Plaster dust and splinters hit me in the face as I charged, smashed my shoulder into his rib cage, and drove him hard against the railing. I heard ribs crack and saw all the wind go out of him before I dragged him to the porch floor and pinned him.

Bree kicked away his gun, backed up, and turned on the porch light.

Dylan Winslow lay under me, gasping for air, one hand groping for the vanes and shaft of the competition dart buried deep in the left side of his neck.

“Who’s the brat now, jackass?” Ali cried, leaping onto the porch, pumping his fist, and then pointing a finger triumphantly at Soneji’s kid. “I smoked you with a ten-ringer from thirty-five feet!”

CHAPTER

114

LATE THE FOLLOWING April, Ali and I drove out to Assateague State Park on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. It was a glorious spring day, unnaturally warm, and it felt good in my bones when I climbed from the car after parking beside a familiar Jeep Wagoneer.

“Why would Mr. Aaliyah want to teach me to fish?” Ali said, coming around the back. “He doesn’t even know me.”

“He’s heard of you. Besides, he likes to teach kids to fish.”

“Why?”

“Give a man a fish and he eats for a day. Teach a man to fish and he eats for a lifetime.”

Ali gave me a funny face. “Who said that?”

“Someone smarter than me,” I said as a Volvo pulled into the lot.

A woman in her thirties with ash-blond hair climbed out and looked over at us uncertainly. “The beach isn’t far, is it?”

“Just over the dunes,” I said and motioned to Ali to kick off his sneakers.

Barefoot, we walked the sand path through the dunes. My ankle didn’t feel too bad at all, and there was a nice breeze blowing that smelled like spring.

“What’s going to happen to him, Dad?” Ali said. “Dylan Winslow?”

“That’s out of my hands. He’ll get his day in court.”

“I heard Bree say they think something’s wrong with his brain.”

That was sadly true and, if the doctors’ suspicions proved correct, unsurprising. Dylan had been born on the wrong end of a DNA chain, one where psychopathic tendencies were passed on by a criminally insane father and first expressed through a deli

ght in torturing defenseless animals. Abetting the murder of his mother and then attempting to murder us were natural progressions for him, in some ways as predictable as diseases.

“Doctors are looking at that possibility,” I said. “If so, Dylan will go to an institution for people like that.”

We emerged on the beach. The sky was ridiculously blue. The sea heaved and rolled in a deeper azure. Early-season sunbathers and a smattering of fishermen dotted the pristine sand.

“That guy’s got a big fish!” Ali said, pointing to a man pulling one ashore.

“Nice one.”

“I like this place, Dad. I want to learn to fish.”

“Thought you might.”

We walked south a hundred yards and found Bernie Aaliyah and his daughter, Tess, waiting for us.

“Heard a lot about you, kid,” Bernie said, shaking Ali’s hand. “Remind me not to get between you and a dartboard.”

Ali grinned, and I knew they were going to be buds. Bernie started to show Ali how the tackle worked. I went to Tess, said, “Long time, no see.”

Tags: James Patterson Alex Cross Mystery
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