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CROSS MY HEART

Cross My Heart 2P 2013-07-30 20:46:01 1

heartCross My

JaMesPattersonL I T T L E , B R O W N A N D C O M P A N YNE W YORk BO s T ON LONDON

ACMyHeart_TP1P.indd 1 5/15/13 10:12 AM

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons,living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Copyright © 2013 by James PattersonExcerpt from Private LA copyright © 2013 by James Patterson

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, thescanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without thepermission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’sintellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other thanfor review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting thepublisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’srights.

Little, Brown and CompanyHachette Book Group237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017littlebrown.com

First Edition: November 2013

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Prologue’TWAS THENIGHT BEFOREEASTER

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I T R U D G E D A I M L E S S LY T H R O U G H the dark, empty streets of Wash-ington, haunted by the memory of my son Ali telling methat the only way to kill a zombie was to destroy its brain.

It was 3 a.m. Storms punished the city.I’d been walking like that for hours by then but didn’t

feel hungry, or thirsty, or tired in any way. When light-ning bolts ripped the sky and thunder clapped right overmy head, I barely flinched. Not even the pouring raincould slow me or soothe the agony that burned throughevery inch of my body because of what had been done tomy family. With every step I kept seeing Ali, Bree, Da-mon, Jannie, and Nana Mama in my mind. With everystep the horror of what had happened to them ignitedinside me all over again, and loneliness and grief andanger.

Is this what Thierry Mulch wanted? I kept asking myself.Thierry Mulch had destroyed everything I loved, ev-

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erything I believed in. He’d gutted me and left a dead,soulless man doomed to endless, meaningless movement.

As I walked, I kept hoping Mulch or some anonymousstreet predator would appear and blow my head off with ashotgun, or crush it with an axe.

There was nothing I wanted more than that.

J A M E S P A T T E R S O N

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Part OneSIXTEEN DAYSEARLIER . . .

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C H A P T E R

1S I T T I N G I N A PA R K E D work van on Fifth Street on a beautifulApril morning, Marcus Sunday used high-definition Leicabinoculars to monitor Alex Cross’s house and felt a gen-uine thrill, thinking that the great detective was sure tomake an appearance sometime in the next half hour or so.

After all, it was a Thursday and seven thirty in themorning. Cross had to work. So did his wife. And his chil-dren had school to attend.

Sunday had no sooner had that thought than ReginaCross Hope, Cross’s ninety-one-year-old grandmother,came up the sidewalk from the direction of St. Anthony’sCatholic Church. The old bird was tough and moving ata surprising clip despite the cane. She walked right by hisvan, barely gave it a glance.

Then again, why would she?Sunday had attached magnetic signs to the van that ad-

vertised over the moon vacuum cleaner company. And

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behind the tinted glass he was wearing the uniform of saidcompany, a real find at the Salvation Army. Fit perfectly.

The used vacuums in the back of the van had been pur-chased at a secondhand store out in Potomac for sixtybucks apiece. The phony magnetic signs had been orderedonline through FedEx Office. So had the phony badge onhis left shirt pocket. It read: thierry mulch.

A lithe, fit man in his late thirties with close-croppedsalt-and-pepper hair and slate-gray eyes, Sunday checkedhis watch as Cross’s grandmother disappeared inside thehouse. Then he took up a black binder stowed between thedriver’s seat and the center console.

Flipping it open, he noted the tabs on the first fivesection dividers, each marked with a name: Bree Stone,Ali Cross, Jannie Cross, Damon Cross, and Regina CrossHope, otherwise known as Nana Mama.

Sunday went straight to the Regina Cross Hope/NanaMama section and filled in the exact time the old womanhad entered the house and from what direction. Then,waiting for more sightings, he flipped to the back of thebinder and found a four-page copy of the floor plan ofthe house, which had conveniently been filed with the cityplanning board last month as part of Cross’s applicationfor permits to redo his kitchen and bathrooms.

Alternately studying the plan and the house itself, Sun-day made notes on the diagrams regarding entries and ex-its, positions of windows, landscaping, and the like. WhenCross’s wife, Bree Stone, also a detective with the DCMetro Police, came out on the porch to fill a bird feederat 7:40, he recorded that act as well, and the fact that herbackside looked glorious in a tight pair of jeans.


