Merry Christmas, Alex Cross

CHAPTER 13

Bree kept walking and disappeared behind the police barrier into the storm. I stood there, staring after her, my mind whirling with thoughts of my family.

What was I doing? Ramiro and Nu and McGoey were all first-rate at their jobs. The deputy chief had called me in part, I guessed, as a way to calm down the congressman. But did I really have to be present? Couldn’t I leave this situation in their capable hands and follow Bree home?

“Alex!” McGoey called.

I turned, squinted into the wind and the snow, and saw him standing at the flaps of the tent.

“It’s Fowler,” he said. “He picked up. He wants to talk to you.”

“Me?” I replied, already moving toward him, already compartmentalizing.

“He didn’t ask for you exactly,” McGoey said. “Just anyone but Ramiro.”

I walked through the shelter, brushing the snow off my hat and jacket, and climbed into the van, trying to fully move on from my conversation with Bree. I had to completely divorce myself from the sadness and anxiety she’d stirred in me. If I didn’t, I’d be in no condition to negotiate with a madman.

Ramiro handed me his phone.

“Henry Fowler?” I said.

He coughed. “Who’s this?”

“My name is Alex Cross,” I said.

There was a long pause before he said, “I’ve heard of you.”

“And I’ve heard of you,” I said. “You’re an impressive man, Mr. Fowler.”

He laughed acidly at that. “I’m a fucking loser, Cross. Let’s call it what it is, because I am, in no way, the man I was.”

“If you say so,” I replied, then paused. “So what are we doing here?”

“We?” Fowler said. “There’s no we here. There’s just you, Cross, and all your well-armed friends out there, the members of the jury, looking to spoil my fun.”

Fun. I shut my eyes. That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. It meant that he planned to toy with his hostages and us. He would enjoy that, so he would try to draw out the experience. This was looking like it was going to be a long Christmas Eve night.

“Is that what this is, a game?” I asked. “Or a trial?”

“Both,” he said in a reasonable tone. “That’s what a trial is, isn’t it? A game played with deadly intent?”

“I suppose.”

“You suppose. Before we move on, Cross, a word of advice.”

“Yes?”

Fowler began screaming: “Don’t fuck with me! Don’t lie to me! And don’t try to game me. If you try to game me in my courtroom, you will lose!”

I kept my voice steady. “I hear your concerns, Mr. Fowler. And I will not lie to you or try to game you. But here’s a word of advice back at you. You can talk. And I promise I’ll listen. I’ll really listen. But now…here’s the important part…I’ll listen up to a point.”

“When do we get to that point?” he asked, calmer now.

“When I say so,” I said, taking a chance with my answer. It was actually not my call when negotiations would be broken off and an assault authorized. But I wanted Fowler to believe that I had that power. I wanted him to believe that he was talking directly to the man in charge.

A silence, and then Fowler spoke again.

“Okay, Alex Cross. We’ve got the start of a deal,” Fowler said. “You’re going to be my jury foreman.”