Double Cross (Alex Cross 13)

A butane torch sparked in his hand. Then ethanol exploded into flame all over Matthew Jay Walker’s body. The actor’s face seemed to melt away, and he screamed in terrible pain. He began to whirl around in circles, trying to beat out the fire that was crisping his skin.

“You’re watching the rapid disintegration of flesh,” Dr. Swift explained. “Happens all the time in war zones. Iraq, Palestine, distant places like that. Fairly routine, this. Nothing out of the ordinary, I assure you.”

Then he ran swiftly across the stage, away from the screaming actor, who was now rolling on the floor. He used his torch to ignite the black masking drapes that hung there. They caught immediately, with a dramatic whoosh.

“Hold your applause! Please, hold your applause,” he called to the audience, his audience now. “Thank you so much! Thank you! You’re fabulous!”

He did a half bow, then disappeared from sight off the stage. Next, he nearly flew down a steep flight of stairs to a fire exit and out into an alleyway in back. A high-pitched door alarm screamed behind him.

Dr. Swift moved aside an empty crate in the alley and picked up an expandable nylon duffel he’d left there earlier that day. He deposited his gun, torch, and coat inside. Then the thick glasses, the contact lenses, the beard, the prominent forehead. Finally the shock of salt-and-pepper hair he’d worn for the role.

Once again, he was himself, and he exited the alley onto the street, where he turned away just as the first fire truck was arriving.

It was done, his mission accomplished, his part played very close to perfection. Now Dr. Xander Swift could disappear from the earth forever, just as the Iraqi had after he murdered the crime writer in front of all those appreciative fans.

My God, I’m good, he thought, and his chest swelled with genuine pride. After all these years, I’m making it big.

A few blocks away from the Kennedy Center, a woman was waiting for him in a blue sports car.

“You were wonderful.” She beamed and kissed th

e killer on the cheek. “I’m so proud of us.”

Chapter 28

“ALEX, COME AND LOOK at this. It’s unbelievable. Actually, it’s insane. Look at this, will you?”

Bree was holding up something in a clear plastic evidence bag when I found her and Sampson on the stage of the main theater at the Kennedy Center. One whole side of the play’s set was charred black. Another dark patch on the floor showed where the actor Matthew Jay Walker had died in front of an audience of nearly a thousand.

I had assumed even before I got there that this was the same crazy perp as at the Riverwalk. Why else would Bree have called me?

“Show him the card,” Sampson said. “Found it underneath the trapdoor where he came in. Looks like this freak watched too much TV in the ’90s.”

Bree handed over the evidence bag, and I took it reluctantly.

Inside was a handmade postcard. One side was black, with a large, bright-green letter X, in what looked like a degraded close-up of an old typewriter font. On the other side, in letters clipped from magazines, ransom-note style, were the words The Truth Is Out There.

“The X-Files.” Bree said what I was already thinking. “Tagline from the TV show. ‘The Truth Is Out There.’ We don’t know if this murder was based on a particular episode, but it might have been.”

“The same killer,” I said. “Has to be him.”

“Supposedly this guy was white. Older too, in his fifties or sixties,” said Sampson.

I swept my arm around the stage. “You’ve got a dozen expert witnesses to talk to here. If anyone can recognize makeup, it’s going to be actors. Two murders based on specific source material, though. Both with some kind of calling card left behind for us to find.”

“Different methods,” Bree said. “Could be coincidence. I’m not saying it is, but could be. Maybe there’s more than one perp? Possibility?”

“We’ve got a unifying signature, Bree. Public executions in front of an audience. Maybe we ought to call him the Audience Killer. That’s the heart of it for him.”

“Audience Killer? Is that in the DSM-IV?” Sampson’s smile was grim. He coped through humor. A lot of homicide cops did, myself included.

Bree ran a hand over the top of her head. “I’m with you all the way, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Richter. Thor the Bore isn’t going to let me rule out any possibilities without further cause.”

“What about the ones that make perfect sense to rule out?” I asked.