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At 7:52, a truck bearing a logo that read dear old housepulled up in front of Cross’s house, followed by a wastedisposal company hauling a construction Dumpster. Outcame the great detective onto the porch to greet the con-tractors and watch the unloading of the Dumpster. So didhis grandmother, his wife, and two of his three children:fifteen-year-old Jannie and seven-year-old Ali.

Nice happy family, Sunday thought, studying themthrough the binoculars in turn. The future for them seemsbright. Looks full of promise. Doesn’t it?

Sunday allowed himself a smile, thinking that a gooddeal of the fun in any adventure lay in the planning, thepreparation, and the anticipation. Maybe more than half,he decided, enjoying the way his ever-fertile brain con-jured up various dark ways to destroy the dream scenariounfolding before his eyes.

Then Dr. Alex left with his kids. The three of themwalked past Sunday on the other side of Fifth, but the de-tective barely looked at the work van.

Then again, why would he?Sunday felt deflated after Cross and his children disap-

peared. It just wasn’t as enjoyable scouting the house withthe detective absent, almost like looking at a maze in des-perate need of a rodent.

Sunday checked his watch, shut the binder, and putit away, feeling that he was a free, authentic man witha purpose that would not waver no matter the conse-quences. He started the van, thinking that wavering inany way was almost an insult to one’s opponent. You hadto want to destroy your enemy as much as he wanted todestroy you.

C R O S S M Y H E A R T

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As Sunday drove off, he believed he was up to his task.He also believed Cross’s family deserved the wickedness tocome.

Each and every one of them.Especially Dr. Alex.


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C H A P T E R

2I N A N O R M A L Y E A R the murder rate in Washington, DC, waitsfor the stifling days of summer to peak. In July and August,when the air along the Potomac is the consistency and tem-perature of a rabid dog’s mouth, people just seem to snapleft and right. In my line of work you come to expect it.

But beginning with the terrorist attack at Union Stationon New Year’s Day, there had been a steady run of homi-cides through the winter and on into spring. It was barelyApril, but this was shaping up already as one of the worstyears in three decades for homicide in the District ofColumbia.

That had put enormous political pressure on the mayorand the city council, which meant the Metro police chief,too, was under enormous pressure. But the squeeze wasespecially tight around the homicide and major casesquads. Since I was now a roaming investigator for bothteams, the nonstop murders meant the biggest squeeze

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had been put on me and on my partner and closest friend,John Sampson.

We had not had a day off in nearly two months, andour caseload seemed to grow every day. To make it worse,I was fielding calls from a contractor who was about toremodel the kitchen and put an addition on our house.So the last person I wanted to see around nine thirtythat Thursday morning was Captain Jim Murphy, who ranHomicide.

Captain Murphy knocked on the door of my office,where I’d been finishing up a breakfast burrito and a sec-ond cup of coffee while looking at a cabinet hardwarecatalog my wife had shoved into my hand as I left home.Sampson, a locomotive of a man, was on the couch, de-vouring the last of his morning meal.

Sampson saw Murphy and groaned. “Not another one?”Murphy shook his head. “I just need an update to take

to the chief. The mayor’s out of her mind and houndinghim nonstop.”

“We cleared three this week, but you handed us four,”I replied. “So the takeaway is that we’re making progressbut falling behind.”

“Sounds about right,” Sampson said. “Like that king inmythology who keeps pushing the boulder up the hill,only it keeps falling down.”

“Sisyphus,” I said.“Like him,” Sampson said, pointing at me.“C’mon, Cross,” Murphy said. “We’re counting on you

to put some of the higher-profile cases like Rawlins andKimmel to bed, get the Post off our backs. Did you see thatgoddamned editorial?”


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I had. Just that morning they’d run a piece that de-scribed the effect the murders were having on tourism,called for the police chief to resign, and floated a proposalto have the FBI take over the department until the murderrate could be lowered.

“Tell you what, Captain,” I said. “You tell people to stopkilling each other, and we’ll have more time to work oncases like Rawlins and Kimmel.”

