hall of Honor. I didn’t bother to go to the party. Somehow, it seemed inappropriate to attend. I went home instead.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
How much time did she have left now?
A day? Hours?
It almost didn’t matter, did it? Lizzie Connelly was learning to accept life as it came; she was learning who she was – inside; and how to keep herself in balance.
Except, of course, when she was frightened out of her mind.
Lizzie called them her ‘swimming dreams’. She had been an avid swimmer ever since she was four years old. The repetition of stroke after stroke, kick after kick, could always put her in another place and time, on autopilot, let her escape. So that was what she was doing now in the closet-room where she was being kept.
Swimming.
Escaping.
Reach, slightly cupped hand, S-figure with her arms, pull at the top, grab the water. Tip through to the belly button, then down through the bottom of her swimsuit. Swoosh, swoosh, kick, kick, feeling hot inside, but the water was cooling, refreshing, invigorating. Feeling empowered because she was feeling stronger.
She had been thinking about escape for much of the day, or what she thought of as a day anyway. Now she began to get serious about other things.
She reviewed what she knew about this place – the Closet – and the vicious, horrifying man who kept her. The Wolf. That was what the bastard called himself. Why the Wolf?
She was somewhere in a city. She was almost sure the city was in the south, and fairly large, lots of money in the surrounding area. Maybe it was Florida, but she didn’t know why she thought that. Maybe she had overheard something and it only registered in her subconscious? She’d definitely heard voices in the house when there had been large parties or, occasionally, smaller get-togethers. She believed that her vermin captor lived alone. Who could possibly live with such a horrible monster? No woman could.
She knew some of his pathetic habits by heart. He usually turned on the TV when he came home: sometimes ESPN, but more often CNN. He watched the news constantly. He also liked detective shows such as Law and Order, CSI, Murder/Homicide. The TV was always on, late into the night.
He was physically large and strong, and he was a sadist – but also careful about not hurting her badly, not so far anyway. Which meant – what did it mean? – that he planned to keep her around for a while more?
If Lizzie Connelly could stand it here for another minute. If she didn’t flip out and make him so angry that he’d snap her neck, as he’d threatened to several times a day. ‘I’ll snap your little neck. Like this! You don’t believe me? You should believe me, Elizabeth.’ He always called her Elizabeth, not Lizzie. He told her that Lizzie wasn’t a beautiful enough name for her. ‘I’ll break your fucking neck, Elizabeth!’