Merry Christmas, Alex Cross

CHAPTER 15

There was a long pause before Fowler said, “Why would you want to do that, Cross?”

“Don’t jury members learn as much from a witness’s facial expressions and body language as they do from his testimony?”

Another pause. That pause stretched into thirty seconds. The thirty seconds stretched into the longest minute of my life.

My fear was that Fowler would explode again and turn his guns on the hostages. I could see McGoey shaking his head as if he knew I’d made the wrong move.

Finally Fowler said, “I don’t think so, Cross. Nice try, but I don’t think so.”

Persistence. Persistence.

“It would give me the opportunity to hear your side of the story,” I said. “Face-to-face. Man-to-man.”

Another few seconds.

Then Fowler said, very quietly, very calmly, “I will frisk you when you come in, Cross. If I find you’re carrying a gun, I’m going to kill you. And then I’ll kill a hostage or two. Starting with the good Dr. Quack N. Cash.”

“I don’t need a gun to have a conversation,” I said, and I handed my Glock to McGoey.

Fifteen seconds passed. Then Fowler’s voice came again.

“Jeremy, go open the front door for Mr. Cross. I’m going to be right behind you, buddy. So don’t even think about running out of the house. Understand? Okay, get going.” I guess the boy didn’t go fast enough, because I heard this father, on Christmas Eve, shout at his eleven-year-old son, “Move, Jeremy, or I will kick your fucking obscenely obese ass until you do!”

I looked at my watch. It was almost midnight when I got my jacket and hat and headed toward the Nicholsons’ house.

I walked through the now empty shelter and out into the falling snow thinking that I should have been with my family right then, at St. Anthony’s, singing “O Little Town of Bethlehem” to start midnight mass.