The People vs. Alex Cross (Alex Cross #25)(90)

Dylan Winslow, Gary Soneji’s son, swung the gun back and forth between us, and even in the low light I could see a demented smile on his face. It was a smile I’d seen before, months ago, when I’d caught him torturing pigeons in his mother’s barn in rural Delaware.

“What do you think you’re doing, Dylan?” I said.

“Giving you what you deserve for killing my mom.”

“He was framed,” Bree said. “Drugged. The jury agreed.”

“I saw him do it with my own two eyes,” he snarled.

“So you were in the factory that night,” I said. “I’ve thought about that possibility quite a bit since the trial.”

“Who cares? Winning and seeing you gone is what’s important.”

“You took the holographic film off everyone’s hands, didn’t you?”

He snorted. “That’s bullshit. That whole excuse was cooked up by your brat of a kid and his gay buddy. Where is he, anyway? Your brat of a kid?”

“Far away,” I said, my eyes flickering to the street and the sidewalk.

“I’ll find him later, after I’m done here.”

“No, you won’t.”

Dylan shook the pistol at me. “Don’t tell me what I will or won’t do, Cross! Who the hell do you think you are?”

“I’m the guy who notices things, Dylan. Even after seeing the film of me shooting your mother over and over in court, I couldn’t figure out what about it was driving me crazy.”

“Shut up. Get on your knees. Both of you.”

I stood my ground. So did Bree.

I said, “Your mother stumbled when she came into view. Did you push your mother, Dylan? Did she know what you meant to have happen?”

“Lying again.” He sneered. “Making shit up. It’s what you do, Cross. But not this time. This time, you’re gonna die. Like you should have before.”

I heard the click of the revolver’s hammer cocking.

“Don’t do it,” Bree said. “Killing cops never ends well.”

“I don’t care,” Dylan said. “This is where I end too. Once I see you both—”

I caught a flicker of movement behind and to his right a split second before Soneji’s son screamed and spun around, firing. The shot hit the porch ceiling.

Plaster dust and splinters hit me in the face as I charged, smashed my shoulder into his rib cage, and drove him hard against the railing. I heard ribs crack and saw all the wind go out of him before I dragged him to the porch floor and pinned him.

Bree kicked away his gun, backed up, and turned on the porch light.

Dylan Winslow lay under me, gasping for air, one hand groping for the vanes and shaft of the competition dart buried deep in the left side of his neck.

“Who’s the brat now, jackass?” Ali cried, leaping onto the porch, pumping his fist, and then pointing a finger triumphantly at Soneji’s kid. “I smoked you with a ten-ringer from thirty-five feet!”





CHAPTER


114


LATE THE FOLLOWING April, Ali and I drove out to Assateague State Park on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. It was a glorious spring day, unnaturally warm, and it felt good in my bones when I climbed from the car after parking beside a familiar Jeep Wagoneer.

“Why would Mr. Aaliyah want to teach me to fish?” Ali said, coming around the back. “He doesn’t even know me.”

“He’s heard of you. Besides, he likes to teach kids to fish.”

“Why?”

“Give a man a fish and he eats for a day. Teach a man to fish and he eats for a lifetime.”

Ali gave me a funny face. “Who said that?”

“Someone smarter than me,” I said as a Volvo pulled into the lot.

A woman in her thirties with ash-blond hair climbed out and looked over at us uncertainly. “The beach isn’t far, is it?”

“Just over the dunes,” I said and motioned to Ali to kick off his sneakers.

Barefoot, we walked the sand path through the dunes. My ankle didn’t feel too bad at all, and there was a nice breeze blowing that smelled like spring.

“What’s going to happen to him, Dad?” Ali said. “Dylan Winslow?”

“That’s out of my hands. He’ll get his day in court.”

“I heard Bree say they think something’s wrong with his brain.”

That was sadly true and, if the doctors’ suspicions proved correct, unsurprising. Dylan had been born on the wrong end of a DNA chain, one where psychopathic tendencies were passed on by a criminally insane father and first expressed through a delight in torturing defenseless animals. Abetting the murder of his mother and then attempting to murder us were natural progressions for him, in some ways as predictable as diseases.

“Doctors are looking at that possibility,” I said. “If so, Dylan will go to an institution for people like that.”

We emerged on the beach. The sky was ridiculously blue. The sea heaved and rolled in a deeper azure. Early-season sunbathers and a smattering of fishermen dotted the pristine sand.

“That guy’s got a big fish!” Ali said, pointing to a man pulling one ashore.

“Nice one.”

“I like this place, Dad. I want to learn to fish.”