Alex Cross: Cross Justice Part 3

All the children in an addict's family play different roles and have different ways of coping. My brothers retreated into themselves when my mother was using and a danger to us. My job was to stop her from hurting herself and, later, to pick her up off the floor and put her to bed. In the language of recovery, I played the roles of hero and caregiver.

Standing there, recalling all those times I'd tried to forget, I suddenly saw plainly that my mother had created me in more ways than the physical. From an early age, I'd dealt with chaos and chaotic people, and to survive, I'd had to swallow my fears and force myself to understand and deal with sick minds. Those hard-won skills had inevitably led to my calling in life, to Johns Hopkins for my doctorate in psychology, and then to police work. And for those reasons and others, I realized that despite all the craziness and the loss, I was grateful to my mother and blessed to be her son.

Wiping my tears away, I left the kitchen and went into the hallway that led to the bedrooms. When I was a boy, there were just two in the house, and we had a single sorry excuse for a bathroom. Recently, another bath had been added. The large room where my brothers and I slept had been split in two. There were bunk beds in both of them now.

Staring into my distant past, oblivious to any noises in the house around me, I remembered my father on one of his better evenings, sober and funny, telling me and my brothers about some trip he was going to take us on to hear jazz on Bourbon Street in New Orleans.

Gotta have dreams, boys, he'd always say before he turned out the lights. Gotta have dreams and you've got to- "Freeze!" a man shouted. "Hands up high where we can see them!"

I startled but raised my hands, looking over my shoulder and back down the hall into the kitchen. Two men in civilian clothes with police badges on lanyards around their necks were aiming pistols at me.

CHAPTER 6.

"ON YOUR KNEES," barked the taller and younger of the two, a lean, ropy African American in his early thirties.

The other plainclothes cop was Caucasian, fifties, a pasty, pock-faced man with a hank of dyed brown hair and a mopey face.

"What's going on?" I said, not moving. "Detectives?"

"You are breaking and entering a good friend of mine's house," the African American cop said.

"This house belongs to Connie Lou Parks, my aunt, who let me in and who rents it to her daughter, my cousin Karen, and, I would guess, to your friend Pete," I said. "I used to live here when I was a kid, and by the way, I'm a cop too."

"Sure you are," said the older one.

"Can I show you my creds?"

"Careful," he said.

I reached to push back my jacket, revealing the shoulder holster.

"Gun!" the African American officer shouted, and he and his partner dropped into a combat crouch.

I thought for sure they were going to shoot me if I tried to get my ID, so I eased my hand away, saying, "Of course I've got a gun. I am a homicide detective with the Was.h.i.+ngton, DC, police department. And in fact, I have two guns on me. In addition to the Glock forty, I have a small nine-millimeter Ruger LC9 strapped to my right ankle."

"Name?" the older cop demanded.

"Alex Cross. You?"

"Detectives Frost and Carmichael. I'm Frost," he said as he and his partner straightened up. "So here's what you are going to do, Alex Cross. Strip the jacket, right sleeve first, and toss it here."

There was no sense in arguing, so I did as he asked and threw my light sports jacket down the hallway.

"Cover me, Carmichael," the older cop said, and he crouched so his partner could keep me squarely in his field of fire.

They were conducting themselves by the book. They didn't know me from Adam, and they were handling the situation the way any veteran cop back in DC, including me, would have handled it.

When Frost got to my jacket, I said, "Left breast pocket."

He squinted at me as he backed up a few feet, still in that crouch, and fished out the folder with my badge and ID.

"Drop your gun, Lou," Frost said. "He's who he says he is. Dr. Alex Cross, DC homicide."

Carmichael hesitated, then lowered his weapon slightly and demanded, "You have a license to carry concealed in the state of North Carolina, Dr. Cross?"

"I have a federal carry license," I said. "I used to be FBI. It's in there, behind the ID."

Frost found it and nodded to his partner.

Carmichael looked irritated, but he holstered his weapon. Frost did the same, then picked up my jacket, dusted it off, and handed it to me, along with my credentials.

"Mind telling us what you're doing here?" Carmichael asked.

"I'm looking into Stefan Tate's case. He's my cousin."

Carmichael went stony. Frost looked like some bitterness had crawled up the back of his throat.

Frost said, "Starksville may not be the big city, Detective Cross, but we are well-trained professionals. Your cousin Stefan Tate? That sonofab.i.t.c.h is as guilty as they come."

CHAPTER 7.

AS I WALKED across the cul-de-sac on Loupe Street to the third bungalow, I was mindful of the unmarked police cruiser pulling out behind me, and I wondered about the strength of the case against my young cousin. I'd have to get Naomi to show me the evidence, and- Aunt Connie's animated voice came through the screen door, followed by the sound of women cackling and men braying over something she'd said. The breeze s.h.i.+fted and carried the mysterious and wonderful odors from the kitchen of my aunt Hattie Parks Tate, my late mother's younger sister. I hadn't smelled those scents in thirty-five years, but they made me flash on boyhood memories: climbing these same front steps, smelling these same smells, and reaching for the screen door, eager to be inside.

This house had been one of my refuges, I thought, remembering how peaceful and orderly it was compared to the routine chaos across the street. Nothing had changed about that, I decided after peering in through the screen and seeing my family sitting around Hattie's spotless house with plates piled high with her remarkable food, contentment on all their faces.

