Alex Cross, Run (Alex Cross 20)

“I see,” Bergman said. The girl only nodded.

“But let’s not limit ourselves,” Creem went on. “Should I keep going?”

“Definitely,” Bergman said, pouring himself another drink. “Tell me what you’re thinking about, Elijah.”

Creem stood to the side and used the pointer again, pressing the tip of it into the girl’s well-toned obliques.

“Let’s say we wanted to go for a little tummy tuck, while we were at it,” he said. “In that case, I might try coming in right here, or maybe even here. . . .” Now he plied the lower abdominals under her navel. There was more resistance there, but that meant more payoff—more purchase for his blade when it went in.

“Something like that?” Creem said, ostensibly for the girl, but again it was Bergman who answered.

“Yes,” he said, his voice a little smaller than before. “Something like that.”

“And how about the thighs?” Creem went on, turning his attention south. “It wouldn’t be much to take those down a little.” He drew another line, along the psoas, and came to a stop just over the femoral artery. His favorite. “That’s where I’d like to cut. Right there.”

“Mm-hm,” Bergman said. The girl blinked a few times. She seemed confused by now, which was fine.

“I’m just going to make some notes,” Creem said, and indicated the gown again. “You can close up there, Justine.”

“It’s Larissa,” she said.

“Right. Sorry. It’s just that . . . you look so much like my daughter. Almost exactly, really.”

He put away his pointer and stepped over to the clipboard on the counter behind her. There, he opened a drawer and took out a number eighteen blade. It was perfect for deep cutting, and the custom handle made it feel like an extension of his own arm.

He probably should have stuck with the same cheap steak knife as before, he knew. In fact, it was right there in the drawer where he’d left it half an hour ago. But with skin like this girl had, that would have been like taking a chain saw to porcelain.

He’d just have to go back and rough up his work a bit afterward, to cover his tracks.

“So, what do you think, Josh?” Creem turned to face his friend. “Have you heard enough, or should I keep going?”

“Keep going,” Bergman said right away. His eyes were focused on the scalpel in Dr. Creem’s hand. He was sitting perfectly still by now, and his voice was little more than a hoarse whisper. “By all means, Elijah. Keep going. Please.”

“Are you okay to keep going, too, Justine?” Creem asked.

“Um . . . Larissa,” the girl said again.

“Shh,” Creem told her. “It doesn’t matter, Justine. Just stand nice and still for me like a good girl. We’ll be done here before you know it.”

CHAPTER

28

WHEN IT WAS OVER, CREEM AND BERGMAN HAD NO TROUBLE GETTING THE GIRL wrapped up and ready to go. They used latex gloves and a white nylon disaster bag to move her down the hall, a straight shot into the garage and then Bergman’s waiting trunk.

It really was like spring break, 1988, all over again, Creem thought. One of those sweet little fillips of time, where the normal rules of the world didn’t apply.

Not that they’d been better off with their piece of shit cars and four-digit bank accounts, trawling Fort Lauderdale for thrills. But it had, in fact, been a golden time.

“What’s better than gold?” Creem said.

“Platinum, I guess,” Bergman said. “Why?”

“That’s what this is, Josh. These are our platinum days.”

He held up his glass in a toast. They were leaning against the hood of Bergman’s Audi now, drinking sixteen-year-old Hirsch Reserve, while Creem enjoyed a cigar.

“I’ll drink to that,” Bergman said.