Alex Cross, Run (Alex Cross 20)

He pointed at the bank envelope on the seat as the young hustler opened the door. There were two one hundred dollar bills inside, but the kid didn’t check. He just stuck it in his back pocket and sat down.

“Nice car,” he said.

“Isn’t it?” Bergman said.

He was thin. Maybe a

little too thin, but cute, with a sexy little gap in his smile. His clothes were preppy-slouchy, a half-tucked oxford in ripped jeans. But it was the bright green limited edition Nike kicks that gave him away. This boy was obviously pulling down more cash than his friends with their little jobs at Abercrombie and Pizzeria Paradiso.

Bergman pulled out of the lot and headed north, toward MacArthur. He had Elvis Costello on the stereo. “Pills and Soap.” A bit of vintage gold to go with his great mood.

For a while, he drove upriver and they played small talk. The boy was from Maine. He hadn’t seen any good movies lately. He thought Mumford and Sons were just awesome.

Eventually, the kid took a breath and looked around.

“Where are we going?” he said. “This is like, practically Maryland.”

“It is Maryland,” Bergman said. “I know a place. How do you feel about outside? Your profile didn’t really say either way.”

The kid shrugged. “I like outside,” he said. He put a hand on Bergman’s knee as he leaned in to bump up the stereo’s volume. “Whatever you’re into.”

“Awesome,” Bergman said.

At the little one-lane stone bridge, he took a left off MacArthur, crossed over, and doubled back, half a mile down Clara Barton Parkway. The parking lot was just off the road, but low enough to offer some privacy. The only time anyone used it was during the day, and not even that much then.

“Here we are,” he said, killing the engine. “Let’s go for a walk.”

If the kid had any second thoughts, he was keeping them to himself. Probably thinking about his next pair of kicks instead.

They got out and headed down into the woods. Bergman walked just behind him on the little footpath, his hand in his pocket, touching himself through the cloth.

“Down here?” the boy asked.

“Actually, stop right there,” Bergman said. They were at the midpoint in the woods, between the lot and the canal down the hill. “This is good.”

The boy turned around in the dark and stepped up toward him. He reached out and ran a hand over Bergman’s crotch.

“Dude. You’re ready to go, aren’t you?” the kid asked.

“I am,” Bergman said. “I really am.”

It was likely the boy never even saw the gun. Bergman took one quick step back to avoid any splatter, and pulled the trigger.

The kid’s shadow dropped to the ground unceremoniously, like a sack of whatever. Bergman dropped, too, onto his knees.

The knife was out next. He drove it in—once, twice, three times, fast . . . then again—four, five, six . . . seven . . . eight . . .

He lost count somewhere after that, as the rising swirl of it all caught him up, and then seemed to reverse direction, funneling back down into a final, excruciating explosion of pleasure—literal and figurative.

It was done. Again.

Bergman fell back onto his elbows. His breath was ragged. The inside of his pants was wet.

One by one, his senses seemed to float back into place. There was the boy on the ground. The sound of traffic on the highway. A slight metallic taste in his mouth.

As his head cleared, logic moved back in. He couldn’t stay here, of course. He had to keep moving.

It was just a quick drag down to the canal, where he emptied the boy’s pockets and rolled him into the water.