Criss Cross (Alex Cross #27)(22)

M had called the repeater from his burn phone, and the repeater, in turn, had called us. As we trudged back to the car, the skies opened, and it began to pour.

“Son of a bitch,” Mahoney said. “He played us.”

“Perfectly,” I said, going to the passenger door. “We just have to hope he was serious, that he’ll get the five million and let Diane Jenkins go.”

Mahoney clicked the remote to unlock the car and turn on the interior lights.

That’s when we saw blood on the backseat, a severed finger with an engagement ring and a wedding band, and the decapitated head of a woman, brunette hair hanging across her face.





CHAPTER 26





MY STOMACH LURCHED, AND I had to turn away and compose myself for several moments before I found my cold professionalism.

“He was right here,” I said. “This whole area is a crime scene.”

“Fat chance we’ll find anything in this rain,” Mahoney said. “Is it her?”

I forced myself to stare through the rain-streaked window at the severed head, the blood, and the finger, then I put on gloves and opened the rear passenger door.

“The rings are Mrs. Jenkins’s,” I said, tasting acid at the back of my throat. “I recognize them from a picture in their house.”

Mahoney opened the other rear door and peered in at the head, which was closer to him. With gloved hands, he gingerly brushed back the hair from the corpse’s face and sighed.

She was Asian.

“I don’t know whether to be happy or sad,” Mahoney said.

“Why kill another woman?” I said, studying her face.

“I have no idea what this guy’s play is,” Mahoney said. “Wait, are those gummy bears in her mouth?”

I leaned forward, feeling sickened all over again.

“Full of gummy bears,” I said. Then I noticed something white under the dead woman’s head. I reached over and shifted it over.

A folded piece of paper fell into the blood. I grabbed it before the blood could soak in and unfolded the sheet. On it was a laser-printed message.

You didn’t think it was going to be simple, did you, Cross?

Well, this is not simple. It won’t ever be simple. Not from a mastermind like me.

You know, if you hadn’t tried to trace me, maybe I would have set Mrs. Jenkins free. But you did try to trace me, and now I just don’t know what to think or do, and I suspect neither do you.

We’ll just have to see, you and me.



M



“What does it say?” Mahoney asked.

Before I could reply, I saw the headlights of several large vehicles bearing down on us. They slowed and stopped not twenty yards away, their high beams lighting up the car and the interior from behind.

Mahoney threw his forearm up to shield his eyes, yanked out his ID and badge, held them up, and yelled, “FBI! Turn those damn lights off!”

The lights dimmed, and I could see three television satellite trucks.

A platinum-blond woman barely five feet tall launched herself out of the nearest rig with a cameraman right behind her.

“Is it true?” she demanded. “Is there a head in there with gummy bears in the mouth? And a finger? Is it Mrs. Jenkins? And who is this mysterious M?”





CHAPTER 27





MAHONEY PULLED HIMSELF UP TO his full height and rushed right at her, saying, “Move. Now. Back up your perimeter. This is a crime scene, and I want it sealed immediately!”

The reporters retreated as the young woman said, “We have a right to answers.”

“No, you have the right to ask questions,” Mahoney said, getting right in her face. “I decide whether I’ll answer them. And I’m more likely to answer them if you give me a little slack to take care of a dangerous, fluid situation. Okay?”

Her jaw relaxed, and she nodded. “Okay. Lisa Sutton. Channel Six News. We’ll move back, but I’m assuming my questions have answers.”

Mahoney threw up his hands. “Assume all you want, Ms. Sutton. Just get away from my crime scene. Now!”

The reporters backed off a few more steps, and Mahoney got on his phone to notify the local sheriff and get a forensics team dispatched.

I went to the car and looked at the finger and at the head of the Asian woman. Who was she? Why put gummy bears in her mouth?

And what the hell was it with M and the damned gummy bears?

My thoughts raced backward twelve years to the first time I’d gotten a message from M.

I suddenly saw myself and John Sampson climbing out of an unmarked car south of tiny Rupert, West Virginia.

We’d pulled off a muddy road and parked up against a chain across an overgrown gravel drive that led into thick woods. There was a no trespassing sign hanging from the chain. A faded for sale sign dangled from a pine tree.

“What’s with the damn bugs?” Sampson grumbled, waving his hands at the clouds of blackflies and mosquitoes that swarmed around our heads.

“Cheaper than guard dogs,” I said, swatting the back of my neck.

“Doesn’t look promising, does it?”

I gazed beyond the chain and saw no tire tracks or footprints of any kind.

Sampson said, “We could have asked West Virginia State Police to take a look around before we drove for four hours to get here.”