Deadly Cross (Alex Cross #28)(19)

“We believe he prepares extensively,” I said.

“Prepares,” she said and tears began to dribble down her cheeks. “What makes this kind of monster, Dr. Cross?” We’d had this discussion several times, but I indulged her. “Probably a lot of things,” I said. “One damaging incident after another, probably as a young child and in puberty, possibly involving abuse by a female about Elizabeth’s age. That abuse festered in his brain until the brain was literally changed. The chemicals, the wiring, it’s different for these kinds of men.”

“Not human. A predator,” she said, staring off into space.

I handed her a box of tissues. She took one, smiled weakly, and said, “Elizabeth would have been twenty soon. Maybe she would have given me grandchildren. And maybe I’d be happy at least some of the time.” She wiped her eyes and then blew her nose.

“You’ve told me you are happy in the work you do in Guatemala,” I said.

“This is true,” she said grudgingly. “I like working with girls that age, Elizabeth’s age. They never listen to their mother, but I am like their aunt.”

“They listen to you.”

“They do,” she said, smiling outwardly again.

“Then the meaning you’re giving Elizabeth’s death is different than before. She’s the reason you can talk to those girls. You know that, don’t you?”

Analisa nodded and then burst into tears again. “Every day, I feel Elizabeth with me when I am teaching those girls. Every day, she works through my heart to reach them.”

I said nothing for a moment, then smiled and said, “I can’t imagine a more wonderful legacy and meaning for Elizabeth’s life.”

She sighed and looked at the ceiling before taking another tissue. “I know you are right, Dr. Cross. But I still have anger in my heart. And I still want you to catch him before he can do this to any more girls.”

“Maybe you can help with that,” I said. “Randall Christopher?”

Analisa’s face fell and she made the sign of the cross. “That poor man. I know he cheated on his wife, but I believe he was a good man.”

“He organized the searches for Elizabeth and Maya Parker.”

“Yes. I did not know about Maya. Her parents?”

“Her parents are devastated. They moved to Florida to get away from here.”

“I don’t blame them.”

“But refresh my memory,” I said. “How did it work? The search for Elizabeth?”

Analisa thought about that. “Well, the police, Metro, they searched first. But Randall thought it was not enough and he knew how to get everyone involved.”

“He was a great organizer,” I said. “But why Christopher’s interest?”

“Well, I suppose because he’d known Elizabeth since she was a girl.”

“Really? How’s that?”

“When he started the charter school, it was in a building I used to clean at night. After my husband left, I used to bring Elizabeth there to study while I got my work done. Like I said, a good man.”

Analisa left soon after and I was back in my office writing up my notes on our session when my cell phone rang, a call from a number I recognized. “Rawlins?”

“She made a mistake,” said Keith Karl Rawlins, who employed his formidable skills as a computer scientist consultant to the cybercrimes division of the FBI. He had the odd habit of assuming you’d already heard the story he’d been telling himself in his head.

“Who made a mistake?” I said.

“Elaine Paulson,” he said. “Randall Christopher’s missing wife.”





CHAPTER 21





THREE HOURS LATER, AS DARK clouds were rolling in and the breeze was stiffening, Sampson, Mahoney, and I stood at the front door of a little bungalow on Chincoteague Island in eastern Maryland. Mahoney rapped hard.

Keith Rawlins had tracked Elaine Paulson, Christopher’s wife, to this bungalow through the IP address assigned to the router here. She’d signed on for barely ten minutes, but Rawlins had picked her up and traced her in less than seven.

No one answered the door. Mahoney had a search warrant with him and he was starting to pick the lock when a locomotive of a woman in pink Bermuda shorts and a sleeveless white blouse shouted at us from across the street that she was calling the police.

When we told her we were the police, she relaxed and became cooperative. Her name was Adele Penny, and it turned out she was the bungalow’s owner.

“What’s she done?” she asked when we told her who we were looking for.

“We just want to talk to her,” Mahoney said.

“What about? Her marriage?”

“What about her marriage?” I said.

“She said it was over. Ended badly. That’s why she’s out here, taking time to figure things out.”

“You don’t know anything about her?”

“No. And I didn’t ask.”

“Why is that?”

“She said her husband beat her, and she paid cash.”

Showing her the search warrant, Mahoney said, “We need you to open the door. When did you last see her?”

“An hour ago. What is this about?” Mrs. Penny said, rattled. She unlocked the door and pushed it open.