Pop Goes the Weasel (Alex Cross 5)

“Nah American woman here.” The original speaker spat defiantly on the ground. “Turn around, go back.”

“You know James Whitehead? You know Shafer?” Jones asked.

They didn’t deny it. I doubted we’d get any more from them than that.

“I love her,” I told them. “I can’t leave. Her name is Christine.”

My mouth was still dry, and I couldn’t breathe very well. “She was kidnapped a year ago. We know she was brought here.”

Sampson took out his Glock and held it loosely at his side. He stared at the four men, who continued to glare back at us. I touched the handle of my gun, still in its holster. I didn’t want a gunfight.

“We can cause you a whole lot of trouble,” Sampson said in a low, rumbling voice. “You won’t believe how much trouble is coming your way.”

Finally, I just walked forward on a worn path back through the tall grass. I passed by the men, lightly brushing against one of them.

No one tried to stop me. I could smell ganja and sweat on their work clothes. Tension was building up inside me.

Sampson followed me, no more than a step or two behind. “I’m watching them,” he said. “Nobody’s doing anything yet.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “I have to see if she’s here.”

Chapter 123

AN OLDER WOMAN with long and wildly frazzled gray and white hair stepped out of the front door as I reached the scarred, unpainted steps. Her eyes were ringed with redness.

“Come with me.” She sighed. “Come along. You nah need no weapon.”

For the first time in many months, I allowed myself to feel the tiniest flash of hope, though I didn’t have any reason to, other than the rumor that a woman was being kept here against her will.

Beatitude? Something to do with blessedness and happiness? Could it be Christine?

The old woman walked unsteadily around the house and through light bushes, trees, and ferns out back. About sixty or seventy yards into the thickening woods, she came to half a dozen small shacks, where she stopped. The shacks were made of wood, bamboo, and corrugated metal.

She walked forward again and stopped at the next-to-last shack in the group.

She took out a key attached to a leather strap around her wrist, inserted it in the door lock, and jiggled it.

She pushed the door forward, and it creaked loudly on a rusty hinge.

I looked inside and saw a plain, neat, and clean room. Someone had written The Lord Is My Shepherd in black paint on the wall.

No one was there.

No Beatitude.

No Christine.

I let my eyes fall shut. Desperation enveloped me.

My eyes slowly opened. I didn’t understand why I had been led to this empty room, this old shack in the woods. My heart was ripped in two again. Was it some kind of trap?

The Weasel? Shafer? Was he here?

Someone stepped out from behind a small folding screen in one corner of the room. I felt as if I were in free fall, and a small gasp came out of my mouth

I didn’t know what I had been expecting, but it wasn’t this. Sampson put out his hand to steady me. I was barely aware of his touch.

Christine slowly stepped into the shafts of sunlight coming from the single window in the shack. I had thought I would never see her again.