Along Came a Spider (Alex Cross #1)(73)

“Seriously, Jez. What about the neighbors? We’re in the Tarheel State, right? I don’t want any tar on my heels.”

She smiled. “There’s nobody around for a couple of miles at least, Alex. No other houses, believe it or not. It’s too early for anybody but the bass fishermen.”

“I don’t want to meet a couple of backwoods Tarheel bass fishermen, either.” I said. “In their eyes, I might be a black bass. I’ve read James Dickey’s Deliverance.”

“Fishermen all go to the south end of the lake. Trust me, Alex. Let me undress you. Make you a little more comfortable.”

“We’ll undress each other.” I surrendered and gave myself over to her, to the slow-down pace of the perfect morning.

On the dock of the bay we undressed each other. The morning sun was toasty warm and I was aware of the lake breeze fanning our bare skin.

I tested the water with my foot, my own well-turned ankle. Jezzie wasn’t exaggerating about the temperature.

“I wouldn’t lie to you. I never have yet,” she said with another smile.

She dived in perfectly, then, making almost no splash on the water surface.

I followed in the light trail of her bubbles. As I penetrated the underwater, I was thinking: a black man and a beautiful white woman swimming together.

In the middle South. In this Year of Our Lord, nineteen hundred and ninety-three.

We were being reckless, and maybe just a little crazy.

Were we wrong? Some people would say so, or at least think it. But why was that? Were we hurting anyone by being together?

The water was warm on top. But it was much colder five or six feet down. It looked blue-green. It was probably spring-fed. Near the bottom, I could feel strong undercurrents striking my chest and genitals.

A thought struck me hard: Could we be falling deeply in love? Was that what I was feeling now? I came up for air.

“Did you touch bottom? You have to touch bottom on the day’s first dive.”

“Or what?” I asked Jezzie.

“Or you’re a lily-livered chicken, and you’ll drown or be lost forever in the deep woods before day’s end. That’s a true tale. I’ve seen it happen many, many times here in the Middle of Nowhere.”

We played like children in the lake. We’d both been working hard. Too hard—for almost a year of our lives.

There was a cedar ladder, the easy way back up onto the dock. The ladder was newly built. I could smell the freshness of the wood. There weren’t any splinters yet. I wondered if Jezzie had built it herself—on her vacation—just before the kidnapping.

We held on to the ladder, and on to each other. Somewhere distant on the lake, ducks honked. It was a funny sound. There was little more than a ripple on the water table that stretched out before us. Tiny waves tickled under Jezzie’s chin.

“I love you when you’re like this. You get so vulnerable,” she said. “The real you starts to show up.”

“I feel like everything’s been unreal for such a long time,” I said to Jezzie. “The kidnapping. The search for Soneji. The trial in Washington.”

“This is the only thing that’s real for the moment. Okay? I like being with you so.” Jezzie put her head on my chest.

“You like it so?”

“Yes. I like it so. See how uncomplicated it can be?” She gestured around at the picturesque lake, the deep ring of fir trees. “Don’t you see? It’s all so natural. It will be fine. I promise. No bass fishermen will ever come between us.”

Jezzie was right. For the first time in a very long time, I felt as if everything could work out—everything that might happen from now on. Things were as slow and uncomplicated and good as could be. Neither of us wanted the weekend to end.





CHAPTER 61


“I’M A HOMICIDE DETECTIVE with the Washington Police Department. My official rank is divisional chief. Sometimes, I get assigned to violent crimes where there are psychological considerations that might mean something to the case.”

I stated this under oath inside a crowded, hushed, very electric Washington courtroom. It was Monday morning. The weekend seemed a million miles away. Beads of perspiration started to roll across my scalp.

“Can you tell us why you are assigned cases with psychological implications?” Anthony Nathan asked me.

“I’m a psychologist as well as a detective. I had a private practice before I joined the D.C. police force,” I said. “Prior to that, I worked in agriculture. I was a migrant farmworker for a year.”

“Your degree is from?” Nathan refused to be distracted from establishing me as an impressive-as-hell person.

“As you already know, Mr. Nathan, my doctorate is from Johns Hopkins.”

“One of the finest schools in the country, certainly this part of the country,” he said.

“Objection. That’s Mr. Nathan’s opinion.” Mary Warner made a fair legal point.

Judge Kaplan upheld the objection.

“You’ve also published articles in Psychiatric Archives, in the American Journal of Psychiatry.” Nathan continued as if Ms. Warner and Judge Kaplan were inconsequential.

“I’ve written a few papers. It’s really not such a big deal, Mr. Nathan. A lot of psychologists publish.”