Along Came a Spider (Alex Cross #1)(102)

“All right, Alex,” she finally said. “Do you want to tell me what we’re really doing on Virgin Gorda? Is there another agenda working here?”

I had prepared myself for the question, but it still took me by surprise. She had fired it in beautifully. I was ready to lie. I could rationalize what I had to do. I just couldn’t make myself feel particularly good about it.

“I wanted us to be able to talk, to really talk to each other. Maybe for the first time, Jezzie.”

Tears started in the corners of Jezzie’s eyes. They slowly ran down her cheeks. Shiny streams in the candlelight.

“I love you, Alex,” Jezzie whispered. “It’s just that—it will always be so hard for the two of us. It’s been hard so far.”

“Are you saying the world isn’t ready for us?” I asked her. “Or aren’t we ready for the world?”

“I don’t know which of those is right. Does it matter that it’s just so hard?”

We walked along the beach after dinner, down toward a ship-wrecked galleon. The picturesque wreck was stranded about a quarter of a mile from the main pavilion and restaurant. The beach appeared to be deserted.

There was some moonlight, but it got darker as we approached the fallen ship. Shredded pieces of clouds streamed across the sky. Finally, Jezzie was little more than a dark shape beside me. Everything about the moment made me extremely uncomfortable. I had left my gun in the room.

“Alex.” Jezzie had stopped walking. At first, I thought she’d heard something, and I looked over my shoulder. I knew Soneji/ Murphy couldn’t be down here. Was it possible I could be wrong?

“I was wondering,” Jezzie said, “thinking about something from the investigation, and I don’t want to. Not down here.”

“What’s bothering you?” I asked her.

“You stopped talking to me about the investigation. How did you wind up with Chakely and Devine?”

“Well, since you brought the subject up,” I said to her, “I’ll tell you. You were right all the time about the two of them. Another stone-cold dead end. Now. Let’s have a real vacation. We’ve both earned it.”





CHAPTER 83


GARY SONEJI/MURPHY watched, and his mind wandered. His mind traveled all the way back to the perfect Lindbergh kidnapping.

He could still picture Lucky Lindy. The lovely Anne Morrow Lindbergh. Baby Charles Jr. in his crib, up in the second-story nursery of the farmhouse in Hopewell, New Jersey. Those were the days, my friends. Fantasy days at their best.

What was he actually watching in the much more banal here and now?

First, there was the pair of FBI goonigans in a black Buick Skylark. A male and a female goonie, to be precise, who were on stakeout duty. They were certainly harmless enough. No problem for him there. No challenge whatsoever.

Next, there was the modern high-rise building where agent Mike Devine still lived in Washington. The Hawthorne, it was called. After Nathaniel, of the dark, brooding heart? Rooftop pool and sun deck, garage parking, concierge service around the clock. Very nice digs for the ex-agent. And the FBI goons were watching the building as if it might sprout wings and fly away.

A few minutes past ten o’clock that morning, a Federal Express deliveryman entered the chichi apartment building.

Moments later, dressed in the Federal Express uniform and carrying actual packages for two tenants in the Hawthorne, Gary Soneji/Murphy pushed the buzzer for 17J. Avon calling!

When Mike Devine opened the door, Soneji sprayed him with the same strong chloroform potion he’d used on Michael Goldberg and Maggie Rose Dunne. Fair is fair.

Just like the two children, Devine crumpled onto the wall-to-wall carpeting in his foyer. Rock music played from inside the apartment. The inimitable Bonnie Raitt. “Let’s Give Them Something to Talk About.”

Agent Devine woke up after several minutes. He was woozy and had double vision. All of his clothes had been stripped off. He was totally confused and disoriented.

He was propped up in the bathtub, with cold water halfway to the rim. His ankles were handcuffed to the faucet handles.

“What the fuck is this?” His first words came out slurred and sloppy. He felt as if he’d had about a dozen highballs.

“This is an extremely sharp knife.” Gary Soneji/Murphy bent over and showed off his Bowie hunting knife. “Watch this graphic demonstration. Focus those big blurry blue eyes of yours now. Fo-cus, Michael.”

Gary Soneji/Murphy barely nicked the former agent’s upper arm with the knife. Devine cried out. A dangerous-looking three-inch cut opened up instantly. Blood flowed into the cold, swirling bathwater.

“Not another peep,” Soneji warned. He brandished the knife, threatening Devine with another nick. “This isn’t exactly the Sensor razor from Gillette or the Schick Tracer. More like scratch and bleed. So please, be careful.”

“Who are you?” Devine attempted to speak again. He was still slurring badly. “Whoreyou?” he said.

“Please allow me to introduce myself, I am a man of wealth and taste,” Soneji said. All right, yes, he was giddy with success. The prospects for his future were shining so bright again.

Devine was even more confused now.

“That’s from ‘Sympathy for the Devil.’ The Stones? I’m Gary Soneji/Murphy. Excuse the tacky delivery-boy uniform, the rather crude disguise. But I’m in sort of a hurry, don’t you know. It’s a pity, because I’ve been wanting to meet you for months. You rascal, you.”