The Big Bad Wolf (Alex Cross 9)

Mahoney and I moved ahead cautiously. The living room area had a wood-burning stove, a striped contemporary-style couch in beige and brown, several club chairs. A big chest covered by a dark green afghan. Everything was tasteful and organized.

No Art Director.

Canvases were everywhere. Most had been finished. Whoever had done the paintings was talented.

“Secure!” I heard. Then a shout—“In here!”

Mahoney and I raced down a long hallway. Two of his men were already inside what looked to be the master bedroom. There were more painted canvases, lots of them, fifty or more.

A nude body lay sprawled across the wooden floor. The look on the face was grotesque, tortured. The dead man’s hands were tightly wrapped around his own throat, as if he were strangling himself.

It was the man Audrey Meek had drawn for us. He was dead, and his death had been horrible. Most likely poison of some kind.

Papers lay scattered on the bed. Alongside them, a fountain pen.

I bent and began to read one of several notes:

To whomever—

As you know by now, I am the one who held Audrey Meek captive. All I can say is that it is something I had to do. I believe I had no choice; no free will in the matter. I loved her since the first time I saw her at one of my exhibitions in Philadelphia. We talked that night, but of course she didn’t remember me. No one ever does. (Until now anyway.) What is the rationale behind an obsession? I have no idea, not a clue, even though I obsessed on Audrey for over seven years of my life. I had all the money I would ever need, and yet it meant nothing to me. Not until I got the opportunity to take what I really wanted, what I needed. How could I resist—no matter the price? A quarter million dollars seemed like nothing to be with Audrey, even for these few days. Then a strange thing. Maybe a miracle. Once we spent time together, I found that I loved Audrey too much to keep her like this. I never harmed her. Not in my own mind anyway. If I hurt you, Audrey, I’m sorry. I loved you very much, this much.

One sentence kept repeating inside my head after I finished reading: Not until I got the opportunity to take what I really wanted, what I needed. How had that happened? Who was out there fulfilling the fantasies of these madmen?

Who was behind this? It sure wasn’t the Art Director.

Part Three

WOLF TRACKS

Chapter 52

I DIDN’T GET BACK to Washington until almost ten the following night, and I knew I was in trouble with Jannie, probably with everybody in the house except Little Alex and the cat. I’d promised we would go to the pool at the Y, and now it was too late to go anywhere except to sleep.

Nana was sitting over a cup of tea in the kitchen when I came in. She didn’t even look up. I bypassed a lecture and headed upstairs in the hopes that Jannie might still be awake.

She was. My best little girl was sitting on her bed surrounded by several magazines, including American Girl. Her old favorite bear, Theo, was propped in her lap. Jannie had gone to sleep with Theo since she was less than a year old and her mother was still alive.

In one corner of the room Rosie the cat was curled up on a pile of Jannie’s laundry. One of Nana’s jobs for her and Damon was that they start doing their own laundry.

I had a thought about Maria then. My wife was kind and courageous, a special woman who’d been shot in a mysterious drive-by incident in Southeast that I’d never been able to solve. I had never closed the file. Maybe something would turn up. It’s been known to happen. I still missed her almost every day. Sometimes I even said a little prayer. I hope you forgive me, Maria. I’m doing the best I can. It just doesn’t seem good enough sometimes; good enough to me, anyway. We love you dearly.

Jannie must have sensed I was there, watching her, talking to her mother. “I thought it was you,” she said.

“Why is that?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I just did. My sixth sense is working pretty good lately.”

“Were you waiting up for me?” I asked as I slipped into her room. It had been our one guest bedroom, but last year we had converted it to Jannie’s. I had built the shelving for the clay menagerie from her “Sojourner Truth period”: a stegosaurus, a whale, a black squirrel, a panhandler, a witch tied to a stake, as well as her favorite books.

“I wasn’t waiting up, no. I didn’t expect you home at all.”

I sat down on the edge of the bed. Framed over it was a copy of a Magritte painting of a pipe with the caption: this is not a pipe. “You’re going to torture me some, huh?” I said.

“Of course. Goes without saying. I looked forward to some pool time all day.”

“Fair enough.” I put my hand on top of hers. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Jannie.”

“I know. You don’t have to say that, actually. You don’t have to be sorry. Really you don’t. I understand what you do is important. I get it. Even Damon does.”