Cross (Alex Cross 12)

“I’m not going to just take him out—if he’s up here. I’m not a vigilante, John.”

“I know that,” said Sampson. “I know who you are, Alex. If anybody does. Let’s see how it plays. Maybe he’s not even here.”

We arrived in the town of Florida, Massachusetts, at around two that afternoon; then we went looking for the house where we hoped to find Michael Sullivan once and for all. I could feel the tension really building inside me now. It took us another half hour to locate the place, which was built on the side of a mountain overlooking a river. We watched the house, and nobody seemed to be there. Had someone tipped off Sullivan again?

If it had happened, who would have done it? The FBI? Was he in Witness Protection after all? Was the FBI watching his back? Were they the ones who told him we might be coming for him?

We drove into the town center and had lunch at a Denny’s. Sampson and I didn’t talk much over our eggs and potatoes, which was unusual for us.

“You all right?” he finally asked, once the coffee had arrived.

“If we get him, I’ll be better. This has to end, though. You’re right about that.”

“Then let’s go do it.”

We went back to the house, and at a little past five a station wagon turned into the drive and parked right in front of the porch. Was this him? Finally, the Butcher? Three boys piled out of the back; then a pretty, dark-haired woman got out of the driver’s side. It was obvious that she and the boys got along well. They roughhoused on the front lawn; then they trooped inside the house.

I had a picture of Caitlin Sullivan with me, but I didn’t need to look at it. “That’s definitely her,” I told Sampson. “We’re in the right place this time. That’s Caitlin and the Butcher’s boys.”

“He’ll spot us if we stay here,” Sampson said. “This isn’t Cops, and he’s no dumb crackhead waiting to be caught.”

“Yeah, I’m counting on it,” I said.

Chapter 111

MICHAEL SULLIVAN WASN’T ANYWHERE near the house in Western Massachusetts. At seven thirty that night, he entered a ten-bedroom home in Wellesley, a wealthy suburb outside Boston.

He was a few steps behind Melinda Steiner, who had long legs and a sweet little tush to watch. Melinda knew it, too. She also understood how to be subtle and, at the same time, nicely provocative with her wiggle-walk.

A light was on in one of the rooms off the wide front hallway—which had three chandeliers in a courtly procession, courtesy of Melinda or her decorator, no doubt.

“Sweetie, I’m home!” Melinda called out as she dropped her travel bag loudly on the highly polished floor.

Not a hint of anything wrong in her voice. No alarm or warning, no edge, nothing but wifely bonhomie.

She’s pretty damn good, Sullivan couldn’t help thinking to himself. Glad I’m not married to her.

No greeting came back from the room where the TV was on. Not a peep.

“Honey?” she called again. “You in there? Honey? I’m home from the country. Jerry?”

This ought to surprise the bastard for sure. Honey, I’m home! Honey, I’m still alive!

A fatigued-looking man in a wrinkled pinstriped dress shirt, boxer shorts, and electric-blue flip-flops finally appeared in the doorway.

Now—he’s a pretty good actor, too. Like nothing in the whole wide world could be wrong.

Until right about now, when he sees the Butcher walking stride for stride behind his beloved wife, whom he’s just tried to murder at their country house.

“Hey, you. Who is this, Mel? What’s going on?” Jerry asked as he saw Sullivan standing there in the hallway.

The Butcher already had his gun out, and it was pointed at the guy in his underwear, aimed at his balls, but then Sullivan moved it up to the heart, if the conniving bastard had one. Murder your wife? What kind of cold, cold shit was that?

“Change of plans,” Sullivan said. “What can I tell you? It happens.”

The husband, Jerry, put his hands up in the air without being asked. He was also coming wide awake—in kind of a big hurry.

“What are you talking about? What is this, Mel? Why is this man in our house? Who the hell is he?”