The Big Bad Wolf (Alex Cross 9)

Burns’s eyes narrowed. “If they do, they won’t tell us. Not yet, anyway. Maybe they’re afraid of him too.”

Chapter 116

LATE THAT NIGHT I sat at the piano on the sunporch with one of Billy Collins’s poems running around my head. It was called “The Blues.” It inspired me so much that I sat at the piano and made up a melody to go with the poem. We had lost to the Wolf. It happened a lot in police work, though nobody wanted to admit it. Lives had been saved, though. Elizabeth Connolly and a couple of others had been found; Brendan Connolly was in jail. Andrei Prokopev had been caught. But we seemed to have lost the big one—for now, anyway. The Wolf was still out there. The godfather was free to do what he did, and that wasn’t good for anybody.

The next morning, I arrived early to meet Jamilla Hughes’s flight into Reagan National. I had the usual butterflies before her plane got in. But mostly I couldn’t wait to see Jam. Nana and the kids had insisted on coming to the airport with me. A little show of support—for Jamilla. And for me. For all of us, actually.

The airport was crowded but seemed relatively quiet and peaceful, probably on account of the high ceilings. My family and I stood at an exit from Terminal A, near the security check. I saw Jam, then so did the kids, who started poking me. She was wearing black from head to toe; she looked better than ever, and Jamilla always looked good to me.

“She’s beautiful and so cool,” Jannie said, and lightly touched the back of my hand. “You know that, don’t you, Daddy?”

“She is, isn’t she,” I agreed, looking at Jannie now, rather than at Jamilla. “She’s also smart. Except about men, it would seem.”

“We really like her,” Jannie continued. “Can you tell?”

“I can. I like her too.”

“But do you love her?” Jannie asked in her usual no-nonsense, get-to-the-heart-of-the-matter way. “Do you?”

I didn’t say anything. That part was between Jam and me.

“Well—do you?” Nana joined in.

I didn’t answer Nana either, so she shook her head, rolled her eyes.

“What do the boys think?” I turned to Damon and Little Alex. The Big Boy was clapping his hands and smiling, so I knew where he stood.

“Sh

e’s definitely all that,” said Damon, and he grinned. He always got a little goofy around Jamilla.

I moved toward her, and they let me go alone. I snuck a glance back at them, and they were grinning like a Cheshire cat family. I had a lump in my throat. Don’t know why. I felt a little spacey, and my knees were weak. Don’t know why either.

“I can’t believe everybody came,” Jamilla said as she slid into my arms. “That makes me happy. I can’t tell you how much, Alex. Wow. I think I’m going to cry. Even though I’m a tough-as-nails homicide detective. You all right? You aren’t all right. I can tell.”

“Oh, I’m fine now.” I held her tight, then I actually picked Jam up, set her back down.

We were quiet for a moment. “We’re going to fight for Little Alex,” she said.

“Of course,” I told her. Then I said something that I’d never told Jamilla before, though it had been on the tip of my tongue many times. “I love you,” I whispered.

“I love you too,” she said. “More than you can imagine. More than even I can imagine.”

A single tear ran down Jamilla’s cheek. I kissed it away.

Then I saw the photographer taking pictures of us.

The same one who was at the house the day we were evacuated for personal safety.

The one hired by Christine’s lawyer.

Had he gotten Jamilla’s tear on film?

Chapter 117

THEY CAME TO THE HOUSE on Fifth Street; they came about a week after Jamilla went back to California.

Them again.