Pop Goes the Weasel (Alex Cross 5)

“The Job has been tearing at me lately. Pittman isn’t just a difficult boss; I think he’s a bad guy. What happened to Sampson and the others is just bullshit. They were working unsolved cases on their own time. I’m tempted to give the story to Zach Taylor at the Post. People would riot if they knew the truth. Which is why I won’t give it to the Post.”

She listened and tried to help but she didn’t push, and I appreciated that. “It does sound like a terrible, complicated, nasty mess, Alex. I’d like to punch out Pittman, too. He’s choosing politics over protecting people. I’m sure you’ll know what to do when the time is right.”

The next morning, I found her walking in the garden, with tropical flowers strewn in her hair. She looked radiant, even more than usual, and I fell in love all over again.

“There’s an old saying I’ve been hearing since I was a little girl,” she told me as I joined her. “If you have only two pennies, buy a loaf of bread with one and a lily with the other.”

I kissed her hair, in between the flowers. I kissed her sweet lips, her cheeks, the hollow in her throat.

The kids and I went back to Horseshoe Bay Beach early that afternoon. They couldn’t get enough of the deep blue sea, swimming, snorkeling, and building sand castles. And, of course, it was almost time to start school again, so everything about our vacation was extra-special and intense.

Christine took a moped trip into Hamilton to pick up mementos for a few of the teachers at Sojourner Truth. We all waved until she was out of sight on Middle Road. Then back into the water!

Around five o’clock, Damon, Jannie, and I returned to the Belmont Hotel, which sat like a sentinel on lush green hills framed by china-blue skies. All around, everywhere we looked, were pastel-colored cottages with white roofs. Nana was sitting out on the porch, talking to a couple of her new best friends. Paradise regained, I thought, and felt something deep and sacred coming back to life inside me.

As I stared out at the cloudless blue sky, I regretted that Christine wasn’t there to share it. I actually missed her in just that short a time. I hugged Jannie and Damon, and we were all smiling at the obvious: we loved being here together, and we were so damn fortunate to have one another.

“You miss her,” Jannie whispered. It was a statement, not a question. “That’s good, Daddy. That’s the way it should be, right?”

When Christine still hadn’t returned by six o’clock, I struggled between conflicting thoughts of waiting for her at the hotel or driving into Hamilton myself. Maybe she’d had an accident. Those damn mopeds, I thought, having found them fun and perfectly safe just the afternoon before.

I spotted a tall, slender woman entering through the front gates of the Belmont, walking against a background of hibiscus and oleander. I sighed with relief, but as I started down the front stairs, I saw that it wasn’t Christine.

Christine still hadn’t returned, or called the hotel, by six-thirty Or by seven o’clock.

I finally called the police.

Chapter 45

INSPECTOR PATRICK BUSBY from the Hamilton P.D. arrived at the Belmont Hotel around seven-thirty. He was a small balding man who from a distance looked to be in his late fifties or sixties. As he approached the front porch, though, I could tell he was no more than forty, around the same age as me.

r /> He listened to my story, then said that visitors often lost track of time and of themselves in Bermuda. There were also occasional moped accidents on Middle Road. He promised me that Christine would show up soon, with a mild “road rash” or a “slightly turned ankle.”

I wouldn’t have any of it. She was always punctual, and at the very least, she would have called.

I knew that somehow she’d call if she had a minor accident. So the inspector and I rode together between the hotel and Hamilton, and then we toured the streets of the capital city, particularly Front and Reid streets. I was silent and solemn-faced as I stared out of the car, hoping to get a glimpse of Christine shopping on some side street, forgetful of the hour. But we didn’t see her anywhere, and she still hadn’t called the hotel.

When she still hadn’t turned up by nine, Inspector Busby reluctantly agreed that Christine might be missing. He asked a lot of questions that showed me he was a decent cop. He wanted to know if we’d had any kind of argument or disagreement.

“I’m a homicide detective in Washington, D.C.,” I finally told him. I’d been holding it back because I didn’t want this to get territorial. “I’ve been involved with high-profile cases involving mass murders in the past. I’ve known some very bad men. There might be a connection. I hope not, but that could be.”

“I see,” Busby said. He was such a precise, neat man with his thin pencil mustache. He looked more like a fussy schoolteacher than a cop, more like a psychologist than I did. “Are there any other surprises I should know about, Detective Cross?” he asked.

“No, that’s it. But you see why I’m worried, and why I called you. I’m working on a series of nasty murders in Washington right now.”

“Yes, I see a reason for your concern now. I will put out a missing-persons report forthwith.”

I sighed heavily, then went upstairs and talked to the kids and Nana. I tried my best not to alarm them, but Damon and Jannie started to cry. And then Nana did, too.

We had learned nothing more about Christine or her whereabouts by midnight. Inspector Busby left the hotel at quarter past twelve. He was kind, actually, and considerate enough to give me his home number; he asked me to call right away if I heard from Christine. Then he said my family and I would be in his prayers.

At three, I was still up and pacing my hotel room on the third floor, and doing some praying myself. I had just gotten off the phone with Quantico. The FBI was cross-checking all of my homicide cases to see if anyone I’d investigated had any connection with Bermuda. The Bureau was now concentrating on the current series of unsolved murders in Southeast. I’d faxed them my profile on the Weasel.

I didn’t have any logical reason to suspect that the killer might be here in Bermuda, and yet I feared he might be. It was just the kind of feeling that The Jefe had been rejecting about the murders in Southeast.

I understood that the Bureau probably wouldn’t get back to me until later in the morning. I was tempted to call friends at Interpol, but I held off?. And then I called Interpol, too.

The hotel room was filled with mahogany Queen Anne furniture and wicker, and had dusty-pink carpets. It seemed empty and lonely. I stood like a ghost before the tall, water-stained dormer windows, stared out at the shifting black shapes against the moonlit sky, and remembered how I held Christine in my arms. I felt incredibly helpless and alone without her. I also couldn’t believe this had happened.