Cross

After Sullivan himself, Jimmy was the most excited about tonight. Sullivan had gotten them tickets to see U2's Vertigo tour at the 1st Mariner Arena in Baltimore. It was going to be a fine night, the kind of family activity he could tolerate.

On the ride to the concert, Sullivan sang along with the car stereo until his boys started to groan and make jokes in the backseat.

"You see, boys," Caitlin said, "your father thinks he's another Bono. But he sounds more like… Ringo Starr?"

"Your mother's just jealous," Sullivan said, laughing. "You kids and I have rich Irish blood ru

"Oh, right. One question: Which would you rather eat – Italian or Irish? Case closed."

The boys howled and high-fived one for their mom.

"Hey, what's this, Mom?" Seamus asked.

Caitlin looked; then she pulled a small silver flip phone from under the front seat. Sullivan saw it, and his stomach heaved.

It was Be

And mistakes will kill you.

He kept his face in perfect control. "I'll bet that's Steve Bowen's phone," he lied.

"Who?" Caitlin asked.

"Steve Bowen. My client? I gave him a ride to the airport when he was in town."

Caitlin looked puzzled. "Why hasn't he tried to get it back?"

Because he doesn't exist.

"Probably because he's in London." Sullivan kept improvising. "Just stick it in the glove compartment."

Now that he had the cell phone, though, he knew what he wanted to do with it. In fact, he couldn't wait. He drove the family as close to the arena as he could get, then pulled over to the curb.

"Here you go – door-to-door service. Can't beat it. I'll park this buggy and meet you inside."

It didn't take him long to find a parking garage with vacancies. He drove all the way to the top for some added privacy and a good signal. The number he wanted was right there in the phone's address book. He punched it in. This should be good. Now just let the bastard scum be there.

And let him have caller ID.

John Maggione answered himself. "Who's this?" he asked, and sounded bent out of shape already.

Bingo! The man himself. They'd hated each other since Maggione's father had let Sullivan do some jobs for him.

"Take a guess, Junior."

"I have no fucking idea. How'd you get this number? Whoever you are, you're a dead man."

"Then I guess we've got something in common."

Adrenaline raced through Sullivan's system. He felt unstoppable right now. He was the best around at this kind of thing: setting up a target, playing with a mark.

"That's right, Junior. The hunter becomes the hunted. It's Michael Sullivan. Remember me? And you know what? I'm coming for you next."

"The Butcher? Is that you, punk? I was going to kill you anyway, but now I'm going to make you pay for what you did to Be

"What I did to Be

Maggione exploded. "You are dead! You are so dead! Everything you ever cared about is… dead. I'm coming after you, Sullivan."

"Yeah, well, take a number."

He flipped the phone closed, then looked at his watch. That felt good – talking to Maggione like that. Seven fifty. He wouldn't even miss U2's opening number.

Chapter 59

I HAD JUST FINISHED UP with the day's final session and was looking through the old files on Maria's case again, when an unexpected hard knock came against the office door. What now?

I opened it to find Sampson standing out in the hallway.

He had a twelve-pack of Corona stuffed under one arm, and the carton of beer looked ridiculously small in relation to his body. Something was up.

"Sorry," I said. "I don't allow drinking during sessions."

"All right. I hear you. I guess me and my imaginary friends will just be on our way."

"But seeing how much you obviously need therapy, I'll make an exception this one time."

He handed me a cold beer as I let him in. Something was definitely going on. Sampson had never been to my office before.

"Looking good around here already," he said. "I still owe you a hanging plant or something."

"Don't pick out any art for me. Spare me that."

Thirty seconds later, the Commodores were on the CD player – Sampson's choice – and Sampson was flopped down on my couch. It looked like a love seat under him.

But before I could even begin to unwind, he blindsided me. "Do you know Kim Stafford?"

I took a swill of beer to cover my reaction. Kim had been my last patient of the day. It made sense that Sampson might have seen her leaving, but how he knew who she was, I had no idea.

"Why do you ask that?"

"Uh, I'm a police detective… I just saw her outside. The lady is kind of hard to miss. She's Jason Stemple's girlfriend."

"Jason Stemple?" Sampson had said it like I should know who that was. And in a strange way, I did, just not by his name.

I was glad Kim had come back for more sessions, but she was firm about not identifying her fiance, even as the abuse at home seemed to have gotten worse.

"He works Sixth District," Sampson said. "I guess he came on the force after you left."

"Sixth District? As in, he's a cop?"

"Yeah. I don't envy him that beat though. It's rough over there these days."

My mind was reeling, and I felt a little sick to my stomach. Jason Stemple was a cop?

"How's the Georgetown case going?" I asked, probably to get Sampson off the track he was going down.

"Nothing new," he said, sliding right over to the new subject. "I've covered three out of the four known victims, and I'm still not out of the gate."

"So no one's talking at all? After what happened to them? That's hard to believe. Don't you think so, John?"

"I do. A woman I spoke with today, army captain, she admitted the rapist made some kind of bad threat against her family. Even that was more than she wanted to say."

We finished our beers in silence. My mind alternated between Sampson's case and Kim Stafford and her policeman fiance.

Sampson downed the last of his Corona; then he sat up and handed me another. "So listen," he said. "I've got one more interview to do – lawyer who was raped. One more chance to maybe crack this thing open."

Uh- oh, here it comes.

"Monday afternoon?"

I swiveled in my chair to look at the appointment book on my desk. Wide open. "Damn, I'm all booked up."

I opened my second beer. A long slat of light came in through the wooden blinds, and I traced it with my eyes back over to where Sampson sat, looking at me with that heavy glare of his. Man Mountain, that was one of the names I had for him. Two-John was another.

"What time on Monday?" I finally asked.

"Three o'clock. I'll pick you up, sugar." He reached over and clinked his beer bottle against mine. "You know, you just cost me seven bucks."

"How's that?"

"The twelve-pack," he said. "I would have gotten a six if I'd known you'd be this easy."