Talk about a win-win situation. Talk about a night off from all the craziness.
Maybe we were even ready for whatever might come next. And maybe we weren’t even close. But right now, none of that mattered.
“Room has wireless high-speed access. All the amenities you could hope for. Should we check in on the world?” Bree asked after our first time.
“We definitely . . . shouldn’t . . . check in on anything.”
Chapter 78
EARLY THE FOLLOWING MORNING, the great Kyle Craig entered through the gates of the University of Chicago. He was dressed as he thought a college professor might reasonably outfit himself for class these days: khaki trousers and sneakers, a blue denim work shirt, a gray knit vest, a knit tie. Craig found the getup satisfying in a comical sort of way. The very idea of his teaching the nation’s youth. My God! At least he was amusing himself, if no one else.
He had already studied the school’s Web site, so he went directly to the large library, the Regenstein. He checked a few reference files, and within minutes, he was in a reading room attached to the graduate school—leaving another message for DCAK. This time he decided to be more circumspect, hiding the message in a photograph. He’d learned about the process of steganography while he was in jail, planning for his future.
We meet again, my good friend. I hope to be in your neck of the woods very soon. It will be a pleasant walk down memory lane for me. Plus the unique chance to experience your work from a slightly closer vantage point. You are making history, after all. We both are. Everything is working so beautifully. If you would like to meet in person, I will be at X marks the spot, midnight, the second Saturday from now.
If you aren’t there, I will understand completely. You are a busy bee, after all. Such a gifted artist too. I stand in awe of your work and look forward to your next play.
Kyle Craig stopped typing, reread what he’d written, and then pressed “send.” He whispered to himself, “If he can’t figure out X marks the spot, then he doesn’t deserve to meet me face-to-face.”
Chapter 79
KYLE CHANGED CABS three times on his way back to his hotel, which was just off Michigan Avenue. He was excited about so many things now, even being free in Chicago, which had always been a favorite city of his, so much cleaner and more upbeat than New York or Los Angeles, or even Washington.
Freedom is a hell of a concept, he thought as he rode along in the third and final cab on busy Michigan Avenue. Especially after time spent in that seven-by-twelve hole inside ADX Florence. Life at the prison was cruel and unusual punishment, like being suffocated to death, very slowly and painfully, over several years. ADX Florence literally crushed its prisoners to death, as if the jail were a living thing.
But now—he was out.
He had important things to do, not the least of which was carrying out a most exciting plan for revenge against everyone who had hurt him in the past. Everyone! It had usually been about revenge for him, the idea of hurting—sometimes torturing—people who offended him, and that certainly hadn’t changed. This plan—well, it could take years to complete. It was his masterpiece, after all.
He thought about DCAK for a moment. Actually, Kyle had first come across the killer while still with the FBI. The killer had been living and working on the West Coast—an actor—doing small roles and an occasional murder. Kyle had linked murders in Sacramento, Seattle, and LA to the actor. He’d made contact—twice—by e-mail. But then Kyle had been caught himself, something he had never expected. Ironically, it was while he was in jail that he discovered he had so many fans . . . and imitators. It made sense, actually. Once he was in jail, they knew where to contact the Mastermind, and a few clever ones figured out how to do it.
But enough ancient history for the moment. That was such a bore. Just look at the zombies out there on the Midway! he thought as he cruised along in the speeding cab. He wished he could kill a few of them too, but alas, he was on a schedule, though one of his own making.
No one paid the least bit of attention to him back at the hotel. Imagine that. No respect, no disrespect—which was a good thing. Wasn’t it? He had cut his hair down to the scalp and usually wore one of the half-dozen prosthetic masks he kept in his suitcase.
He got to the room—thinking about DCAK and what he was planning for him—slid in the key card, and heard someone inside.
What was this? A visitor? He’d left the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door.
He took out his gun, a small Beretta that was easy to conceal under his loose-fitting clothes.
Yes, somebody was definitely in there. Interesting development. Who was it? Alex Cross? No, that wasn’t even a remote possibility. DCAK? Here in Chicago? He doubted it. Chicago police? That would be more likely.
He turned the corner—and saw a housekeeper, a young black woman. Listening to her iPod. Oblivious to the world, and who could blame her? Not bad-looking, actually. Chesty, long skinny legs, working barefoot on the rug. Smooth skin. Hair in a tight ponytail. Lord, he had missed this—longed for it every day in jail, several times a day.
“I’m sor-ry,” the girl drawled when she saw him standing there, the gun tucked behind his back now. No need to frighten the poor thing half to death.
“Oh, it’s not a problem. Just finish up what you’re doing,” he said, slipping the gun back into the holster under his vest.
He took out his ice pick instead. Fingered it, like Queeg with those metal balls.
“You’re too pretty to be working here like this, cleaning rooms. I’m sorry if that’s insulting. I’ve forgotten my manners lately.”
The girl stammered without looking at him. “I’ll c-come back,” she said.
“No,” Kyle said. “Actually, you won’t. There is no afterlife.” Then, “In my honor,” he whispered as he struck the maid’s chest, once, twice—for symmetry, for art’s sake, for the joy of it. And he thought, She reminds me of one of Alex Cross’s girlfriends. And he stabbed her again.
He even left another little clue before he abandoned the room—a bobble-head figure of the great outlaw Jesse James.