Page 101 of Alex Cross Must Die

“Were you referred to us?” the woman asked, her brow creasing slightly.

“I’ve been here before,” said Holmes. “I came to visit my mother.”

The woman dipped back toward her keyboard with a hopeful expression. “Is she a client?”

“My mother died twenty-five years ago,” Holmes said softly. “I’m here for myself.”

The receptionist leaned forward and spoke in a calm, even tone. “Sir. I’m sorry. Lake View is not a walk-in facility. We need to make advance arrangements, clear your insurance coverage, scan your medical files, consult with—”

“Stop,” said Holmes. He set his bag on the desk. “This contains enough cash to pay your fee for as long as I need to be here. Two thousand a day. Am I right?”

The receptionist stared back at him for a few moments. This was obviously not her normal intake. But she had been trained to be as accommodating as possible, at least until the medical staff could be summoned.

“All right, sir,” she said, easing back in her chair. “Let’s start again. Can I have your name?”

“My name is Brendan Holmes. I’m a heroin addict. And I need help.”

CHAPTER 117

MARPLE LOWERED THEwindows on the white Ford F-150 pickup. To her surprise, she had discovered that she loved driving a truck. Especially one that was all hers.

After a three-state search, Carson Lee Parker’s vehicle had finally been located in a Rockland County junkyard, just hours from being dismantled for parts. It had been released by NYPD forensics just a week ago. Parker had no use for the truck where he was headed. Marple had paid a fair price for it at the police auction.

The pickup was boxy and big, and it had plenty of power. Marple lowered the visor against the setting sun as the speedometer climbed to 75.

Over the past four days, on her drive through ten states, Marple had been hanging her arm out the side as she listened to a succession of country stations. She’d even gotten a bit of a trucker’s tan.

Now she was on a Texas two-lane heading straight west on a line between Tulia and Dimmitt. The scenery was a mix of desert and low brush, interrupted by the occasional slow-moving stream. For miles on end, the white Ford was the only vehicle on the road.As she closed in on her destination, her mood turned somber. She clicked off the radio and rode in silence.

Marple glanced at the GPS map on her phone. It showed a slim yellow line jogging to the south. As Marple made the turn off the main highway, her rear tires kicked up a cloud of yellow dust. After a mile on the dirt road, she saw a battered mailbox with the nameFERRYon the side.

She drove down a rutted lane toward a well-kept Texas double-wide with a little barn out back. On the right, a small herd of horses ambled in a paddock. As she stopped the truck and turned off the engine, the door to the trailer home opened. A middle-aged man emerged, followed by a woman who looked slightly younger. Their clothes were simple—fresh jeans and button-down shirts. Their faces were creased from the sun.

Margaret opened her door and stepped down onto the coarse dry grass. She took a deep breath. Then she reached into the space behind the front seat and picked up a rectangular stone urn.

“You must be Margaret,” called the woman from the steps. She was slender and pale, and almost as tall as her husband.

“I am,” said Marple. “It’s nice to finally see you both in person.” She closed the truck door gently. “I wish it weren’t for this reason.”

She held the urn close to her chest as she walked up the short pathway toward the couple on the front steps. She tried to imagine what they must be feeling. Tried to put herself in their place.

“I’m Arnold Ferry,” the man said. “This is my wife, Lynn.”

“You’re so kind for making such a long trip,” said Lynn. “You didn’t have to do this alone.”

“I didn’t mind the drive,” said Marple, her hands wrapped tightly around the urn. “And I never felt alone.”

She extended her arms and held the urn out. Lynn Ferry took the container in both hands, then cradled it in her arms, weeping softly.Arnold touched the surface gently, then wrapped his muscular arm around his wife. He looked at Marple.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice cracking.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” said Marple. “I’m glad your daughter’s home.”

CHAPTER 118

AFTER DINNER, MARPLEhelped Lucy’s mother bring the plates to the sink. Arnold was already out on the front porch, staring across the yard. The tip of his cigarette glowed orange in the darkness.

The meal had been simple but delicious. Baked chicken, creamed corn, homemade apple pie. All during dinner, the Ferrys had wanted—needed—to talk about their daughter. About how she’d always been the tallest girl in her class, about how excited she’d been when her picture first appeared in a local catalog, about how much she loved horses, and country music, and books.

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