Merry Christmas, Alex Cross Part 4

"My name is Alex Cross," I said.

There was a long pause before he said, "I've heard of you."

"And I've heard of you," I said. "You're an impressive man, Mr. Fowler."

He laughed acidly at that. "I'm a f.u.c.king loser, Cross. Let's call it what it is, because I am, in no way, the man I was."

"If you say so," I replied, then paused. "So what are we doing here?"

"We?" Fowler said. "There's no we we here. There's just you, Cross, and all your well-armed friends out there, the members of the jury, looking to spoil my fun." here. There's just you, Cross, and all your well-armed friends out there, the members of the jury, looking to spoil my fun."

Fun. I shut my eyes. That wasn't what I wanted to hear. It meant that he planned to toy with his hostages and us. He would enjoy that, so he would try to draw out the experience. This was looking like it was going to be a long Christmas Eve night.

"Is that what this is, a game?" I asked. "Or a trial?"

"Both," he said in a reasonable tone. "That's what a trial is, isn't it? A game played with deadly intent?"

"I suppose."

"You suppose. Before we move on, Cross, a word of advice."

"Yes?"

Fowler began screaming: "Don't f.u.c.k with me! Don't lie to me! And don't try to game me. If you try to game me in my courtroom, you will lose!"

I kept my voice steady. "I hear your concerns, Mr. Fowler. And I will not lie to you or try to game you. But here's a word of advice back at you. You can talk. And I promise I'll listen. I'll really listen. But now...here's the important part...I'll listen up to a point. up to a point."

"When do we get to that point?" he asked, calmer now.

"When I say so," I said, taking a chance with my answer. It was actually not my call when negotiations would be broken off and an a.s.sault authorized. But I wanted Fowler to believe that I had that power. I wanted him to believe that he was talking directly to the man in charge.

A silence, and then Fowler spoke again.

"Okay, Alex Cross. We've got the start of a deal," Fowler said. "You're going to be my jury foreman."

CHAPTER

14

BEFORE I COULD REPLY TO THAT, FOWLER APPARENTLY PULLED THE PHONE AWAY from his mouth because he sounded farther off as he began to scream, "I swear, this snot-nosed kid better shut up, Diana. Shut her up! Now! Shut her up! Now!"

I could hear Chloe crying hysterically. I could also hear Diana Fowler Nicholson saying, "Henry, for G.o.d's sake, she's scared, she's tired, she's hungry."

Without missing a beat, and with cold sarcasm in his voice, Fowler said, "If she's hungry, tell her to eat the sandwich I brought." Then he let go with a sickening snicker. "PB and J, little Trey's favorite. Don't worry, I'll save him one."

Diana again. "Henry-"

"Shut the h.e.l.l up, Diana! Diana!" Fowler screamed. "I have no reason and, frankly, no desire to talk to you!" Then two gunshots.

In his calm voice, Fowler said, "There goes your precious Ming vase and your cute little Swarovski crystal cigarette box, Diana. I just want you to fully understand the reality now: this room, your life, they are nothing but a great big shooting gallery to-"

Dr. Nicholson's voice cut him off. "What's wrong with you, Fowler? You're nothing but-"

Another gunshot. Sweat was pouring off my brow. Children crying, but no other sounds. Then Fowler returned to his crazy screaming voice. "Listen, you pathetic quack! You're the one I most want to put in the grave. Do you understand that? You're the one I want to kill. Do you understand that?"

There was no answer from the doctor.

Then Fowler screamed, "Do you understand that, Barry?" "Do you understand that, Barry?"

"Listen to him, Barry. Please listen," Diana begged.

"I'm listening," said the doctor, barely audibly. "And of course I understand."

Now Fowler spoke with quiet and controlled rage. "No one in this room should have anything to say, not anything. Not a word. But that's especially true of you, quackster. So listen to me very carefully. If you say one more word, just one...more...word-if you make any sound at all, even a cough or a hiccup-I'm going to kill you. Nod your head yes if you understand the rules."

I a.s.sumed that Dr. Nicholson nodded, because Fowler's voice came back to me as if he were returning to a business call he'd put on hold. "Hey, Cross. Sorry to keep you like that. You know how tough a courtroom can be."

"Right," I said, still not quite understanding the twisted logic he had going. The courtroom. The jury. The Grinch. Then it dawned on me that trying to guide him to some safe resolution of the situation was perhaps not the best way forward, at least not yet. Better to play along with his version of reality, and perhaps use it.

"Mr. Fowler. Seeing how you've named me jury foreman, I was wondering if I could come in the house and observe the proceedings," I said matter-of-factly, going for a kind of could-I-borrow-your-lawnmower style.

Nu and McGoey were looking at me as if I were insane.

CHAPTER

15

THERE WAS A LONG PAUSE BEFORE FOWLER SAID, "WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO do that, Cross?"

"Don't jury members learn as much from a witness's facial expressions and body language as they do from his testimony?"

Another pause. That pause stretched into thirty seconds. The thirty seconds stretched into the longest minute of my life.

My fear was that Fowler would explode again and turn his guns on the hostages. I could see McGoey shaking his head as if he knew I'd made the wrong move.

Finally Fowler said, "I don't think so, Cross. Nice try, but I don't think so."

Persistence. Persistence.

"It would give me the opportunity to hear your side of the story," I said. "Face-to-face. Man-to-man."

Another few seconds.

Then Fowler said, very quietly, very calmly, "I will frisk you when you come in, Cross. If I find you're carrying a gun, I'm going to kill you. And then I'll kill a hostage or two. Starting with the good Dr. Quack N. Cash."

