Double Cross (Alex Cross 13)

A cable snaked out of the camera, over to a sawhorse and a plank table full of equipment. I spotted a laptop, open to Bell’s familiar home page, but with a difference. Where he’d once had an image of a static-filled television, now there was a live shot of Bree and me standing there, looking at ourselves.

Bell’s head slowly moved from the camera viewfinder up to our faces. When he saw me watching him, he said, “Welcome to my studio.”

Chapter 117

“SAMPSON, YOU OKAY?” I asked. “John? John?”

Finally he gave a weak nod. “Couldn’t be better.” He didn’t look it. He was hunched over severely, with dark stains down his gray T-shirt and sweats.

“Well said, Detective Sampson,” Bell cracked. “It would appear that I’m not the only skilled thespian in the room.”

“Is that my Glock?” Bree was staring at the gun clenched in Bell’s hand.

“Yes, it is. Very good. Don’t you remember when Neil Stephens took it from you? Yes, yes, that was me. What can I say, I can act.”

“I remember everything, asshole. You’re not as good as you think you are.”

“Perhaps. But apparently that still makes me good enough, does

n’t it?”

“What is all this?” I asked, trying to slow things down, trying to slow Bell down, anyway, and maybe even get a few answers from him.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve figured most of it out, Dr. Cross. You’re smart enough for that, aren’t you?”

“So if I said thirty-three thirty-seven Georgia Avenue—” I tried.

“You’d be wasting your breath, of course. No one is watching—yet.”

Bell dipped his eyes toward the camera and back. “Live audio would have been nice, but then again, I’m not an idiot. Detective Stone, I want you facedown, hands out at your side. Cross”—he motioned toward the center chair—“have a seat. Take a load off.”

“What about—”

He fired once into the wall just over Sampson’s shoulder. “I said sit down.”

I did as I was told, and then footsteps sounded overhead. They steadily crossed the floor and thumped down some nearby stairs. Not the ones Bree and I had used, though—another entrance.

Tyler Bell kept the camera aimed at me without actually looking around. I guessed that he wanted my reaction to this on film. A door at the far end of the room opened. I couldn’t see who was there—not yet.

“What took you so long?” Bell said.

“Sorry. Had to lock up. Not the best of neighborhoods.”

Then I realized who it was. The woman I knew as Sandy Quinlan was just walking into the room. She’d taken off the dark wig and glasses she’d worn while she was driving the Highlander; now she looked the way I was used to seeing her. Except for her eyes. They played over me as though we’d never met.

And with the shock of seeing “Sandy Quinlan” here came another rush of clarity, and of grudging respect for DCAK.

“Anthony,” I said. Not a question, a statement of fact.

I didn’t fool myself into thinking that was his real name, but it was how I knew him. As I stared at DCAK, I could see the resemblance now. He was pretty good with makeup, and he was a talented actor. I had to give him that much.

He took a little bow. “I am good, aren’t I? Stage acting, for the most part. New York, San Francisco, New Haven, London. In many ways, I’m proudest of the way I played Anthony, and played you as well, Dr. Cross. As they say—in your face!”

“So, are you Tyler Bell?” I asked next.

He seemed a little surprised by the question. Or was he acting again? “Didn’t you hear? The poor bastard went crazy. Came to DC and murdered a shitload of people. Including the detective who killed his brother. Then he just disappeared off the face of the earth. No one ever saw him again.”

Bree asked, “Did you kill Bell in Montana?”