Merry Christmas, Alex Cross

CHAPTER 18

I was beginning to feel it, the turmoil Fowler seemed to secrete from every pore. I could smell it too. He reeked of that weird sour body odor that follows crazy people who live on the street too long.

“So there’s this ignorant, oblivious man,” Fowler began. “He’s sitting on the veranda of his rented bungalow in St. John’s with his trophy wife. Beautiful sunset. Glowing tans. They’re drinking from a marvelous bottle of burgundy grand cru from the Cote d’Or. His wife says, ‘I love you.’ The man looks over and says, ‘Is that you talking, or is it the wine?’ She looks at him as if he’s a fool and says, ‘Actually, dear, I was talking to the wine.’”

Fowler looked around the room. Nobody was laughing. If anything, they were all even more terrified than before he’d told his joke.

“You remember that, don’t you, Diana?” Fowler asked.

“No, Henry, I don’t,” she said.

He smiled in a threatening way. “Of course you do. And if you don’t, you should. It’s so emblematic of who we were that-”

“Stop it!” Diana screamed. “You’ve got to stop this, Henry. At least let the children go.”

“Don’t be a party pooper, Diana. Show the spirit of the season,” Fowler said, waving her off before looking at me. “My dear ex-wife has never dealt well with reality or the truth. As you shall hear, Cross.”

I couldn’t let this go any further. “She’s right, Henry. Why don’t you let your children go? It’s Christmas, a hard time. But don’t take it out on them.”

He leveled the pistol at me. “Why shouldn’t I take it out on them, Cross? They’re the ones who drove me here. They and their uncaring, greedy, materialistic mother, the biggest mistake of my life.”

“Mister.” I heard a child’s voice. It was Trey. He was looking at me. “Mister, can you ask Daddy to go back to his house so Santa can come?”

Before I could deliver any words of comfort, Fowler walked over and jammed his black-booted foot on the boy’s ear.

“Shut up, Trey, or we’ll be playing Hide the Skippy Super Chunk. Besides, I told you. I’m going no place.”

Fowler looked at me, scratched at his face, said, “Kids. They never listen.”

I’d begun to compile a catalog of Fowler’s tics and twitches-the face scratching, the hand rubbing, the massaging of the back of his neck, the quick bite to the side of his ring finger on his left hand. If he sat next to you on the Metro, you’d stand up quickly, move away, and get off at the next station.

He picked up the phone on the end table next to my chair and hit Redial.

I heard a voice say, “This is Ramiro.”

Fowler laid the receiver on the table.

“It’s Cross,” I said. “I’m all right.”

“Now that the jury has been seated, are we ready to hear opening statements?” Fowler said, looking at me.

I hesitated, then nodded.

“Excellent,” Fowler said, rubbing the back of his gun hand. “Let’s begin with an introduction. Diana, sweetheart? Kids? Barry? This is the famous Alex Cross. He’ll be the jury foreman for these proceedings.”

His words had lost their frantic quality and now flowed with the easy delivery of a top-flight defense attorney. Despite all the drugs and self-abuse, this madman had polish and brains, which made him even scarier to me.

“Court is now in session!” Fowler intoned in a deep voice, as if he were a bailiff. “The Honorable Grinch Who Stole Christmas presiding!”