Along Came a Spider (Alex Cross 1) - Page 41
He was becoming nicely obsessed with murdering Missy and Roni, but he thought that he wouldn’t do it just yet. Still, the fantasy was rich. To murder your own family had a certain homespun style to it. It wasn’t very imaginative, but the effect would be neat. The icy chill racing through the serene, dippity-doo suburban community. All the other families doing the most ironic thing—locking their doors, locking themselves in together.
Around midnight he realized that his little family had gone to bed without him. No one had even bothered to call down to him. They didn’t care. A hollow roar was starting inside his head. He needed about a half-dozen Nuprins to stop the white noise for a while.
Maybe he would torch the perfect little house on Central Avenue. Torching houses was good for the soul. He’d done it before; he’d do it again. God, his whole skull ached as if somebody’d been hitting it with a ball peen hammer. Was something physically the matter with him? Was it possible he was going mad this time?
He tried to think about the Lone Eagle—Charles Lindbergh. That didn’t work, either. In his mind, he revisited the farmhouse in Hopewell Junction. No good. That mind-trip was getting old, too.
He was world famous himself, for Chrissakes. He was famous now. Everybody in the world knew about him. He was a media star all over Planet Dearth.
He finally left the cellar, and then the house in Wilmington. It was just past five-thirty in the morning. As he walked outside to the car, he felt like an animal, suddenly on the loose.
He drove back to D.C. There was more work to do there. He didn’t want his public to be disappointed, did he?
He thought he had a treat for everyone now. Don’t get comfortable with me!
Around eleven that morning, Tuesday, Gary Murphy lightly tapped the front doorbell of a well-kept brick townhouse on the edge of Capitol Hill. Bing-bong went a polite door chime inside.
The sheer danger of the situation, of his being in Washington again, gave him a nice chill. This was a lot better than being in hiding. He felt alive again, he could breathe, he had his own space.
Vivian Kim kept the lock chain on, but she opened the door about a foot. She’d seen the familiar uniform of Washington’s PEPCO public utilities service through the peephole.
Pretty lady, Gary remembered from the Washington Day School. Long black braids. Cute little upturned nose. She clearly didn’t recognize him as a bl
ond. No mustache. Little flesh off his cheeks and chin.
“Yes? What is it? Can I help you?” she asked the man standing on her porch. Inside the house, jazzy music was playing. Thelonious.
“I hope it’s the other way around.” He smiled pleasantly. “Somebody called about an overcharge on the electric.”
Vivian Kim frowned and shook her head. She had a tiny map of Korea hanging from rawhide around her neck. “I didn’t call anybody. I know I didn’t call PEPCO.”
“Well, somebody called us miss.”
“Come back some other time,” Vivian Kim told him. “Maybe my boyfriend called. You’ll have to come back. I’m sorry.”
Gary shrugged his shoulders. This was so delicious. He didn’t want it to end. “I guess. You can call us again if you like,” he said. “Get on the schedule again. It’s an overcharge, though. You paid too much.”
“Okay. I hear you. I understand.”
Vivian Kim slowly stripped away the chain and opened the door. Gary stepped into the apartment. He pulled a long hunting knife from under his work jacket.
He pointed it at the teacher’s face. “Don’t scream. Do not scream, Vivian.”
“How do you know my name?” she asked. “Who are you?”
“Don’t raise your voice, Vivian. There’s no reason to be afraid…. I’ve done this before. I’m just your garden-variety robber.”
“What do you want?” The teacher had begun to tremble.
Gary thought for a second before he answered her scared-rabbit question.
“I want to send out another message over the TV, I guess. I want the fame I so richly deserve,” he finally said. I want to be the scariest man in America. That’s why I work in the capital. I’m Gary. Don’t you remember me, Viv?”
CHAPTER 34
SAMPSON AND I raced down C Street in the heart of Capitol Hill. I could hear the breath inside my nose as I ran. My arms and legs felt disjointed.
Squad cars from the department and EMS ambulances had the street completely blocked off. We’d had to park on F Street and sprint the last couple of blocks. WJLA-TV was already there. So was CNN. Sirens screamed everywhere.
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