CHAPTER 75 Cross
Cross
ALEX CROSS CROUCHES BEHIND a wall in a sheltered area across the street from the Bracken Motel. He’s been there for hours, ever since the sheriff sent him on his way.
Finally, the damaged door swings open, and the five men file out, laughing and shoving one another as they head for their vehicles. Their body language suggests that they all have a couple beers on board—probably more than a couple.
The sheriff is the first to leave. Larry is carrying the duffels. He tosses them in the back of a Jeep and leaves next. Then the two other guys drive off, swerving as they go.
Brett, the one in the NRA T-shirt, is the last one left. He leans against his pickup and polishes off a beer, then walks back to the rear tire, unzips his jeans, and pisses on the pavement. His buddies are long gone when he opens the door and starts the car.
By then, Alex has moved across the road and is crouched down below the open passenger window. He’s holding the SIG nine-millimeter mini he retrieved from his glove compartment. Sampson calls it a popgun, but at close range, it might as well be a howitzer.
The second Brett turns his headlights on, Alex yanks open the door of the truck and slides in. Brett turns his head and finds the short barrel of Alex’s gun pointing at his mouth.
“Sit on your hands,” says Alex.
Brett mumbles, “Okay, okay.” He jams his hands under his substantial ass. He’s breathing heavy through his nose.
“Where’s my gun?” asks Alex. “My real one.”
Brett shakes his head. “Larry took it.”
“That’s okay,” says Alex. “This one works fine. Same size hole.” He wiggles the barrel against Brett’s teeth. “You know something about guns, right, Brett?”
Brett nods slightly, his eyes wide.
“This little pistol has a trigger pull of about five point five pounds. I’m guessing that right now, I’m pulling about three.
Just two and a half pounds more, and I’ll blow your skull apart.
The lovebirds in that motel room over there might hear the shot, but by the time they get their pants on, I’ll be gone—just like the back of your head. Do I have your total attention?”
Brett nods. Very slowly. He’s starting to drool out of one side of his mouth.
Alex pulls the pistol away and wipes the saliva off on Brett’s shirt. He slides back against the passenger door and points the gun at Brett’s temple. “Now, let’s have another talk about my son.”
Brett is twitching in his seat. He takes a few deep breaths, then turns his head slightly toward Alex. “It was just a joke, that’s all. Just a little fun.”
“Who was there?”
“Just me and Larry.”
“Tell me what happened. Tell me exactly what you did.”
Brett shifts awkwardly on his hands. “We were driving up near the preserve early one morning last week, and we saw this twenty-something kid on his bike. Nice bike. And Larry’s egging me on, saying he must’ve stolen it.
So I come up right behind him and give his rear tire a little love tap with my bumper. Just a nudge. And the guy goes flying.”
“Was he hurt? Was he unconscious?”
“Nah, he just ended up in a drainage ditch. He was fine. A little banged up, maybe. He got up right away. He was shouting at us. Swearin’ pretty good.”
“Then what?”
“Then Larry puts on his gloves, jumps out, and grabs the bike. He tossed it in the back of my pickup. As soon as we pulled away, the kid started chasing us.” Brett winces a little.
“Like I said, we were just foolin’ around.
I … I messed with him a bit, like I’d slow down a little and let him get close, then speed up again.
But then we left him in the dust and went up to the trailhead.
Larry took the bike down the trail and dumped it. ”
Alex moves the gun closer to Brett’s temple. “What else?”
“Larry found a cell phone and a laptop in the bike pouch, and he took ’em too.”
“What did you do with his phone and laptop?”
“We tossed ’em both into a creek.”
Alex rams the butt of his pistol against Brett’s cheekbone, drawing blood.
“Fuck!” Brett shouts.
“My son! What happened to him?”
“I don’t know, man. When we got back down to the main road, he was gone.”
“You didn’t beat him up? You didn’t kill him?”
“Nah, like I said, we just gave him a little workout.”
Alex reaches over, turns off the car, and palms the key fob. He reaches into Brett’s pocket and pulls out his phone.
“I’m getting out now,” he tells Brett. “You’re going to keep your hands where they are. You’re not going to say a word about this to your buddies or the sheriff or anybody else. And you better pray hard that we find my son safe and healthy and that he confirms your story. If not, we’ll meet again.”
Alex slides out of the truck and slams the door.
“Hey!” shouts Brett. “My keys! My phone! I live ten miles from here!”
Alex stuffs the keys and phone in his pocket and keeps the gun pointed through the window as he backs away.
“Perfect. Sounds like a good workout for you.”