“Funny.”“I wasn’t joking.”“No, really, you should try stand-up at open-mike night,

Cross,” Murphy said, turning to leave. “I think you mayhave missed your calling.”


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C H A P T E R

3D R E S S E D N O W I N A black leather jacket, black jeans, black poloshirt, and black harness boots, Marcus Sunday hurried to-ward the New North building at the center of the George-town University campus. Weaving through a throng ofstudents, he reached the 120-seat McNeir Auditorium andwent in, passing a sign outside that read, the perfectcriminal. lecture today. 11 a.m.

The place was abuzz with anticipation. And as Sundaymoved down the aisle toward the front rows, he saw thatother than an empty director’s chair onstage, there wasn’ta seat to be had, standing room only.

When he reached the front row, Sunday saw studentssitting on the floor in front of the stage. He smiled, movedthrough them, and bounded up the stairs onto the stage,where he shook hands with the tweedy-looking, gray-bearded fellow waiting.

“Sorry I’m running late, Dr. Wolk,” Sunday said.

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“I’m just out of class myself,” the man said. “Shall I in-troduce you?”

“Please,” Sunday replied, and bobbed his head with def-erence.

Dr. Wolk turned on the microphone and tapped it twicebefore saying, “Good morning. I am David Wolk, chair-man of Georgetown’s philosophy department, and I’d liketo welcome you once again to the Spring Series of Lec-tures by Diverse Scholars.”

He smiled and went on: “They say the study of philos-ophy is not relevant to the real world, but as this crowdshows, that’s not true. The creative, resourceful applica-tion of philosophical methods to modern problems can bepenetrating—groundbreaking, even. Today’s guest doesjust this sort of startling, innovative, and controversialwork.

“His first book, published last year, was The PerfectCriminal, a fascinating look at two unsolved mass-murdercases told through the eyes of a truly original thinker fo-cused on the depths of the criminal soul.

“Please welcome, visiting us from Harvard Universitywhile on a yearlong sabbatical, Professor Marcus Sunday.”

Sunday grinned, stood, and took the mike from Dr.Wolk.

Facing the clapping audience, the professor scanned thecrowd, his gaze hesitating only briefly on an extremelysexy woman, there in the second row. She had a bemusedlook about her. Curly, dirty-blond hair hung down overher shoulders and a well-filled white tank top. A colorfulsleeve tattoo covered her left arm, depicting a black pan-ther lying on a blooming branch in the jungle. The pan-


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ther’s tail roamed down the woman’s forearm and crossedher wrist. The cat had bewitching green eyes, the color ofnew, wet clover. So did she.

“Five years ago, I set out to find the perfect criminal,”Sunday began, forcing himself to look away from her. “Tomy knowledge he’d never been studied, never been identi-fied. That made sense, because if he was perfect, he wouldnever get caught. Right?”

There was nervous laughter in the room, and nods ofagreement.

“So how do you find perfect criminals?” Sunday asked,looking around the room and seeing no confident faces.He focused on that young woman with the ruby lips andthe startling clover eyes.

She shrugged, said in a light Cajun accent, “Look at un-solved crimes?”

“Excellent,” Sunday said, dropping his head toward hisleft shoulder. “That is exactly what I did.”

The professor went on to describe two unsolved massmurders that had become the heart of his book. Sevenyears earlier, the five members of the Daley family of sub-urban Omaha had been found slain at home two nightsbefore Christmas. Except for the wife, they were all foundin their beds. Their throats had all been cut with a scalpelor razor. The wife had died similarly, but in the bathroom,and naked. The house doors had either been unlocked, orthe killer had had a key. It had snowed during the nightand all tracks were buried. Police had found no valuableevidence.

Fourteen months later, the Monahan family of suburbanFort Worth was discovered in a similar state in the after-


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math of a violent storm: a father and four children underthe age of thirteen were found with their throats slit intheir beds. The wife was naked, dead on the bathroomfloor. The doors had either been unlocked or the killerhad had a key. Again, because of rain and high winds, andthe killer’s meticulous methods, police had found no us-able evidence, DNA or otherwise.

