Along Came a Spider (Alex Cross 1)

A scraggly country laborer looked back at him from the mirror. Another Gary, completely. He had all the country-hick mannerisms down cold; modified cowboy walk as if he’d been kicked by a horse; hands in pockets, or thumbs in belt loops. Finger-comb your hair all the time. Spit whenever you get the chance.

He took a jolt of high-octane coffee in the convenience store, which was a questionable move. Hard poppy-seed roll with extra butter. No morning newspapers were out yet.

A dumb-shit, stuck-up female clerk in the store waited on him. He wanted to punch her lights out. He spent five minutes fantasizing about taking her out right in the middle of the podunk 7-Eleven.

Take off the little schoolgirl white blouse, honey. Roll it down to your waist. Okay, now I’m probably going to have to kill you. But maybe not. Talk to me nice and beg me not to. What are you—twenty one, twenty? Use that as your emotional argument. You’re too young to die, unfulfilled, in a 7-Eleven.

Gary finally decided to let her live. The amazing thing was that she had no idea how close she’d come to being killed.

“You have a nice day. Come back soon,” she said.

“You pray I don’t.”

As Soneji/Murphy drove along Route 22, he let himself get angrier than he had been in a long time. Enough of this sentimentality crap. No one was paying attention to him—not the attention he deserved.

Did the major fools and incompetents out there think they had any chance of stopping him? Of capturing him on their own? Of trying him on national TV? It was time to teach them a lesson; it was time for true greatness. Zig when the world expects you to zag.

Gary Soneji/Murphy pulled into a McDonald’s in Wilkinsburg, Pennsylvania. Children of all ages loved McDonald’s, right? Food, folks, and fun. He was still pretty much on schedule. The “Bad Boy” was dependable in that regard—you could set your watch by him.

There was the usual meandering lunchtime crowd of dopes and mopes moving in and out of Mickey D’s. All of them were stuck in their daily ruts and daily rutting. Shoveling down those Quarter Pounders and greasy string fries.

What was that old Hooters song—about all the zombies out there in Amerika? All you zombies? Walk like a zombie? Something about the millions of zombies out there. Gross understatement.

Was he the only one living near his potential? Soneji/Murphy wondered. It sure as hell seemed that way. Nobody else was special the way he was. At least he hadn’t met any of the special ones.

He turned into the McDonald’s dining room. A hundred trillion McBurgers served, and still counting. Women were there in droves. Women and all of their precious children. The nest-builders; the trivializers; the silly gooses with their silly, floppy breasties.

Ronald McDonald was there, too, in the form of a six-foot cutout shilling stale cookies to the kiddies. What a day! Ronald McDonald meets Mr. Chips.

Gary paid for two black coffees and turned to walk back through the crowd. He thought the top of his head was going to blow off. His face and neck were flushed. He was hyperventilating. His throat was dry, and he was perspiring too much.

“You all right, sir?” the girl behind the register asked.

He didn’t even consider answering her. You talkin’ to me? Robert De Niro, right? He was another De Niro—no doubt about that—only he was an even better actor. More range. De Niro never took chances the way he did. De Niro, Hoffman, Pacino—none of them took chances and really stretched themselves. Not in his opinion.

So many thoughts and perceptions were crashing on him, deflecting off his brain. He had the impression that he was floating through a sea of light particles, photons and neutrons. If these people could spend only ten seconds inside his brain, they wouldn’t believe it.

He purposely bumped into people as he walked away from the McDonald’s counter.

“Well, ex-cuse me,” he said after a jarring hipcheck.

“Hey! Watch it! C’mon, mister,” somebody said to him.

“Watch it yourself, you jerkoff.” Soneji/Murphy stopped and addressed the balding shitkicker h

e’d bumped. “What do I have to do to get a little respect? Shoot you in the right eyeball?”

He downed both hot coffees as he continued on through the restaurant. Through the restaurant. Through any people in his way. Through the cheesy Formica tables. Through the walls, if he really wanted to.

Gary Soneji/Murphy pulled a snub-nosed revolver from under his Windbreaker. This was it: the beginning of America’s wake-up call. A special performance for all the kiddies and mommies.

They were all watching him now. Guns, they understood.

“Wake the fuck up!” he shouted inside the McDonald’s dining room. “Hot coffee! Comin’ through, you all! Wake up, and smell it!”

“That man has a gun!” said one of the rocket scientists eating a dripping Big Mac. Amazing that he could see through the greasy fog rising from his food.

Gary faced the room with the revolver drawn. “No one leaves this room!” he bellowed.