I, Alex Cross (Alex Cross 16)

“The Service. The Feds. Goddamn President Vance for all I know.”

I stopped and took a breath, hoping he’d do the same. “You’re giving me mixed signals here, Bowie,” I said. “One second you seem lucid and the next—”

“Yeah, well, just ’cause I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me, right?”

Oddly enough, I couldn’t argue with that, so I moved on.

“Why don’t you tell me what you need to hear before you lower that weapon?”

He chinned at the officer closest to him. “They put theirs down first.”

“Come on, Constantine. That’s not going to happen, and you know it isn’t. Work with me here. If you really are innocent, then I’m on your side. Where did you get that ring?”

“Stop with the questions. Just stop.”

“Okay.”

His arms were all muscle, but after at least twenty minutes outstretched, they were starting to shake. And in fact, he moved to adjust himself, up onto one knee with the shooting arm resting on top.

“Bowie, I—”

A tinkle of glass sounded. That was all it was. One of the small

windowpanes behind him split into shards, and Bowie fell facedown onto the carpet, a small dark hole in the back of his head.

I couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. Immediately SWAT flew into action. Someone pulled me backward into the hall while the rest closed in around Bowie.

“One round fired—subject is down! We need medical up here right away!”

A few seconds later, I’d pushed my way back into the room. My body was shaking with rage. Why had they fired on him? Why now? I had him talking. Bowie was splayed on the ground, arms out at his sides. Through the broken window, I could see another officer on the opposite roof, standing down with his rifle.

“Scratch that, medical,” the commander was saying. “We’ll meet you downstairs and bring you up.”

And then two of them were walking me out the door and down the stairs, in no uncertain terms. My usefulness had obviously played itself out here.

When we got to the front stoop, the EMTs were waiting. It was protocol to call them in, but at this point, that’s all it was. I’d already seen enough to know that Constantine Bowie was as dead as he was going to get.

And that I’d just been bait in the whole damn thing. They had meant to kill him all along.

Whoever they were.

Chapter 103

IT ALL SEEMED too neat, too easy, but that didn’t mean Constantine Bowie wasn’t the killer, did it? The next few days were all about paperwork, lots and lots of it. I don’t think most people have any idea how much ink it takes to put a murder case in the drawer, especially one of this magnitude.

Not even when the FBI and the Secret Service are both arguing that justice has been done.

There were endless meetings to come, and after that, public hearings. A full congressional investigation had already been promised, amid all kinds of unchecked speculation on the Hill and in the media. The country was buzzing: about Tony Nicholson’s client list, about the involvement of Secret Service, and even about who else might still be out there as part of Bowie’s murder spree.

Once the paperwork was behind me, I put in for the rest of the week off. I left the office late on Wednesday and went straight to the hospital. Nana was looking a lot more peaceful these days, like an angel, which was kind of nice and also hard to take. I stayed awake most of that night, just watching her.

Then Aunt Tia spelled me early on Thursday, and I managed to catch Bree still in bed when I finally, finally got home. She was just starting to stir as I spooned up next to her.

“Do whatever you want,” she whispered softly. “Just don’t wake me up.”

But then she laughed and turned over to kiss me good morning. Her feet and legs stayed tangled up with mine under the covers.

“All right, then, just do whatever you want to me,” she said.