Fear No Evil(Alex Cross #29)(2)

“The heart wins again,” Butler said. He pushed the pile of blank pages in front of her. “Start writing. The Maldives. The numbered accounts. Their connections. All of it.”

After a few moments, Catherine Hingham calmed enough to raise her head. “I need witness protection.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Butler said and held out the pen to her. “Now write.”

The CIA officer reached out with both handcuffed hands shaking. She took the pen. “Please,” she said. “My family doesn’t deserve what will happen if—”

“Write,” he said firmly. “And I’ll see what I can do.”

The CIA officer reluctantly began to scribble names, addresses, account numbers, and more. When she’d moved to a second page, Butler had seen enough to be satisfied.

He walked behind the CIA officer and nodded to a small camera mounted high in the corner of the room.

A gravelly male voice came through the tiny earbud Butler wore in his left ear. “Mmmm. Well done. When you have what we need, end the interview and file your report, please.”

Butler nodded again before moving in front of Catherine Hingham. She set her pen down and pushed the pages across the table at him.

“That’s it,” she said in a hoarse voice. “Everything I know.”

“Unlikely,” Butler said, using the nail of his index finger to lift up the first sheet so he could scan the information she’d provided on page two. “But this looks useful enough for now. It will give us leverage. Was that so hard, Catherine?”

She relaxed a little and said, “Okay, then, I’ve given you what you wanted. Now I need a doctor to fix my hand. I need witness protection.”

With his fingernail, Butler scooted the confession pages to the far right of the table. “You’re a smart woman, Catherine. Well educated. Yale, if I remember. You should know your history better. We don’t protect traitors in the United States of America. From Benedict Arnold on, they’ve all had to pay the price. And now, so will you.”

The CIA officer looked confused and then terrified when Butler took a step back and drew a stubby pistol with a sound suppressor from his shoulder holster.

“No, please, my kids are—” she managed before he took aim and shot her between the eyes.





Chapter





3




From the time we’d met as ten-year-olds, John Sampson, my best friend and long-term DC Metro Police partner, had been stoic, quiet, observant. Since his wife, Billie, had died, he’d become even more reserved and was now given to long bouts of brooding silence. I knew he was still wrestling with grief.

But that late-June morning, Big John was acting as wound up as a kid about to hit the front gates of Disney World as he bopped around my front room, where we’d laid out all our gear for a trip we’d been talking about taking for years.

“You think we’ll see a grizzly?” Sampson asked, grinning at me.

“I’m hoping not,” I said. “At least, not up close.”

“They’re in there, big-time. And wolves.”

“And deer, elk, and cutthroat trout,” I said. “I’ve been studying the brochure too.”

Nana Mama, my ninety-something grandmother, came in wringing her hands and asked with worry in her voice, “Did I hear you say grizzly bears?”

Sampson glowed with excitement. “Nana, the Bob Marshall Wilderness has one of the densest concentrations of grizzlies in the lower forty-eight states. But don’t worry. We’ll have bear spray and sidearms. And cameras.”

“I don’t know why you couldn’t choose a safer place to go on your manly trip.”

“If it was safer, it wouldn’t be manly,” I said. “There’s got to be a challenge.”

“Glad I’m an old lady, then. Breakfast in five minutes.” Nana Mama turned and shuffled away, shaking her head.

“Checklist?” Sampson said.

“I’m ready if you are.”

We started going through every item we’d thought necessary for the twenty-nine-mile horseback trip deep into one of the last great wildernesses on earth and for the five-day raft ride we’d take out of the Bob Marshall on the South Fork of the Flathead River. An outfitter was providing the rafts, tents, food, and bear-proof storage equipment. Everything else had to fit into four rubberized dry bags we’d use on the river after he dropped us off.

We could have signed up for a fully guided affair, but Sampson wanted us to do a good part of the trip alone, and after some thought, I’d agreed. Six days deep in the backcountry of Montana would give Big John many chances to open up and talk, which is critical to the process of coping with tragic loss.

“How’s Willow feeling about our little trip?” I asked.

Sampson smiled. “She doesn’t like the idea of grizzly bears any more than Nana does, but she knows it will make me happy.”

“Your little girl’s always been wise beyond her years.”

“Truth. Bree liking her job?”

Thinking of my smart, beautiful, and independent wife, I said, “She loves it. Got up early to be at the office. Something about a possible assignment in Paris.”

“Paris! What a difference a career change makes.”