Kiss the Girls (Alex Cross #2)(48)

“Tell me the story, Kate. I love to listen to stories. So much so that I made it my job.”

Kate put her hand on top of mine. She took a deep breath. Her voice got soft, very quiet. “Once upon a time, there was the McTiernan family of Birch. This was a happy group of campers, Alex. Tight-knit, especially the girls: Susanne, Marjorie, Kristin, Carole Anne, and Kate. Kristin and I were the youngest goils twins. Then there was Mary, our mother, and Martin, our father. I’m not going to say too much about Martin. My mother made him leave when I was four. He was very domineering and could be as mean as a stepped-on copperhead sometimes. To hell with him. I’m way past my father by now.”

Kate went on for a bit, but then she stopped and looked deeply into my eyes. “Did anybody ever tell you what a terrific, terrific listener you are? You make it seem like you’re interested in everything I have to say. That makes me want to talk to you. I have never told this whole story to anyone, Alex.”

“Well, I am interested in what you have to say. It makes me feel good that you’re sharing this with me, that you trust me enough.”

“I trust you. It’s not a very happy story, so I must trust you a lot.”

“I have that sense,” I told Kate. It struck me again how very beautiful her face was. Her eyes were very large and lovely. Her lips weren’t too full, or too thin. I kept being reminded why Casanova had chosen her.

“My sisters, my mother, they were so great when I was growing up. I was their little slave, and I was their pet. There wasn’t much money coming into the house, so there was always too much to do. We canned our own veggies, jelly, and fruit. We took in washing and ironing. Did our own carpentry, plumbing, auto repair. We were lucky: we liked one another. We were always laughing and singing the latest hit song off the radio. We read a lot, and we’d talk about everything from abortion rights to recipes. A sense of humor was mandatory in our house. ‘Don’t be so serious’ was the famous line there.”

Finally, Kate told me what had happened to the McTiernan family. Her story; her secret came out in an agitated burst that darkened her face.

“Marjorie got sick first. She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Margie died when she was twenty-six. She already had three kids. Then, in order, Susanne, my twin Kristin, and my mother died. All of breast or ovarian cancer, That left Carole Anne, me, and my father. Carole Anne and I joke that we inherited my father’s snarly mean streak, so we’re destined to die of nasty heart attacks.”

Kate suddenly swung her head down and to one side. Then she looked back up at me. “I was going to say, I don’t know why I told you that. But I do know. I like you. I want to be your friend. I want you to be my friend. Is that possible?”

I started to say something about how I felt, but Kate stopped me. She put the tips of her fingers on my lips. “Don’t be sentimental right now. Don’t ask me any more about my sisters right now. Tell me something you don’t ever tell other people. Tell me quick now, before you change your mind. Tell me one of your big secrets, Alex.”

I didn’t think about what I was going to say. I just let it come out. It seemed fair after what Kate had told me. Besides, I wanted to share something with her, I wanted to confide in Kate, at least see if I could.

“I’ve been screwed up ever since my wife, Maria, died,” I told Kate McTiernan, one of my secrets, one of the things I keep bottled inside. “I put on clothes every morning, and a sociable face, and my six-gun some days… but I feel hollow most of the time. I got into a relationship after Maria, and it didn’t work out. It failed in a spectacular fashion. Now I’m not ready to be with anyone again. I don’t know if I ever will be.”

Kate peered into my eyes. “Oh, Alex, you’re wrong. You are so ready,” she told me without any doubt in her eyes or her voice.

Sparks.

Friends.

“I’d like us to be friends, too,” I finally told her. It was something I rarely said, and never this quickly.

As I stared across the table at Kate, stared over the glowing wick of a dwindling candle, I was reminded of Casanova again. If nothing else, he was a very good judge of a woman’s beauty and character. He was just about perfect.





Chapter 58


T HE HAREM cautiously shuffled toward a large living area at the end of a winding hallway inside the mysterious, loathsome house. The place had two floors. On the lower one, there was only a single room. Upstairs, there were as many as ten.

Naomi Cross walked cautiously among the women. They had been told to go to the common room. Since she had been there, the number of captives had ranged from six to eight. Sometimes a girl left, or disappeared, but there always seemed to be a new one to take her place.

Casanova was waiting for them in the living room. He had on another of his masks. This one was handpainted with white and bright green streaks. Festive. A party face. He wore a gold silk robe and was naked underneath it.

The room was large and tastefully furnished. The floor was covered with an oriental rug. The walls were off-white and freshly painted.

“Come in, come in ladies. Don’t be shy. Don’t be bashful,” he said from the back of the room. He had a stun gun and a pistol and struck a dashing pose.

Naomi imagined that he was smiling behind the mask. More than anything she wanted to see his face, just once, and then obliterate it forever, shatter it into tiny pieces, grind the pieces into nothing.