I stared into those pitiless eyes. My voice came out in a rasp. "Why did you have to hurt her?"
Kyle shrugged indifferently. "That's how I win the game, by inflicting the most pain imaginable, then watching the torment and suffering. You should see the look in your eyes right now. It's priceless, a thing of beauty.
"Not that I want any pity, Dr. Cross, but did you ever see me with my shirt off? I'll answer that question. You haven't. That's because of the scars and welts there. My father, the great and respected general, the corporate chief executive officer, he beat me for years. He thought I was a very bad boy. And you know what? He was right. Father did know best. His son was a monster. Now, what does that say about him?"
Kyle smiled again. Or was it a grimace? He shut his eyes.
"Getting back to Agent Cavalierre, she was investigating my whereabouts during all the robberies and kidnappings committed by the Mastermind. Smart little chippie. Pretty too. And she really liked you, Alex. Thought you were so fine, her sweet brown sugar. I couldn't have that. She was a danger to me and a rival for your attention.
"Are you following this, Cross? Am I going too fast for you? Everything is very logical, no? I put a knife deep inside her. I was going to do the same to your friend Jamilla. Maybe I still will."
I raised my Glock and pointed it into his face. My hand was shaking. "No, Kyle, you won't!"
Chapter 115
Everything had been leading up to this moment — the last few years, all of Kyle's tricks. My hand was still trembling as I moved the gun forward until it touched Kyle's forehead. To be honest, I didn't know what I would do next.
"I was hoping it might come to this. One of us in control of the situation. This is where it gets interesting to me," he said. "What do you do now?"
Kyle pressed his skull into the gun barrel. "Go ahead, Alex. If you kill me like this, then I win. I like that, actually. Suddenly, you'rethe murderer."
I let him talk — the Mastermind, the total control freak.
"Let me tell you a harsh truth," he said. "Can you take a little truth? How much truth can you stand?"
"Go ahead, enlighten me. I think I can take it, Kyle. I want to hear everything."
"Oh, and you shall. What I do… it's what all men want to do. I live out their secret fantasies, their nasty little daydreams. I completely control my environment. I don't live by rules created by my so-called peers. I live a full fantasy life. Everything I do is motivated by self-interest. It's what everybody wants; trust me on that. So stop being so self-righteous. It irritates the shit out of me."
I shook my head. "I have some news for you. It isn't what I want, Kyle. It's a self-centered adolescent's fantasy."
"Oh, spare me the provincial pop psychology. And yes, it is what you want to do. The chase, the thrill. It's your life too. Don't you see that? Jesus Christ, man. You love the hunt. You love it! You love this!"
We studied each other in the small kitchen for several minutes. The hatred between us was so obvious now. Then Kyle began to laugh again — he roared. He was laughing at my expense.
"You still don't get it, do you? You're a fool. You're so inferior. You have nothing, not a shred of solid evidence on me. I'll be out on the street in a few days. I'll be free to do whatever I like. Imagine the possibilities. Anything I can dream up. Isn't that a consoling thought, Alex? Old buddy, old pal.
"I wantedyou to know who and what I am. It's no fun unless somebody knows. I wanted this to happen. Desperately. More than anything. I set it up. And once I'm out, you'll know that I'm somewhere… waiting and watching. You see, I won this time too. I wanted you to catch me, you asshole. What do you think of that?"
I stared into Kyle's eyes, and it was like that game kids play — who's going to look away first? Who's going to blink?
Finally, I winked at him. "Gotcha," I said.
"What I think," I continued, "is that you just made your first big mistake. You didn't think of everything. You missed an important detail, Mastermind. Know what it is? C'mon, you're a smart guy. Figure it out."
I stepped away from Kyle. Now I was the one who smiled, maybe even smirked. I stared into his eyes and let him think about it. I could see he had no idea. "Watch closely."
I took my cell phone from my pocket. I held it up for Kyle to see. I showed him that it was turned on.
"I called my home phone before we started to talk. The phone has been turned on speaker. Everything you just told me is on my voice mail. I have your confession, Kyle. Everything, every word. You lose, you sick, pitiful son of a bitch. You lose, Mastermind."
Kyle suddenly sprang up from the floor at me — and then I got to knock him out again. I hit him with the best punch of my life, at least it felt that way. His body lifted up off the floor and he lost a couple of front teeth.
That was how he looked in the news photograph after his capture: the great Mastermind, missing two front teeth.
Chapter 116
I finally got to rest up, to stop being a cop for a while. Kyle Craig was in a maximum-security cell at Lorton prison. The district attorney was confident there was more than enough evidence to convict. Kyle's expensive New York lawyer was screaming that he had committed no crimes, that he'd been framed. Isn't that amazing? The murder trial would be one of the biggest that Washington and the rest of the country had ever seen.
The thing was, I didn't want to think about Kyle, or his trial, or some other psychopathic killer anymore. I hadn't been to work in weeks, and it felt good. I felt real good. My ice pick wound was healing pretty well. The scar would be a souvenir. I was spending as much time as I could at home. I'd painted most of the house. I had been to two of Damon's concerts in a row. I was on a roll.
I was working on a jump shot with Jannie, reading Goodnight Moonand Fox in Socksto little Alex, taking cooking lessons from the best chef in all of Washington, or so Nana bragged. I was also making some time for myself. I'd even had a couple of nice talks with Christine Johnson. I told her I was sending the cutest pictures of Alex. Jamilla Hughes was coming east for a seminar and would visit next week. Everything was going well with her life, and I didn't want to spoil it.
It was around eleven o'clock, and I was playing the piano on the sunporch. The house on Fifth Street was quiet, everybody sleeping except for me.
The phone didn't ring, and what a sweet, simple pleasure that was.
No one came to the door with bad news that I didn't want to hear right now or maybe ever again.
No one was watching me from outside, in the shadows, or if they were, at least they weren't being a nuisance about it.
I concentrated on getting into some songs by D'Angelo, and I was doing a pretty good job of it: "The Line."
"Send It On."
"Devil's Pie."
Tomorrow? Well, tomorrow was a big day too.
I was going to resign from the D.C. police force in the morning.
And something else, something good for a change: I thought that maybe I was falling in love.
But that's another story, for another time.