Four Blind Mice (Alex Cross 8)

An old Marvin Gaye tune came on the radio, and they danced to that too. It all seemed dreamlike to him. Completely unexpected.

Especially when they went upstairs together about ten-thirty. Neither of them said a word, but Billie took his hand and led him into the bedroom. A three-quarter moon was lighting the whitecaps. A sailboat lazily drifted by out beyond the line of surf.

“You okay?” she whispered.

“I am much more than okay. Are you, Billie?”

“I am Billie. I think I wanted this to happen from the first time I saw you. You ever done this before?” she asked. There was that sly grin of hers again. She was playing with him, but he liked it.

“First time. I’ve been saving myself for the right woman.”

“Well, let’s see if I’m worth the wait.”

/> Sometimes he could be in a hurry, and that would be okay, the way of the world in Washington, but not tonight. He wanted to explore Billie’s body, to get to know what pleased her. He touched Billie everywhere; kissed her everywhere. Everything about her seemed right to him. What’s happening here? I came to ask this woman about some murders. Murders! Not lovemaking in shimmering moonlight.

He could feel her small breasts rising and falling, rising and falling. He was on top of her, supporting his weight on his hands.

“You won’t hurt me,” she whispered.

“No, I won’t.”

I won’t. I couldn’t hurt you. And I won’t let anybody hurt you.

She smiled, rolled over, and then slid up on top of him. “How’s that? Is that better for you?”

He ran his strong hands up and down her back and over her buttocks. She hummed “One Night with You.” They began to move together, slowly at first. Then faster. And faster still. Billie rose and fell hard on him. She liked it that way.

When they finally collapsed with the pleasure of it all, she looked into his eyes. “Not bad for your first time. You’ll get better.”

Later, Sampson lay in the bed with Billie snuggled up against his side. It still made him smile to see how small she was. Small face, small hands, feet, breasts. And then the thought hit him — stunned him: He was at peace for the first time in years. Maybe ever.

Chapter 77

I WAS PUMPED up to see Nana and the kids when I got home from my trip to Florence prison that night. It was only seven, and I’d been thinking we might go to the IMAX theater or maybe the ESPN Zone — some nice treat for the kids.

As I climbed the front steps of the house, I spotted a note stuck into the screen door, flapping in the breeze.

Uh-oh.

Messages left at the house always make me a little queasy. There’d been too many bad ones left there during the past few years.

I recognized Nana’s handwriting: Alex, we’ve gone to your aunt Tia’s. Be back by nine or so. Everybody misses you. Do you miss us? Of course you do — in your own way. Nana and the kids.

I’d noticed that Nana Mama had been unusually sentimental lately. She said she was feeling better, back to her old self again, but I wondered if that was true. Maybe I should talk to her doctor, but I didn’t like interfering in her business. She’d been doing an excellent job taking care of herself for a long time.

I shuffled into the kitchen and grabbed a cold beer from the fridge.

I saw a funny drawing of a pregnant stork that Jannie had stuck up on the door. Suddenly I felt lonely for everybody. The thing about kids for some people — for me anyway — is that they complete your life, make some kind of sense out of it, even if they do drive you crazy sometimes. The pain is worth the gain. At least in our house it is.

The telephone rang, and I figured it was Nana.

“Hooray, you’re home!” came a welcome voice. Well, surprise, surprise. It was Jamilla, and that cheered me right up. I could picture her face, her smile, the bright shine in her eyes.

“Hooray, it’s you. I just got home to an empty house,” I said. “Nana and the kids deserted me.”

“Could be worse, Alex. I’m at work. Caught a bad one on Friday. Irish tourist got killed in the Tenderloin district. So tell me, what was a fifty-one-year-old priest from Dublin doing in one of the seediest parts of San Francisco at two in the morning? How did he get strangled with a pair of extra-large pantyhose? My job to find out.”

“Sounds like you’re enjoying yourself, anyway.” I found myself smiling. Not at the murder, but at Jamilla’s enthusiasm for the Job.