Deadly Cross (Alex Cross #28)(21)

“No matter what I do or say now, I’ve seen how this machine works,” she said, a quiver in her voice. “They won’t see me as a victim. They’ll crucify me, sacrifice me because of who she was. They’ll throw me in a hole and I’ll rot, and my babies will have to suffer every day for as long as I’m alive. It’s better to save them the longer-term pain.”

It is remarkable what people in deep turmoil will tell you if you truly listen to what they are saying. More often than not, they will spill some of the pattern of repeated dark words, thoughts, and fantasies that have been spiraling in their heads so relentlessly, so furiously, that they have entered a trance that has eliminated all other thoughts. If the spiral continues without break, they will essentially talk themselves to the point where the pain of dying seems less than the pain of living.

That’s how suicide works.

Her unfocused gaze had traveled by me and out toward the crashing waves and the sea beyond; she was back in her trance again. “They’ll pin it on me. The spurned wife.” I sensed the muscles in her forearm start to tense.

“Elaine, Elaine, look at me!” I shouted, trying to break the trance. “I promise you, I am not part of any machine except justice. I promise you that I have no bias or interest in throwing you in a hole. No interest in making you rot there just to clear a case. All I’m interested in is seeing you in your daughters’ loving arms again.”

For a long moment, Christopher’s wife stayed with the gun against her head, dwelling on the ocean. Then raindrops began to fall.

“Believe me, Elaine,” I said. “If you know who I am and what I do, I am going to hear whatever you have to say without prejudice or filter. Do you understand?”

I could see the struggle in her face as the repetitive thoughts and emotions of the suicidal trance fought against this new story I was telling her. And then it came to me. Suddenly, I understood a part of the death spiral that she hadn’t yet revealed. And even though the first cut would be cruel, I used it against her.

“I know Randall didn’t want your love anymore and that made you feel destroyed inside, as if you’d never love or be loved like that again. But that is not true, Elaine. You are loved.”

She shook her head, her lower lip trembling. “No.”

“I can prove it to you,” I said. “I’ve seen the picture of you with the twins the day they left for camp. My wife did too. She said the love you have for them and the love they have for you is so powerful, it just radiates right out of the picture. I agree, Elaine. Do you see the beauty in that? In that picture, part of your heart has been broken and yet you are blooming with love for Tina and Rachel and they’re blooming with love for you. Do you really want to end something so beautiful?”

Her shoulders began to shake.

“Please, Elaine,” I said. “Put the gun down for Tina and for Rachel or they’ll never know that kind of unconditional love again, their mother’s beautiful love again, your beautiful, limitless love again.”

That broke her.

Christopher’s widow burst into gulping sobs and let go of the gun, which fell in the sand. I scrambled forward and snatched it up even as she said, weeping, “He didn’t care about me or the girls or anyone anymore. All he wanted was Kay.”





CHAPTER 23





THE RAIN CAME IN A patter that surged to a downpour after we’d put Elaine Paulson in the back seat of the car and Sampson started the drive back.

“Am I under arrest?” she said when Mahoney put handcuffs on her wrists.

“In federal custody,” Mahoney said. “Pending interrogation.”

“And psychological evaluation,” I said. “And weapon testing.”

“Why?” she said, looking at the rain splattering against the windshield.

I studied her, wondering about her mental state and her guilt or innocence. I said, “After your husband and Mrs. Willingham were murdered with a thirty-eight-caliber pistol, you ran, hid from law enforcement, and were at the brink of killing yourself with a thirty-eight-caliber pistol, Elaine. That’s why.”

“Don’t you have to read me my rights?” she asked, still not meeting our eyes.

Mahoney nodded and read them to her. “Do you understand your rights?”

Elaine nodded dully. “I do. I’m going to remain silent now because that’s what they always say to do.” She snorted with rancor. “Even Randall always said it. You talk to a lawyer first.”

As the rain drummed on the roof, she raised her head and looked at each of us in turn before shutting her ravaged eyes and sleeping the rest of the way back to DC. She woke up when we pulled into the hospital parking lot.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Elaine, we’re taking you in for evaluation, remember?”

“No. Can I leave? I mean, sign myself out?”

“No, ma’am,” Mahoney said, glancing at me. “You’re still in federal custody.”

“Oh. Have you read me my rights?”

“We have.”

“Then I want a lawyer before I go in the mental ward,” she said. “I know what they do to people in mental wards. Dope me up so I’ll waive my rights and talk to you.”

“Elaine,” I said calmly. “For your own safety, you are here for medical care by fine doctors. And a public defender will come talk to you in the morning.”