Page 39 of Alex Cross Must Die

“Virginia,” he asked, “would you ever consider office work?”

CHAPTER 37

IT WAS NEARLYmidnight. Walking alone down the city street, Brendan Holmes could feel his heart pounding under his suit. His senses were on high alert, and the hedonic hot spots in his brain were tingling in anticipation of a very guilty pleasure.

As he walked past closed noodle joints and dim sum restaurants in Manhattan’s Chinatown, garish neon signs reflected off the wet pavement. A late-night rain had dampened some of the odors, but others still cut through. Food, vehicle exhaust, perfume, beer.

As Holmes made his way down Mott Street, he passed groups of teenagers leaning against the storefronts, laughing and smoking. A young couple kissed in a darkened doorway.

The door Holmes was looking for was down a short alley lined with trash bins. He breathed through his mouth to minimize the sickening fumes of shrimp and chicken decomposing in plastic bags.

He pressed the bell in the required pattern: one long ring, two short. A lock clicked. The door opened. The smells of human sweat and cooking oil seeped out, along with the sound of hip-hop music from a tinny speaker.

Holmes could only see enough of the kid in the doorway torecognize the familiar twisted lip. No need for words. He focused on the slender extended hand, the open palm, the tightly wrapped product. Holmes took the packet and replaced it with a wad of neatly folded bills. The door closed again. The lock clicked back into place.

Holmes walked to the end of the alley and carefully opened his prize on top of a discarded plastic play table. He felt like a kid unwrapping a Happy Meal.

In his coat pocket, he carried his personally designed reagent kit, capable of testing the purity of the product within a percentage point. But he didn’t feel the need. His source, one of the few to evade the tentacles of the South American cartels, could be counted on. In this challenging business climate, repeat business was everything, and Holmes was an excellent customer. He had faith that his purchase was about as clean as a regularly fatal street substance could be.

Holmes felt the familiar thrill as he tapped a tiny hill of powder into the hollow between his curled thumb and forefinger. His heart thudded even harder. His pupils dilated. All his fight-or-flight responses were activated and firing. In some ways, this was his favorite moment. The anticipation of the rush. The delicious danger of being discovered. And the intensely heightened awareness of his multiple personas.

Business partner. Crime fighter. Drug fiend.

CHAPTER 38

HOLMES KNEW ITwould take about five minutes for the high to set in—just time enough for him to reach the Canal Street subway station and head back to Bushwick. Holmes savored the interval between intake and onset. A delicious bit of delayed gratification. Over the years, he had calibrated the exact amount to inhale in order to produce the desired effect within the desired interval.

As the heroin molecules attached to his opioid receptors, he took on the groggy look of a sleepwalker. With his olfactory senses altered, he saw and smelled the city in a whole new way. He understood the risk of damaging his nasal passages—and threatening his hyperosmia—but also took pleasure in dulling his occasionally overwhelming sensitivity. His natural fastidiousness faded and he reveled in the grit of the streets. The bold colors of the store signs, the distant wail of sirens—it all felt magical.

As Holmes descended the subway steps into the thick air of the underground station, he heard the rumble of the approaching J train. He heard it as thunder, then as pounding hooves, then as a hurricane. He loved it. As the train slowed, he walked alongside and positioned himself directly in front of a door.

He stepped inside. He could smell the bleach from the previous night’s cleaning, but it registered as pleasantly floral. He grabbed a support pole as the train lurched forward and rolled toward Brooklyn. The racket of the wheels on the rails felt soothing, and he was delighted by the passing mosaic of the tunnel walls—blurred but beautiful.

His fellow travelers included a woman slouched in a seat across from him, turban askew, purse gripped tightly in her lap. At the other end of the car, a young man with a shaved head rocked to the beat in his earbuds. Behind the bleach, Holmes picked up the acidic overtones of stale vomit, but it washed over him like a gentle wave. A delightful experience, the New York subway system, he thought—if you’re in the right state of mind.

Holmes exited the train at the Gates Avenue stop. He was alone in the station. By the time he reached the top of the staircase to the street, he felt inexplicably winded. Suddenly, his legs felt wobbly. He staggered over to a building and leaned against the front wall. This never happened. Had he miscalculated the dose? Had the product been laced? His mouth felt dry. His tongue felt thick. He stared at a beer sign in a bar window, trying to focus. The colors spun like a kaleidoscope, then faded to black. Holmes felt himself starting to drop, and then … nothing.

He was in an alley when he came to. That much he knew. His head was pounding with pain. He was propped against a wall, as if somebody had placed him there, like an abandoned doll. There was a small streak of dried saliva on his jacket collar.

As his senses returned, he anxiously patted his pockets, then tipped his head back and let out a loud, angry grunt. His pockets were empty. His stash was gone. Also his cash, his keys, his penknife, and his testing kit. He was relieved that he’d left his cellphone, wallet, and ID at home. Otherwise, somebody, right now, might be in the process of stealing his identity.

He stroked his face and checked his fingers. No blood. He gently palpated his aching skull, feeling for lumps or lacerations. Nothing. Whoever had rolled him had not knocked him out. Holmes had taken care of that all by himself.

As his olfactory bulbs fired up, he could smell liquor and mayonnaise from a glass recycling bin. And, much closer, the smell of dried urine. He looked down, startled—then disgusted. A dark stain ran from his crotch to his knees. The urine odor was all his.

CHAPTER 39

AUGUSTE POE’S BEDROOMglowed with exactly one hundred candles. He was slightly out of breath from hurrying to set up and light them all while she was taking her shower. The amazing woman in his life. He wanted her to be surprised and excited—as excited as he was about her. She was the one. He was sure of it.

He heard the shower tap turn off. The bathroom door opened. For a moment, she was silhouetted by the bathroom light, her slender figure outlined beneath the negligee.

“Wow,” she said, glancing around the room.

“Do you like it?” Poe asked, leaning up against a pillow.

“I love it,” she said with a laugh. God, he adored that laugh. “I just hope the sprinklers don’t go off.”

She was kneeling on the sheets now, smelling like jasmine soap and smiling her incredible smile. “It’s beautiful, Auguste,” she said softly. “Just beautiful.” She leaned over and kissed him, slow and deep. Her dark hair fell across his face. She pulled back slightly, stroking his forehead. “Everything’s beautiful with you,” she said.

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