"Knock, knock," I said as I opened the door and stepped in.

"Dad!" Ali shouted from a wicker couch, waving a bone at me. "You gotta try Aunt Hattie's fried rabbit!"

"And her potato salad," Jannie said, rolling her eyes with pleasure.

Hattie Tate bustled out of her kitchen, wiping her hands on her ap.r.o.n and beaming from ear to ear. "Land sakes, Alex, what took you so long to come see me?"

I hadn't seen my mother's sister in nearly ten years, but Aunt Hattie hadn't aged a day. In her early sixties, she was still slender and tall with a beautiful oval face and wide almond-shaped eyes. I'd forgotten how much she looked like my mom. Long-buried grief swirled through me again.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Hattie," I said. "I ..."

"It doesn't matter," she said, tearing up. She rushed over and threw her arms around me. "You've given me hope just being here."

"We'll do everything we can for Stefan," I promised.

Hattie beamed through her tears, said, "I knew you'd come. Stefan knew too."

"How is he?"

Before my aunt could answer, a man in his midseventies shuffled into the room with a walker. He was dressed in slippers, brown sweatpants, and a baggy white T-s.h.i.+rt, and he looked around, puzzled, then became agitated.

"Hattie!" he cried. "There's strangers in the house!"

My aunt was off across the room like a shot, saying soothingly, "It's okay, Cliff. It's just family. Alex's family."

"Alex?" he said.

"It's me, Uncle Cliff," I said, going to him. "Alex Cross."

My uncle stared at me blankly for several moments while Hattie held his elbow, rubbed his back, and said, "Alex, Christina and Jason's boy. You remember, don't you?"

Uncle Cliff blinked as if spotting something bright in the deepest recesses of his failing mind. "Nah," he said. "That Alex just a scared little boy."

I smiled weakly at him, said, "That boy grew up."

Uncle Cliff licked his lips, studied me some more, and said, "You tall like her. But you got his face. Where he got to now, your daddy?"

Hattie's expression tightened painfully. "Jason died a long time ago, Cliff."

"He did?" Cliff said, his eyes watering.

Hattie rested her face against his arm and said, "Cliff loved your father, Alex. Your father was his best friend, isn't that right? Cliff?"

"When he die? Jason?"

"Thirty-five years ago," I said.

My uncle frowned, said, "No, that's ... oh ... Christina's next to Brock, but Jason, he's ..."

My aunt c.o.c.ked her head. "Cliff?"

Her husband turned puzzled again. "Man, Jason, he liked blues."

"And jazz," Nana Mama said.

"He like blues most," Cliff insisted. "I show you?"

Hattie softened. "You want your guitar, honey?"

"Six-string," he said, and he shuffled on his own to a chair, acting as if no one else were with him.

Aunt Hattie disappeared and soon came back carrying a six-string steel guitar that I vaguely remembered from my childhood. When my uncle took the guitar, fused it to his chest, and began to play some old blues tune by heart and soul, it was as if time had rolled in reverse, and I saw myself as a five- or six-year-old sitting in my dad's lap, listening to Clifford play that same raucous tune.

My mother was in that memory too. She had a drink in her hand and sat with my brothers, hooting and cheering Clifford on. That memory was so real that for a second I could have sworn I smelled both my parents there in the room with me.

My uncle played the entire song, finis.h.i.+ng with a flourish that showed just how good he'd once been. When he stopped, everyone clapped. His face lit up at that, and he said, "You like that, you come to the show tonight, hear?"

"What show?" Ali asked.

"Cliff and the Midnights," my uncle said as if Ali should have known. "We're playing down to the ..."

His voice trailed off, and that confusion returned. He looked around for his wife, said, "Hattie? Where my gig tonight? You know I can't be late."

"You won't be," she said, taking the guitar from him. "I'll make sure."

My uncle chewed on that a bit before saying, "All aboard now, Hattie."

"All aboard now, Cliff," she said, setting the guitar aside. "Lunch serving in the dining car. You hungry, Cliff?"

"My s.h.i.+ft over?" he asked, surprised.

My aunt glanced at me, said, "You have a break coming to you, dear. I'll get you a plate, bring it to you in the dining car. Connie? Can you take him?"

"Where's Pinkie?" Cliff said as Connie Lou bustled over to him.

"You know he's down in Florida," she said. "C'mon, now. And use your walker. Train's an awful place to fall."

"Humph," Cliff said, getting to his feet. "I worked this train twenty-five years and I ain't fallen yet."

"Just the same," Aunt Connie said and followed him as he shuffled back down the hallway.

"I'm sorry about that," Aunt Hattie said to everyone.

"There's nothing to be sorry about," Nana Mama said.

Aunt Hattie wrung her hands and nodded emotionally, and then turned and went off to the kitchen. I stood there feeling guilty that I'd not come back and seen my uncle in better times.

"Alex, you go get some food so Ali and I can have seconds," Bree said.

"Leave some for me," Jannie said.

I followed Aunt Hattie into her kitchen. She was standing at the sink with her hand over her mouth, looking like she was fighting not to break down.

But then she saw me and put on a brave smile. "Help yourself, Alex."

I picked up a plate on the kitchen table and began to load it with fried rabbit, potato salad, a green-bean-and-mushroom dish, and thick slices of homemade bread, the source of one of those delicious odors I'd smelled.