Along Came a Spider (Alex Cross 1)

She didn’t have a clue as to who was riding by in the monotonous stream of holiday traffic. Even though she and all her cohorts were supposed to be desperately searching for him. So much for “massive police dragnets” and your basic “nationwide manhunt.” What a fucking letdown and disappointment. How could they possibly expect to catch him with people like this in the hunt. At least they could try to keep it interesting for him.

Sometimes, especially at times like this, Gary Soneji wanted to proclaim the inescapable truth of the universe.

Proclaim. Listen, you slovenly bimbo bitch cop! Don’t you know who I am? Some paltry nothing disguise have you buffaloed? I’m the one you’ve been seeing in every news story for the past three days. You and half the world, Aretha, baby.

Proclaim. I planned and executed the Crime of the Century so perfectly. I’m already bigger than John Wayne Gacy, Jeffrey Dahmer, Juan Corona. Everything went right until the rich little blue boy got sick on me.

Proclaim. Look real close. Take a good took at me. Be a goddamn hero for once in your life. Be something besides a fat black zero on the Freeway of Love. Look at me, will you! Look at me!

She handed back his change. “Merry Christmas, sir.”

Gary Soneji shrugged. “Merry Christmas back at you,” he said.

As he pulled away from the blinking lights of the tollbooth, he imagined the policewoman with one of those smiling, have-a-nice-day heads on her. He mind-pictured a whole country full of those smiley balloon faces. It was happening, too.

It was getting worse than The Invasion of the Body Snatchers, actually. Drove him cra-azy if he thought about it, which he tried not to do. Country of smiling Balloonheads. He loved Stephen King, identified with His Weirdness, and wished The King would write about all the smiley fools in America. He could see the dust jacket for King’s masterpiece—Balloonheads.

Forty minutes later, Soneji pulled the trusty Saab off Route 413, in Crisfield, Maryland. He accelerated down the rutted dirt road to the old farmhouse. He had to smile, had to laugh at this point. He had them so completely fooled and bamboozled. Completely turned inside out.

So far, they didn’t know which way was up, down, or sideways. He already had the Lindbergh thing topped didn’t he? Now it was time to pull the mat out from under all the Balloonheads again.

CHAPTER 22

IT WAS DEFINITELY SHOWTIME! A Federal Express courier had arrived at the FBI offices just before ten-thirty on the morning of the twenty-sixth of December. He’d delivered the new message from the Son of Lindbergh.

We were called back to the crisis room on the second floor. The whole FBI staff seemed to be in there. This was it, and everybody knew it.

Moments later, Special Agent Bill Thompson, from Miami, rushed in. He brandished one of those familiar looking delivery-service envelopes. Thompson carefully opened the orange-and-blue envelope in front of the entire group.

“He’s going to let us see the message. Only he’s not going to read it to us,” Jeb Klepner from the Secret Service cracked under his breath. Sampson and I were standing there with Klepner and Jezzie Flanagan.

“Oh, he doesn’t want all the heat on this one,” Jezzie predicted. “He’ll share with us this time.”

Thompson was ready, up at the front.

“I have a message from Gary Soneji. It goes as follows.

“There’s the number one,” Thompson read the message.

“Then, spelled out in letters, ten million. On the next line, the number two. Then the words Disney World, Orlando—The Magic Kingdom. Next line. The number three. Then, Park at Pluto 24. Go across Seven Seas Lagoon on the ferry, not the monorail.12:50 P.M. today. This will be finished by 1:15. Last line. Detective Alex Cross will deliver the ransom. Alone. It’s signed Son of Lindbergh.”

Bill Thompson looked up immediately. His eyes searched the crisis room. He had no trouble finding me in the audience. I can absolutely guarantee that his shock and surprise were nothing compared to mine. A hit of adrenaline had already mainlined its way into my system. What the hell did Soneji want with me? How did he know about me? Did he know how badly I wanted his ass now?

“There’s no attempt at any negotiation!” Special Agent Scorse began to make a fuss. “Soneji just assumes we’re going to deliver the ten million.”

“He does,” I spoke up. “And he’s right. It’s ultimately the family’s call how and when a kidnap ransom gets paid.” The Dunnes had instructed us to pay Soneji—unconditionally. Soneji had probably guessed as much. That was undoubtedly the main reason why he’d chosen Maggie Rose. But why had he chosen me?

Standing at my side, Sampson shook his head and muttered, “The Lord, He sure does work in mysterious ways.”

A half-dozen cars were waiting for us in the sunbaked parking lot behind the Bureau building. Bill Thompson, Jezzie Flanagan, Klepner, myself, and Sampsom travelled in one of the FBI sedans. The securities and money went with us. Detective Alex Cross will deliver the ransom.

The money had been put together late the previous night. It was a tremendously complex deal to get it accomplished so quickly, but Citibank and Morgan Stanley had cooperated. The Dunnes and Jerrold Goldberg had the power to get what they wanted, and had obviously exerted great pressure. As Soneji had requested, two million of the ransom was in cash. The rest was in small diamonds and securities. The ransom was negotiable, and also very portable. It fit into an American Tourister suitcase.

The trip from downtown Miami Beach to the Opa Locka West Airport took about twenty-five minutes. The flight would take another forty. That would get us into Orlando at approximately 11:45 A.M. It would be tight.

“We can try to put a device on Cross.” We listened as Agent Scorse talked over the radio to Thompson. “Portable radio transmitter. We’ve got one on board the plane.”