Alex Cross, Run

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 Sava

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 Sava

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.

“They’re just little gifts from God, aren’t they?” Mrs. Patten said. “How old?”

“She’s three weeks today,” Guidice said. “And yes, they really are. I fell in love the second I laid eyes on her.”

That much was true. Mrs. Patten smiled, the way women always did when men showed even a hint of softness. Like he’d just done her some kind of favor.

“Would you like to see the back?” she asked.

“Please.”

He followed her into a large eat-in kitchen, with a picture window over the formica table. Outside there was a wooden swing set at the back of the overgrown yard. It didn’t look fit to use, but he could fix it up. Beyond that, Guidice could see a horse paddock through the trees. Half a dozen brown mares were munching on the spring grass.

Emma Lee was going to love it here. They all were, even Lydia, once she got used to it.

“I hope you don’t mind vintage,” Mrs. Patten said, “if that’s what you call all this. Mr. Schiavo seemed to have stopped shopping quite a while ago.”

“It’s fine.”

“A pity, really, how he died so suddenly. But I think he’d be happy to know there was a young family moving in. What do you do, Mr. Henderson?”

“I’m a journalist,” Guidice said. “But I’m looking to take some time off.”

Like Grace, he had a new name here, too. He’d used pseudonyms before, never as a byline, but sometimes to cover his tracks when he was chasing down a story. Paul Henderson was the one he’d used the most often, and the one for which he had passable identification, including a rarely used credit card. It was enough to secure the house, in any case.

“How about your wife?” the rental agent asked brightly. “Will she be staying home as well?”

“My wife isn’t with us anymore,” Guidice said. “We lost her on the night Grace was born.”

Mrs. Patten stopped and put a hand to her mouth, covering the little O that had just formed there. “Oh my lord. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“Of course,” Guidice said. “I’m just looking for somewhere quiet where my mother, my daughters, and I can put our lives back together in private.”

She looked like she might actually cry. Guidice hoped not.

“How old is your other daughter?” she asked.

“Emma Lee’s four and a half. She misses her mama, but she’s very excited about being a big sister.”

“And you have your mother as well. That’s a blessing. I’m sure she’s wonderful with the girls.”

“Yes,” Guidice said. He glanced down at the soft little angel curls on the top of his daughter’s head. “Because there’s nothing more important than family. Isn’t that right, Grace?”

CHAPTER

45

LOCK SEVEN ON THE CHESAPEAKE AND OHIO CANAL IS ORDINARILY A LITTLE recreational area just off the Clara Barton Parkway. Today, it had a yellow tape fence around the entrance. Later on, this quiet spot was going to be all over the news.

Our latest victim had been found just before noon. His body was entangled in the old drop gate mechanism of what used to be an operating lock. The original purpose of the canal was to run material goods over a 184-mile stretch between Georgetown and Cumberland Park, Maryland. Now, it was mostly something to run, bike, or walk along, though very few people got this far up the tow path anymore. My guess was that the killer didn’t expect the body to be discovered so soon.

The Montgomery County detective assigned to the case was an older guy I knew and liked, Bob Semillon. He met Jacobs and me in the parking lot and walked us down through the woods.