Along Came a Spider (Alex Cross #1)(96)

Gary said he’d done something like that out at the old farm in Maryland. He’d sworn it was the truth, and that the FBI would never find it.

Fishenauer switched off the Firebird’s rumbling engine. The sudden quiet was eerie. The old house sure looked deserted, and very creepy. It reminded him of a movie called The Night of the Living Dead. Except that he was starring in this creepy-crawler.

Weeds were growing everywhere, even springing out of the roof of the garage. Water stains ran down the sides of the garage.

“Well, Gary-boy, let’s see if you’re completely full of shit. I hope to hell you’re not.”

Robert Fishenauer took a deep breath and climbed out of his low-slung car. He’d already figured out what he would say if he got nailed here. He’d just say that Gary had told him where he’d buried Maggie Rose Dunne. But Fishenauer had figured it was only some of his crazy talk.

Still, it had gnawed at him.

So now here he was in Creepsville, Maryland, checking it out. Actually, he felt dumb. He also felt kind of bad, guilty, but he had to check this one for himself. Had to, man. This was his personal ten-million-dollar lottery. He had his ticket.

Maybe he was about to find out where little Maggie Rose Dunne was buried. Jesus, he hoped not. Or maybe it was the buried treasure that Gary had promised him.

He and Gary-boy had talked a lot, for hours at a time, back at the hole. Gary loved to talk about his exploits. His baby, as he called the kidnapping caper. His “perfect” crime.

Right! So “perfect” he was serving life plus in a max-security prison for the criminally insane.

And here Robert Fishenauer was, right at the moldy front door into Creepsville. The scene of the crime, as they say.

There was a badly rusted metal latch on the door. Fishenauer slipped on a pair of winter golf gloves—hard to explain those if he got caught snooping out here. He flipped up the door latch. He had to pull the door hard toward him through the thick overgrowth.

Flashlight time. He took out his lamp and turned it on full blast. Gary said he’d find the money on the right side of the garage, the far right corner, to be exact.

A lot of old, broken-down farm machines lay all around the garage. Cobwebs stuck against his face and neck as he walked forward. The strong smell of decay was on everything.

Halfway into the garage, Fishenauer stopped and turned around. He stared out the open door, and listened for what must have been a full ninety seconds.

He heard a jet plane somewhere off in the distance. There was no other sound. He sure hoped there was no one else around.

How long could the FBI afford to watch a deserted farm? Not almost two years after the kidnapping!

Satisfied that he was alone, Fishenauer continued to the back of the garage. Once he was there, he started to work.

He pulled a sturdy old workbench over—Gary had said the bench would be there. He’d seen by now that Gary had described the place in pretty amazing and accurate detail. Gary’d said where every broken piece of machinery lay. He’d told Fishenauer the exact location of just about every slat of wood in the rotting garage walls.

Standing on the old workbench, Fishenauer began to pull away old boards, up where the garage roof met the wall. There was a space back there. Just like Gary said there was.

Fishenauer aimed his flashlight into the hole in the wall. There it was, part of the ransom money that Gary Soneji/Murphy wasn’t supposed to have. He couldn’t believe his eyes. A stack of money was right there in the garage walls.





CHAPTER 78


AT 3:16 the following morning, Gary Soneji/Murphy pressed his forehead against the cold metal bars that separated his cell from the prison corridor. He had another big part to act out. Hellzapoppin!

He started to throw up onto the highly polished linoleum floor—just as he had planned to. He was violently ill inside the cell. He yelled for help between wheezing gasps.

Both of the night guards came running. There had been a suicide watch on Gary since his first day there. Laurence Volpi and Phillip Halyard were veterans of many years’ service at the federal prison. They weren’t too keen on disturbances in the cell block, particularly after midnight.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Volpi yelled as he watched the green and brown puddle slowly spreading on the floor. “What’s your problem, asshole?”

“I think I’ve been poisoned,” Soneji/Murphy gasped and wheezed, the sound coming from deep inside his chest. “Somebody’s poisoned me. I’ve been poisoned! I think I’m dying. Oh my God, I’m dying!”

“Best news I’ve heard lately,” Phillip Halyard said to his partner and grinned. “Wish I’d thought of it first. Poison the bastard.”

Volpi took out his walkie-talkie, and called for the night supervisor. The suicide watch on Soneji was a big deal with the prison higher-ups. It sure wasn’t going to happen on Volpi’s shift.

“I’m going to be sick again,” Gary Soneji/Murphy moaned. He sagged heavily against the bars and threw up a second time—violently.

Moments later, the floor’s supervisor arrived. Laurence Volpi quickly told his boss what had happened. It was his standard cover-thy-ass speech.

“He says he’s been poisoned, Bobby. I don’t know what the hell happened. It’s possible. Enough of these bastards hate his guts.”