Alex Cross 02 - Kiss the Girls (37 page)

I thought of Naomi kept underneath the ground for so long. She had been my obsession all these days and weeks. She still was.
Sampson had been right about these woods. They were eerie, and I felt we were standing at an evil place where forbidden, secretive
things had been done. Naomi could be somewhere close by, underneath the ground.

“You’re getting hoodoo-spooky on me again. Trying to think like this nutty squirrel. You sure Dr. Emeritus Sachs isn’t Casanova?”
Sampson asked as he worked.

“No, I’m not. But I don’t know why the Durham PD arrested him, either. How did they just happen to find out the underwear
was there? How did the underwear get in his house in the first place?”

“Because maybe he is Casanova, Sugar. Because maybe he put the victims’ underwear there so he could sniff it on rainy afternoons.
FBI and Durham crime-fighters going to close down the case now?”

“If there isn’t another killing or abduction for a while. Once they shut the case, the real Casanova can relax, plan for the
future.”

Sampson stood up tall and stretched his long neck. He sighed, and then he moaned loudly. His T-shirt was soaked through with
sweat. He peered up at the overhanging vines. “We got a long walk back to the car. Long, dark, hot, buggy walk.”

“Not yet. Stick with me on this.”

I didn’t want to leave and stop our search for the day. Having Sampson around again was a major plus. There were still three
more farms on Dr. Freed’s map. Two of them sounded promising; the other seemed as if it might be too small. So maybe that
was the very one Casanova had chosen for his hideaway. He was a contrarian, wasn’t he?

So was I. I wanted to keep searching through the night, dark woods or not, black snakes and copperheads or not, twin killers
or not.

I remembered Kate’s terrifying stories about the disappearing house and what went on inside. What had really happened to Kate
the day she escaped? If the house wasn’t in these woods—where in God’s name was it? It had to be underground. Nothing else
made sense…

Nothing made any goddamn sense yet.

Unless someone had purposely cleared away every last remnant of the farm.

Unless someone had used the old wood for other building purposes.

I finally took out my pistol and searched around for something, anything, to shoot at. Sampson watched me out of the comer
of his eye. Curious, but not saying anything yet.

I needed to get some anger out. Release some venom, some stress. Right here and now. There was nothing to target-shoot at,
though. No underground house of horror.

But also
no rotting planks from the farmhouse or barn.
Not one remnant that I had seen.

I finally fired a round at the knobby trunk of a nearby tree. In my incipient craziness, a knot in the tree resembled the
head of a man. A man like Casanova. I fired again and again. All direct hits, dead-solid perfect. I had killed Casanova!

“Feel better now?” Sampson peered over the top of his Ray-Ban sunglasses at me. “You hit the bogeyman in his evil eye?”

“I feel a little better. Not much.” I showed him my thumb and forefinger, spread about a millimeter apart.

Sampson leaned against a small tree that looked like a human skeleton. The little sapling wasn’t getting enough light. “I
do
think it’s time we packed up and left,” he said.

That was when we heard screams!

Women’s voices were coming from
under the ground.

The screams were muffled, but we could hear them clearly all the same. They were to the north of us and even farther into
the thick bramble, but closer to the open meadow beyond the old tobacco fields.

A tightly wound ball of tension hit me with tremendous force at the sound of the voices under the ground. My head slumped
involuntarily toward my chest.

Sampson took out his Glock and squeezed off two quick shots, more signals for the trapped women, for whoever was screaming
under the ground.

The muffled screams were getting louder, rising as if from the tenth circle of hell.

“Sweet Baby Jesus,” I whispered. “We found them, John. We found the house of horror.”

S
AMPSON AND I got down on our hands and knees. We searched frantically for the hidden entryway into the underground house,
running our fingers and palms over the undergrowth until they were cut and bleeding. I looked down and my hands were shaking.

I fired off several more gunshots, so the women trapped below would know we’d heard them, and that we were still up here.
After I fired the shots, I quickly reloaded.

“We’re up here!” I yelled, with my head close to the ground. The weeds and grass were scratching my face. “We’re police!”

“Here we go, Alex,” Sampson called to me. “The door’s over here. There’s some kind of door, anyway.”

Running through the high thick weeds was like wading in water. The trapdoor was hidden in honeysuckle and waist-high grass,
where Sampson had been searching. The door had been covered over with an extra layer of sod and a thick blanket of pine needles.
The door wasn’t likely to be found by a search party, or anyone else hiking through the woods.

“I’ll go down first,” I told Sampson. Blood roared and echoed in my ears. Usually he would have argued. Not this time.

I hurried, rumbling down a steep, narrow wooden stairway that looked as if it had been there for a hundred years. Sampson
followed close behind. The
good
twins.

Stop!
I told myself.
Slow it down.
At the bottom of the stairs, there was a second doorway. The heavy oak plank door looked new, as if it had been installed
recently, possibly in the past year or two. I slowly turned the handle. The door was locked.

“I’m coming in,” I shouted to anyone who might be behind the door. Then I fired two rounds into the lock and it disintegrated.
The wooden door heaved open with a hard shove from my shoulder.

I was finally inside the house of horror. What I saw made me retch. A woman’s body was laid out on a couch in what appeared
to be a well-appointed living room. The corpse had begun to decompose. The features were unrecognizable. Maggots were swarming
all over the victim.

Move,
I had to tell myself.
Go! Go now.

“I’m right behind you,” Sampson whispered in his deep, homicide-scene voice. “Watch yourself now, Alex.”

“This is the police!” I called out. My voice was shaky and getting hoarse. I was afraid of what else we might find in the
hideaway. Was Naomi still here? Was she alive?

“We’re down here!” a woman called out. “Can anybody hear me?”

“We hear you! We’re coming!” I shouted again.

“Please help us!” A second voice sounded farther away in the underground house. “Be careful. He’s tricky.”

“See. He’s tricky,” Sampson whispered. Never at a loss.

“He’s in the house!
He’s in here now!
” one of the women shouted a warning to us.

Sampson was still standing behind me, keeping close. “You want to keep the point, partner? Walk on the ridge line?”

“I want to be the one to find her,” I told him. “I have to find Scootchie.”

He didn’t argue. “You think loverboy is down here someplace? Casanova?” he whispered.

“That’s the rumor going around,” I said and moved forward slowly. Both of us had our guns drawn and ready. We had no idea
what to expect next. Was loverboy waiting for us?

Move! Move! Move those legs!

I led the way out of the deserted living room. There were high-tech lamps in the ceiling of the adjoining hallway. How was
he able to get electricity in here? A transformer? A generator? What should that tell me? That he was handy? That he had connections
with the local electric company?

How long had it taken to get the underground cellar in this condition? I wondered. To fix it up like this? To make this fantasy
come true?

The space was extensive. We entered a long hallway that snaked off the living room to the right. There were doors on either
side, and they were bolt-locked from the outside, like prison cells.

“Watch our backs,” I said to Sampson. “I’m going in door number one.”

“I always watch your back,” he whispered.

“Watch
your
back, too.”

I went up to the first door. “This is the police,” I called out. “I’m Detective Alex Cross. Everything’s going to be all right.”

I yanked open the first door and peered inside. I wanted it to be Naomi. I prayed that it was.

“
S
UCH 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.

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 harse 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.