Alex Cross, Run (Alex Cross 20)

In the meantime, he was about to walk out of here, and there was nothing we could do to stop him.

CHAPTER

87

BY SIX O’CLOCK THAT NIGHT, ELIJAH CREEM WAS HOME AGAIN, AND GETTING ready to go out for the evening. When the doorbell rang, he was tying a godforsaken bow tie around his neck for the first time in months.

From the bedroom window, he saw Josh standing outside, looking as strung out as some kind of junkie. It was tempting to ignore the bell, but probably ill advised.

When he went down to answer, Bergman walked right past him and made his usual beeline for the bar. The pits of his wrinkled linen blazer were stained right through with sweat.

“Josh?” Creem said, following him inside.

Bergman’s hands trembled as he dropped a couple of ice cubes into a glass, and a few on the custom Oriental carpet, too. He didn’t seem to notice.

“They came to my house, Elijah! Asking all kinds of questions.”

“Who did?”

“The police! Who do you think?”

“What did you tell them?” Creem asked.

“Nothing! I told them I wanted to speak to my goddamn attorney.”

Bergman threw the first shot down his throat and poured another. He was probably on a Klonopin or two as well. Not that it seemed to be helping.

“First of all, just calm down,” Creem said.

“Calm down?” Bergman turned on him, wild-eyed. “I’m lucky to be here at all. If I’d known they were coming . . . well, it all happened too fast, and my gun was in the safe—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Creem said. He walked over and put both hands on Bergman’s quivering shoulders. “Believe me, I know how you feel. I was with the police all morning.”

“What? Why didn’t you warn me?”

“It was the same,” Creem said. “I didn’t see it coming, and frankly, I’ve been afraid to call. I know they’re watching me now.”

Bergman searched his face, before he turned away to take another swig.

“Can you get us out of the country?” he asked.

“No,” Creem admitted. “Not anymore. It’s too late for that.”

His best friend laughed then, a little maniacally, and completely without humor. “Well that’s it then,” he said. “Game over. I guess we knew it was coming.”

When Josh pulled the small black and silver pistol from the back of his waistband, Creem’s eyes went wide. The gun shook in Bergman’s hand, but he pulled it out of reach when Creem tried to take it.

“Don’t you dare try to talk me out of this!” Bergman said. “Not now!”

“I’m not,” Creem said. “I even have my own gun upstairs. And I’m not afraid, Josh.”

“So? What are you waiting for?” Bergman looked toward the foyer, where the main staircase wound up to the second floor. He was crying, too. Tears ran down from the corners of his eyes and over the cheekbones he’d always been so proud of.

“I need one more night,” Creem told him. “And . . . I need a favor.”

That was worth another few fingers of Scotch, apparently. Josh was back at the bar now, and he set the pistol down to pick up a crystal decanter.

“You are unbelievable,” he said. “A favor? What kind of favor?”