Alex Cross, Run (Alex Cross 20)

This wasn’t my fault. Not technically. I knew that. But it was also true that I’d had more of a chance to stop it from happening than just about anyone else. I could have pushed harder to get Rebecca into protective services. I could have worked more closely with McIntosh County.

But I didn’t. I’d made a perfectly justifiable call, on paper. Now three more people were dead, and one very little girl was missing. Again.

I turned on the sink and splashed some water on my face, as cold as I could make it. When I looked up again, I guess I caught sight of myself too fast or something. I couldn’t help it—my fist came up and smashed the mirror into shards. It was a dumbass move, the kind of thing I’d yell at anyone else for pulling. All it got me was a bunch of broken glass and some bloody knuckles.

And the kicker was—my crap day had only just begun.

CHAPTER

43

I SPENT THE MORNING PULLING TOGETHER EVERYTHING I HAD ON THE REILLY family and faxing it down to the FBI in Atlanta. I gave them what we had on Amanda Simms as well, for whatever that was worth. We still didn’t know if both of these “pregnant girl” cases were linked or not.

Beyond that, I spent way too much time trying to get someone to answer at the Bureau’s Savannah satellite office, but that was just an exercise in frustration. Hopefully, they were all out in the field, getting the job done.

The one piece of relative good news was that Rebecca had been taken at all. Given the three homicides, it meant that the kidnapper—or someone—wanted to keep her. That was better than the alternative. At least it left open the possibility that she could still be found.

Then, while I was sitting on hold with Savannah for the third time that morning, I heard my name called out from somewhere else in the squad room.

I stood up and looked around. Across the cubicles, Huizenga was standing in the door of her office with Jessica Jacobs. When she motioned me over to join them, I pointed at the phone in my hand.

“Hang up!” she yelled back, and headed inside.

I didn’t have to think hard about what this might be. Jacobs was the lead investigator assigned to Cory Smithe and Ricky Samuels, the two young hustlers who had been killed. I felt numb walking over to Huizenga’s office, like there wasn’t room for anything else right now. Not that it mattered.

Huizenga had her head in her hands when I came in. Jacobs was on the phone, scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad.

“Marti?” I said.

“Number three,” she said, without looking up. “Young white male, single gunshot, multiple stab wounds, no ID.”

“A jogger found the kid,” Jacobs said, with a hand over her phone. “Way up at Lock Seven on the C and O Canal.”

“Lock Seven,” I said. “That’s Maryland, isn’t it?”

Huizenga nodded. “Montgomery County’s already on the scene. You may see the Bureau before the day’s over, too. I’ll talk to D’Auria. This is the chief’s call, but I’d rather not open this up if we don’t have to.”

Three murders committed in a similar fashion put this case squarely into serial territory. That’s usually when the FBI starts asking questions. They can be hugely useful, given the resources the Feds have, but they can also be an impediment, especially if anyone starts getting turfy about this stuff. I’ve been on both sides of that fence, and I know.

In the meantime, before I headed up to Lock Seven, what I needed was a vending machine, a cup of coffee, and a reset button for my brain.

I got two out of three, anyway.

CHAPTER

44

RON GUIDICE STOOD IN THE FRONT HALL OF THE OLD PLACE AND LOOKED around. The house was like some kind of time capsule from 1979. There was gray shag carpet on the floor. A powder-blue toilet in the bathroom.

Still, it was solid, with three bedrooms, a backyard, and plenty of privacy. Also just ninety minutes from the city. The perfect hiding place for his growing family.

“Don’t mind all these boxes,” the rental lady said. “I have one of those Got Junk trucks coming this afternoon. Unless you see anything you’d like to keep.”

“Just the furniture. Everything else can go,” Guidice told her.

The woman, Mrs. Patten, stopped to look down into the Snugli, where Grace was fast asleep against his chest. She’d been fussy in the car but had tired herself out by the time they got to Virginia.

And it was Grace now. Not Rebecca. Not ever again.