I, Alex Cross

"Would you rather talk in my car?" I asked him. "Or maybe in yours?"

"Do I look like I want to get in a car with you, Detective Cross?" I was surprised he remembered my name.

He stepped back out of sight then, between his own SUV and the other giant boat parked next to it, a brand-new Hummer H3T. With the likely hundred-thousand-dollar joining fee at this place, I guess no one was too worried about gas prices.

"I won't keep you long, Senator," I said, "but I thought you'd want to know, we're a little short on leads here. The only next step I can see is to start releasing the recordings from Tony Nicholson's club."

Yarrow's eyes flitted over to Sampson; I think he was wondering if both of us had seen him in action, or just me. His hands tightened over the head cover of the TaylorMade driver in his bag.

"So unless you've got some other meaningful direction we might go in -"

"Why would I?" he said, still cool.

"Just a gut feeling I had. Something about all those missed appointments."

He took a deep breath and ran a hand over the weekend stubble around his chin. "Well, obviously I've got to run all this by my attorney."

"That's probably a good idea," I said. "But just so you know, this is a working Saturday for us. We need to get one thing or another done today."

I almost felt bad for Yarrow, he looked so uncomfortable. There were no good options left, and he knew it. When I'm lucky, that brings people right to the truth.

"Just for the sake of argument," he said, "what could you offer me by way of immunity?"

"Nothing right now. That's up to the DA."

"Right, 'cause you people never wheel and deal, is that it?"

"Here's what I can offer you," I said. "You tell us what you know, and then when the Secret Service comes looking for you, and they will, it won't be about obstruction of justice and conspiracy to cover up a string of murders."

I could only imagine how much Yarrow was hating me right now. Without ever taking his eyes off mine, he said, "Tell me something, Detective Sampson. Would you say your partner here is a vindictive man?"

Sampson laid a big hand on the roof of Yarrow's car. "Vindictive? Nah, that's not Alex. I'd say more like realistic. Might be a good word for you to consider about now."

At first, I thought Senator Yarrow was going to walk, or maybe even go postal with one of those TaylorMade irons of his. Instead, he reached into his pocket, and the doors on the Lincoln chirped open.

"Just get in the car."

Chapter 95

YARROW'S CAR'S LEATHER interior reeked of coffee and cigarettes. I would have pegged him more as a cigar smoker.

"Let me get a few things out of the way," I said first. "You were a paying client of that club, yes or no?"

"Next question."

"You were aware that escorts co

"No. That's not true," he said. "I'd just started to suspect something was wrong before all this fuss happened."

"And what did you plan to do with that information? Your suspicions."

Yarrow turned suddenly and pointed a finger in my face. "Don't interrogate me, Cross. I'm a goddamn US senator, not some worthless thug in Southeast DC."

"Exactly my point, Mr. Yarrow. You're a US senator and you're supposed to have a conscience. Now, do you have something for us or not?"

He took a beat, long enough to pull a pack of Marlboro Reds out of the console. I noticed that the flame on his gold Senate lighter shook when he used it.

After a couple long consecutive drags, Yarrow started to talk again, facing the windshield.

"There's a man you should check out. His name's… Remy Williams. If I had to guess, I'd say he's in this thing deep."

"Who is he?" I asked.

"That's a good question, actually. I believe that he used to be in the Secret Service."

Those last two words went off in my mind like a Roman candle. "Secret Service? What division?" I asked him.

"Protective Services."

"At the White House?"

Yarrow smoked almost continuously while the knuckles on his free hand went white gripping the wheel. "Yeah," he said with an exhale. "At the White House."

Sampson was staring over the headrest at me, and I'm sure we were wondering the same thing. Was this the White House co

"What's your association with him?" Sampson asked.

"He was the one who told me about the club in the first place."

"That doesn't really answer the question," I said. "Look, Senator, I'm not recording any of this. Not yet anyway."

Yarrow opened the window and twisted the last of his cigarette onto the pavement, then put the butt in his ashtray. I could sense him starting to circle the wagons again.

"He's my ex-wife's brother, okay? I haven't seen the bastard in over a year, and it doesn't matter. The whole point is, you take a drive out there, you might just have something more to do with your Saturday than harassing public servants."

Chapter 96

IT WAS JUST over two hours' drive to the western edge of Louisa County, which was also about an hour south of Nicholson's club. Those two locations triangulated easily with the spot on I-95 where Joh

Yarrow's vague sense of the cabin sent us down a handful of wrong turns before we eventually found the right gravel road off Route 33. Several miles back through the woods, it came to a makeshift dead end, with a row of rocks blocking the way. They'd obviously been moved there by hand, and it didn't take us long to clear them.

Beyond that were two dirt tracks retreating into the brush, and another half hour of slow going before we saw anything man-made. Remy Williams's nearest neighbor seemed to be Lake A

The driveway, such as it was, came up on the back of a rudimentary single-story building surrounded closely by fir trees. It looked unfinished from here, with a galvanized standing-seam roof but just warped and silvered plywood over Tyvek on the walls.

"Very nice," Sampson muttered, or maybe growled. "Unabomber east, anyone?"

It was bigger than Ted Kaczynski's famous shack, which I'd been to once before, but the general feeling was about the same: madman in residence.

Around front, the two small windows under a covered porch looked dark. There was a dirt yard big enough for several cars, but no sign of any vehicle. The place seemed completely deserted, and part of me hoped it was.

It wasn't until I'd driven around nearly full circle that I saw the wood chipper at the side of the house.

"Sampson?"

"I see it."

It was an old industrial unit, with two tires and a rusted trailer hitch balanced on a cinder block. Most of the paint was long gone, just a few impressionistic flecks of John Deere green and yellow on the frame. Next to it, a blue tarp was folded on the ground, weighted down with a two-gallon gas can.

I kept the car ru

"Anyone home?" I called halfheartedly.

There was no answer. All I heard was the wind, a few birds chattering in the trees, and my idling car.

Sampson and I took the porch from opposite sides to check the windows first, then the door.

When I looked in, it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. Then I saw a man, sitting in a chair against the far wall. It was too dark for details; I couldn't even tell if he was alive or dead. Not for certain. Not yet.