"I don't need a gun to have a conversation," I said, and I handed my Glock to McGoey.

Fifteen seconds pa.s.sed. Then Fowler's voice came again.

"Jeremy, go open the front door for Mr. Cross. I'm going to be right behind you, buddy. So don't even think about running out of the house. Understand? Okay, get going." I guess the boy didn't go fast enough, because I heard this father, on Christmas Eve, shout at his eleven-year-old son, "Move, Jeremy, or I will kick your f.u.c.king obscenely obese a.s.s until you do!"

I looked at my watch. It was almost midnight when I got my jacket and hat and headed toward the Nicholsons' house.

I walked through the now empty shelter and out into the falling snow thinking that I should have been with my family right then, at St. Anthony's, singing "O Little Town of Bethlehem" to start midnight ma.s.s.

CHAPTER

16

WHILE I'D BEEN ON THE PHONE WITH FOWLER, NU AND MCGOEY HAD BEEN putting the storm-and-protect operation into full effect. As I crossed Thirtieth Street I saw that SWAT officers had started circling the house again. Only this time their weapons were c.o.c.ked and cradled. They were ready for trouble, for anything that might happen in the next few minutes. Like me getting killed.

The second and third floors of the surrounding houses were manned with sharpshooters. Inside those four houses, lights flickered on and off slowly.

Signals were being exchanged. I couldn't begin to work out what they meant. I had other problems to figure out, and figure out fast. In a few seconds I was directly facing the house. My eyes darted to the right and I saw police officers quickly herding reporters back and away. The cops didn't have to ask them twice, which made me wonder if I was making the right move here.

The snow soaked the hem of my pants as I walked the short path to the house. The big front door, flanked by frosted-gla.s.s windows, was ajar. From inside the house came the sound of Diana Nicholson weeping. Suddenly, lights were turned off-front rooms, hallway, and all outdoor lights. Total blackout.

I swallowed, stepped up onto the brick entry. The front door swung all the way open. A dark center hall loomed straight ahead. Then I saw the figure of a fat little boy run through the darkness, sobbing, and disappear toward the right.

The night was so quiet that for one crazy moment I thought I could hear snowflakes landing. I stepped into the front hallway. The door shut, and I immediately heard Fowler behind me, breathing heavily.

"Merry Christmas, Cross," he said, and turned on the lights, revealing velvet-flocked wallpaper, really expensive stuff, on both sides of the hall.

"Same to you, Mr. Fowler," I said.

"Hands on the wall," he said. "You know the drill." He cackled. "Always have wanted to say that to a cop."

I said nothing, just put my hands on the wall and spread my legs.

"Hope I didn't make a mistake letting you into the house," Fowler said.

"Well, that makes two of us," I said before I felt the cold steel of a pistol muzzle pressed against the back of my neck.

CHAPTER

17

FOWLER DID A d.a.m.n NEAR PROFESSIONAL JOB OF FRISKING ME. PROBABLY because he himself had been the subject of a body search at least thirty times in the last few years. The gun came away from the back of my neck.

"Fingers laced behind your head," he said. "Then walk, and turn right at the end of the hall. If I see your fingers slip or get any sense you're trying to turn on me, I'll shoot first, Cross, and ask no questions later."

I took the man at his word, put my hands where he wanted them, and walked to where his son had disappeared.

"There's an overstuffed chair on your immediate right," Fowler said. "Sit in it, hands on your lap."

It looked like someone had fought a small war in the living room. A large Christmas tree was on its side, branches crushed or snapped by buckshot, its ornaments shattered, its lights out. The debris from the earlier shoot-up of the gifts was everywhere, the remnants almost unrecognizable: pieces of metal from the iPad, bits of gold from whatever Nicholson had had wrapped in the Tiffany box.

To my dismay, the window curtains had all been drawn. No one from the outside could see me, Fowler, or the three children and three adults lying on their bellies on the floor beside the ruins of the Christmas tree. I could feel the pleading hope and fear in their eyes, eyes that were red from fatigue and tension and crying.

An extremely attractive, fit, country-club kind of woman, Diana Nicholson wore only jeans and a black jogging bra. I had no idea what that was about. Her new husband was a big handsome guy who looked like he'd just walked off a sailboat. Everything about him screamed wealth and privilege except for his green-and-red Christmas sweater, which was slit down the back, nearly in two pieces.

I had no idea what that was about either.

The congressman's wife, Melissa Brandywine, was lying next to Nicholson and his wife. A society-page regular, she had copper-colored hair that looked as if it'd just been styled at the salon. Her makeup was flawless too. But she was shaking uncontrollably, as if she were freezing. Why had Fowler involved her? Was it on purpose? Or had she just blundered into the crisis?

The children were an even sorrier sight than the grown-ups, maybe because they were kids in their pajamas and it was Christmas and their innocence had been destroyed. Young Trey was sucking his thumb. Chloe hugged a throw pillow that featured holly, red ribbons, and bells. Her twin, Jeremy, stared at nothing. I saw a dark stain on his pajama pants and realized the poor kid had been so frightened and humiliated by his father that he'd peed his pants.

So I already hated Fowler when he came around in front of me and showed me just how far he'd fallen since his glory days on K Street and in the courtroom. In place of the Italian suits he'd favored, he wore filthy jeans and a torn army-surplus jacket. He'd lost fifty or sixty pounds since those days. His eyes were sunken in his head. Several of his teeth were missing. There were scabs on his face that had been picked at and oozed. He carried a Glock 19 and a Remington shotgun that had been crudely sawed off.

Fowler stared at me for an uncomfortable few seconds, then he smiled, really showing off the rotting gaps where his teeth had been.