“I became interested because of that lack of evidence,that void,” Professor Sunday informed his rapt audience.“After traveling to Nebraska and Texas several times, go-ing to the scenes, reading the files, and interviewing everyinvestigator who worked the cases—FBI, Nebraska StatePolice, Texas Rangers—I came away understanding thatother than the carnage the killer had left, the cases wereblack holes.”

Sunday said that the dearth of evidence had forced himto backtrack and theorize about the philosophical world-view of a perfect killer.

“I came to the conclusion that he had to be an existen-tialist of some twisted sort,” the professor said. “Someonewho does not believe in God or any kind of moral or ethi-cal basis for life, someone who thinks there is no meaningto be found in the world beyond what he alone gives to it.”

Sunday slowed, seeing he’d lost a few in his audience,and changed tack.

“What I’m saying is that the Russian novelist FyodorDostoyevsky almost got it right,” he went on. “In hismasterwork, Crime and Punishment, the central character,Raskolnikov, nearly pulls off the perfect crime. Raskol-nikov decides life is meaningless and he kills a man no onecares about for money.


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“At first he’s fine with it,” Sunday continued, and tappedhis head. “But eventually Raskolnikov’s mind, specificallyhis imagination, does him in. Because Raskolnikov canimagine a moral, ethical universe where life has actualmeaning, he breaks. Not so, our perfect criminal.”

The professor paused, seeing that he held his audienceagain, before pushing on.

“The perfect killer, I believe, understands clearly thatlife is meaningless, absurd, without absolute value. As longas the criminal operates from this perspective, he can’t betripped up by his own mind, and he can’t be caught.”

Sunday went on in this vein for some time, explaininghow the evidence surrounding the murder scenes sup-ported his theories and led to others.

He left time at the end for questions. After several nit-pickers fixated on minor notes in the book, the sexywoman in the second row batted her clover eyes and raisedher panther tattoo as if she were languidly summoning awaiter.

The professor nodded to her.“The reviews you got were pretty solid,” she said in that

rich southern voice. “Except for the one that DetectiveAlex Cross wrote in the Post. I think you’ll agree he trashedit, Professor, disagreed with almost everything you said.Claimed you changed his words after you interviewed himto fit your thesis.”

Sunday gritted his teeth a moment before replying,“Miss, as any journalist will tell you, sources saying theydidn’t say something are commonplace. What DetectiveCross and I have is a strong difference of opinion. Nothingmore.”


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After a long moment of awkwardness, Dr. Wolk clearedhis throat, said, “I have a question, Dr. Sunday. As I in-dicated, I found your book riveting, but I, too, have aquibble about one of your conclusions.”

Sunday forced a smile onto his face. “Which one is that,Doctor?”

“At one point in the book you describe the antithesis ofthe perfect criminal,” Dr. Wolk replied. “A detective whobelieves in and is emblematic of the moral, ethical uni-verse, and so of a meaningful life.”

Sunday nodded.“But I was surprised at your suggestion that someone

like your perfect detective could be made to see that lifewas meaningless and valueless, and . . .”

“In so doing become a perfect criminal himself?” Sun-day asked. “Yes. I wrote that. I believe that it logicallyfollows, Doctor. Don’t you?”


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C H A P T E R

4S U N D A Y D I D N O T G E T to his apartment in Washington’s Kalo-rama neighborhood until almost five. There had been afew books to autograph after his lecture, followed by anunavoidable lunch with Dr. Wolk, who drank too muchand often reduced philosophical arguments into objectlessons worthy of Dear Abby.

To make matters worse, Dr. Wolk had pressed Sundayrepeatedly about the sort of research or writing he was do-ing while on sabbatical. Sunday finally told the chairmanof Georgetown’s philosophy department the unvarnishedbut completely vague truth: “I’m conducting an experi-ment that tests the dimensions of an existential world andthe role of human nature in that world.”

Dr. Wolk had seemed genuinely intrigued, wantedmore, but Sunday had gently and firmly refused, telling hiscolleague he’d be able to read all about it someday whenhis research was complete. In fact, he’d promised, Wolkwould get the first read.

