Cross Kill (Alex Cross 24.50)

“What are they saying?”

“That you didn’t get my dad,” Dylan said. “That he escaped the tunnels, badly wounded, but alive, and is still alive. Is that what you’re telling me, too?”

There seemed so much hope in his face that, whether he was in need of psychological help or not, I didn’t want to destroy it.

“If it wasn’t your father who shot my partner, it was his twin.”

Dylan started to laugh. He laughed so hard there were tears in his eyes.

Thumping his chest, he said, “I knew it! I felt it right here.”

When he stopped, I said, “What do you think is going to happen? That he’s going to suddenly appear to rescue you?”

Dylan acted as if I’d read his thoughts, but then shot back, “He will. You watch. And there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s like they say—Dad was always smarter than you. More patient and cunning than you.”

Rather than defend myself, I said, “You’re right. Your father was smarter than me, and more patient, and more cunning.”

“He still is. They say so on the internet.”

“What site?” I asked.

Dylan gave me that disturbing smile again before saying, “One you can’t get at in a million years, Cross.” He laughed. “Never in a million years.”

“Really?” I said. “How about I march back up to your mother and tell her I’m coming back with a search warrant for every computer in your house?”

Dylan’s grin stretched wider. “Go ahead. We don’t have one.”

“How about every computer in your school, in the local library, in every place your mother says you get online?”

I thought that would rock him, but it didn’t.

“Knock yourself out,” he said. “But unless I have a lawyer present, I am done answering your questions, and I have pigeons to feed.”

Or torture, I almost said.

But I bit back the urge, and turned to leave, calling over my shoulder, “Nice to meet you, Dylan. Wonderful getting to know the son of an old enemy.”

Chapter 13

It was past six when I finally reached the ICU at GW Medical Center. The nurse at the station said Sampson’s vitals had been irregular most of the day, and there’d been little if any reduction in brain swelling.

“You sick in any way?” the nurse asked.

“Not that I’m aware of. Why?”

“Protocol. The shunt draining the wound is an open track straight to the inside of your friend’s healing skull. Any kind of infection could be catastrophic.”

“I feel fine,” I said, and put on the gown, mask, and gloves.

When I pushed open the door, Billie stirred awake in her reclining chair.

“Alex? That you?”

“The man behind the mask.”

“Tell me about it,” she said, getting up to hug me. “I’ve been wearing one the past forty hours and I’m getting rubbed raw.”

“His vitals?”