SUCH UTTER fools,” said the Gentleman, intolerant and impatient as always. “Two carnival clowns in blackface.”
Casanova smiled thinly, growing impatient with the Gentleman. “What the hell did you expect? Brain surgeons from Walter Reed in Washington? They’re a couple of ordinary street cops.”
“Not so ordinary, perhaps. They found the house, didn’t they? They’re inside right now.”
The two friends watched everything coming together from a nearby hiding place in the woods. They had tracked the detectives all afternoon, observing them with binoculars. Plotting, planning, but also playing with their prey. They were careful as they moved in for the final confrontation.
“Why didn’t they bring the others out here? Why didn’t they bring the FBI?” Rudolph asked. He was always inquisitive and very logical. A logic machine; a killing machine; but a machine that ran without a human heart.
Casanova looked through the powerful German binoculars again. He could see the open trapdoor that led down into the underground house, the masterpiece that he and Rudolph had built by hand.
“It’s their policeman’s arrogance,” he finally answered Rudolph’s question. “In some ways, they’re like us. Cross is especially. He trusts himself and no one else.”
He glanced over at Will Rudolph, and both men smiled. The irony was beautiful, actually. The two detectives against the two of them.
“Cross probably thinks he understands us, our relationship, that is,” Rudolph said. “Maybe he does a little bit.” He had been paranoid about Alex Cross since the close call in California. Cross had tracked him down, after all, and that frightened him. But the Gentleman also found Cross interesting as an opponent. He enjoyed the competition, the blood sport.
“He understands some things, he sees patterns, so he thinks he knows more than he actually does. Just be patient, and we’ll expose Cross’s weaknesses.”
As long as they were patient, Casanova believed, as long as they thought everything through carefully, they would win; they would never be caught. It had been that way for years, from the first day they met at Duke University.
Casanova knew that Will Rudolph had been careless out in California. He’d had that disturbing tendency even as a brilliant medical student. He was impatient, and had been sloppy and melodramatic when he killed Roe Tierney and Tom Hutchinson. He had almost been caught back then. He was questioned by the police, and had been a serious suspect in the famous case.
Casanova thought about Alex Cross again, evaluating the detective’s strengths and weaknesses. Cross was careful, and he was a thorough “professional.” He almost always thought things through before he acted. He was certainly smarter than the rest of the pack. A cop and a psychologist. He’d found the hideaway, hadn’t he? He’d gotten this far, closer than all the others.
John Sampson was more impulsive. He was the weak point, though he certainly didn’t look it. He was physically powerful, but he would be the one to break first. And breaking Sampson would break Cross. The two detectives were close friends; they were extremely emotional about each other.
“It was stupid for us to split up a year ago, to go our separate ways,” Casanova said to his only friend in the world. “If we hadn’t begun to compete and play egocentric games, Cross would never have found out anything about us. He wouldn’t have found you, and we wouldn’t have to kill the girls and destroy the house now.”
“Let me take care of the good Dr. Cross,” Rudolph said. He didn’t react to the things Casanova had just said. Rudolph never showed much emotion, but actually he’d been lonely, too. He’d come back, hadn’t he?
“No one takes care of Dr. Cross alone,” Casanova said. “We’ll go after them together. We make it two against one, the way we work best. First, Sampson. Then Alex Cross. I know how he’ll react. I know how he thinks. I’ve been watching him. Actually, I’ve been hunting Alex Cross since he came to the South.”
The two human monsters moved closer to the house.
CHAPTER 108
I SWITCHED ON overhead lights in the first room and I saw one of the captive women. Maria Jane Capaldi cowered like a frightened little girl against the far wall. I knew who she was. I’d met her parents a week or so back, I had seen old, cherished photographs of her.
“Please don’t hurt me. I can’t take any more of this,” Maria Jane pleaded in a hoarse whisper.
She was hugging herself, rocking gently back and forth. She had on ripped black tights and a wrinkled Nirvana T-shirt. Maria Jane was just nineteen years old, an art major and aspiring painter at North Carolina State in Raleigh.
“I’m a police detective,” I whispered in the softest voice possible. “Nobody can hurt you now. We won’t let them.”
Maria Jane moaned, and she began to cry tears of relief. Her whole body was quivering.
“He can’t hurt you now, Maria Jane,” I reassured her in the softest voice I could manage. I could barely speak, actually. “I have to find the others. I’ll be back, I promise you. I’m leaving your door open. You can come out. You’re safe now.”
I had to help the others. His harem of special women was right here. Naomi was one of them.
I broke into the next room in the passageway. I still couldn’t catch my breath. I was exhilarated, frightened, saddened—all at the same time.
A tall blond woman in the room told me her name was Melissa Stanfield. I remembered the name. She was in nursing school. I had so many questions, but there was time for only one.
I gently touched her shoulder. She shuddered, then collapsed against me. “Do you know where Naomi Cross is?” I asked her.
“I’m not sure,” Melissa said. “I don’t know the whole layout here.” She shook her head and began to cry. I don’t think she even knew who I was talking about.