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Hearing zydeco music inside the apartment now andsmelling garlic frying somewhere, Sunday used his keyto open the door and entered a room with white walls,a white ceiling, and a pale-gray rug. Several pieces ofchrome-and-black-leather furniture faced a flat-screentelevision tuned to a music channel; that was the source ofthe zydeco.

A woman was in the room, dancing to the music. Herback was to him as her hips swayed and shimmied. Herriot of dirty-blond hair was tied up on her head. Shewas barefoot, wore loose, flowing olive-green pants and atight-fitting white tank top that showed off the damp skinand muscles of her shoulders as she reached high over-head, revealing the colorful tattoo of the lounging pantherthat covered most of her left arm.

Sunday smiled and shut the door loudly. The womanstopped dancing and looked over her shoulder at him withthose clover-green eyes. She grinned, clapped, and turned.She ran to him, kissed him hungrily on the mouth, andsaid in that light Cajun accent, “Thought you’d never gethere, Marcus.”

“Couldn’t be helped,” Sunday said. “Had to keep up ap-pearances.”

She jumped up into his arms, locked her powerful thighsaround his waist, and kissed him again. “But I had some-thing to show you, sugar.”

“Been reading Fifty Shades of Grey again, Acadia?” heasked, amused, as he stared into her impossible irises.

“Better,” Acadia said, unlocked her legs, and slid fromhis arms. “Follow me, sugar?”

The professor trailed her down the hall, watching her


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rear sway, imagining some carnal delight. But instead ofheading to the master bedroom, she turned right into aroom they’d been using for storage.

Four seventy-two-inch flat-screens had been affixed tothe far wall, creating one floor-to-ceiling screen that wasinterrupted only by a PlayStation 2 Kinect device aimingoutward. The screens glowed dull blue.

A scruffy young guy in a denim jacket sat with his backto them, facing the screens, wearing Bose noise-cancelingheadphones that were blaring hard rock. A helmet of somesort lay on the table. Beside the table were a server aboutthe size of a large suitcase and a PlayStation 2. Cableslinked it all to several laptops.

“Ta-da,” Acadia said. “What do you think?”Furious, Sunday grabbed her by her panther tattoo and

dragged her back into the hallway and into a bedroom.He whispered fiercely, “I didn’t okay this, and who is thatguy?”

Furious right back at him, Acadia hissed, “Preston El-liot. Computer genius. You want state-of-the-art under-standing, you need state-of-the-art minds and equipment.You said so yourself!”

Before Sunday could reply, she softened, said, “Besides,sugar, Preston picked up most of it at Costco. No-questions-asked return policy on all electronics.”

Sunday stayed skeptical. “What about him? What’s hisfee?”

Her nostrils flared and she looked at him like he wasmeat. “The eager young man expects two hours of ultra-kinky sex with me. He’ll use a condom. Isn’t that what yousaid you needed right about now?”


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Sunday cocked his head, appraising her anew. “Really? Ididn’t notice, is he—?”

“Approximately your height and weight, yes.”Intrigued now, the professor saw all the possibilities.

“That means?”“Don’t you think?” Acadia asked. Her breathing was

slow. “It has been a while since we indulged, sugar.”Sunday looked into her dark eyes and felt a thrill of pri-

mal anticipation ripple through him. “When?” he asked.She shrugged. “All he has to do now is debug the soft-

ware. Says he’ll be finished tomorrow around this time.”“Who knows he’s here?”“No one,” she replied. “Part of the deal. A secret.”“Think he’ll keep it?”“What do you think?” she asked, pressing against him a

moment and igniting crazy desire in him. Sunday lookedinto Acadia’s green eyes and saw himself at eighteen, feel-ing that predatory rush for the first time as he carried ashovel and slipped up behind a figure crossing a dark yard.For a second it was all so real he swore he heard pigssquealing.

“Well, sugar?” Acadia whispered.“I’ll leave,” he said, feeling that thrill all over again. “It’s

better if he doesn’t see me tonight.”She put on a saucy look, pressed against him again, and

whispered in his ear, “Acadia Le Duc is limitless. No re-strictions. None. You believe that, don’t you, sugar?”

“Oh, I do, baby,” Sunday said, almost breathless. “It’sone of the reasons I’m totally addicted to you.”


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