The Big Bad Wolf (Alex Cross 9)

What was this? Benjamin was trying to speak through his gag. Potter wanted to hear the boy’s sweet voice, to see his luscious mouth move, to look into his eyes. He bent forward and kissed the gag over the boy’s mouth. He actually felt Benjamin’s lips underneath, their softness.

Then Mr. Potter couldn’t stand it for one second more. His fingers fumbling, incoherent whispers seeping from his mouth, his body shaking as if he had pa

lsy, he removed the blindfold and looked into Benjamin’s eyes.

“May I call you Benjy?” he whispered.

Chapter 31

ANOTHER OF THE CAPTIVES, Audrey Meek, watched her obscene, deviate, possibly insane captor as he calmly and coolly fixed her breakfast. She was bound by rope—loosely, but she couldn’t run. She couldn’t believe any of this was happening, had happened, and presumably would continue happening. She was being held in a nicely furnished cabin somewhere, who knew where, and she was still flashing back to the incredible moment when she had been grabbed at the King of Prussia Mall, when they had yanked her away from Sarah and Andrew. Dear God, were the children all right?

“My children?” Audrey asked again. “I have to know for sure they’re all right. I want to talk to them. I won’t do anything you ask until I speak to them. Not even eat.”

An uncomfortable silent moment passed, and then the Art Director chose to speak.

“Your children are just fine. That’s all I’ll tell you,” he said. “You should eat.”

“How could you know my children are all right?” She sniffed. “You can’t.”

“Audrey, you’re in no position to make demands. Not anymore. That life is behind you.”

He was tall, maybe six-foot-two, and well built, with a bushy black beard and flashing blue eyes that seemed intelligent to her. She guessed that he was around fifty. He’d told her to call him Art Director. No reason for the name, not yet, anyway, nor any other explanation for what had happened so far.

“I was concerned myself, so I called your house. The children are there with your nanny and husband. I promise. I wouldn’t lie to you, Audrey. I’m different from you in that respect.”

Audrey shook her head. “I’m supposed to trust you? Your word?”

“I think it would be a good idea, yes. Why not? Who else can you trust out here? Yourself, of course. And me. That’s all there is. You’re miles and miles away from anybody else. It’s just us two. Please get used to it. You like your scrambled eggs a little soft, right? Fluffy? Isn’t that the word you use?”

“Why are you doing this?” Audrey asked, getting braver, since he hadn’t actually threatened her yet. “What are the two of us doing here?”

He sighed. “All in due time, Audrey. For now, let’s just say it’s an unhealthy obsession. It’s more complicated, actually, but let’s leave it at that for now.”

She was surprised by the answer—he knew he was a freaking nutcase, didn’t he? Was that good or bad, though, that he knew exactly what he was doing?

“I’d like to keep you free like this as much as possible. I don’t want you kept in bondage, for God’s sake. Not even the ropes. Please don’t try to run away or it won’t be possible. Okay?”

He seemed so reasonable at times. Seemed. Christ! Wasn’t this the most insane thing? Of course it was. But insane things happened all the time to people.

“I want to be your friend,” he said as he served her breakfast—the eggs cooked just so, twelve-grain toast, herbal tea, boysenberry jam. “I’ve cooked all the things you like. I want to treat you like you deserve. You can trust me, Audrey. Start by trusting me just a little bit. . . . Try your eggs. Fluffy. They’re delish.”

Chapter 32

I WAS MARKING TIME at Quantico and I didn’t like it much. I attended my classes the next day, then an hour of fitness training. At five, I went to see what Monnie Donnelley had collected so far on White Girl. She had a small, cramped cubicle on the third floor of the dining hall building. On one wall was a collage of photos and photocopies of bits of evidence from brutally violent crimes arranged in an eye-catching cubist’s fantasy.

I rapped my knuckles against her metal nameplate before entering the cube.

Monnie turned and smiled when she saw me standing there. I noticed glossy photos of her sons, a funny portrait of Monnie and the sons, and also a picture of Pierce Brosnan as a debonair, sexy James Bond. “Hey, look who’s back for more punishment. You can tell by the size of my digs that the Bureau doesn’t realize yet that this is the Information Age, what Bill Clinton used to call the Third Way. You know the joke—the Bureau supports yesterday’s technology tomorrow.”

“Any information for me?”

Monnie swiveled back to her computer, an IBM. “Let me print up a few of these choice pieces for your burgeoning collection. I know you like hard copies. Dinosaur.”

“It’s just the way I work.”

I had asked around about Monnie and heard the same thing everywhere: She was bright, an incredibly hard worker, woefully underappreciated by the powers at Quantico. I’d also found out that Monnie was a single mother of two and struggling to make ends meet. The only “complaint” against her was that she worked too hard, brought stuff home just about every night and weekend.

Monnie shuffled together a thick batch of pages for me. I could tell she was obsessive by the way she evened out all the pages. They had to be just so.