Page 78 of Alex Cross Must Die

Marple watched with amazement. Holmes drove her crazy, but she had to admit that he was a technical wizard—when he was clean. Earlier that day, he’d given her a tiny round device to attach to one of Addilyn’s necklaces before it was packed in the ransom bag. It looked like just one more pearl in the string. Not even Stans had noticed. Now, with any luck, that tiny pearl was traveling with the rest of the ransom. Wherever it was.

Suddenly the screen lit up with another dot, this one green—and moving. “Got it!” said Holmes. The electronic pearl was close, and heading in their direction.

Marple leaned forward to look at the screen. Just then, a blur shot past on the road. She caught a black shape on a sleek motorcycle—with a large duffel bag lashed to the back.

The green dot moved in sync with the bike, until it zipped right off the screen.

“That’s it!” yelled Holmes. “Go!”

“Hang on!” Poe yelled back. He started the Pontiac and cranked it into a tight 180 turn, then accelerated down the road. The bike’s taillight was just a blink in the distance.

“Got him!” Holmes shouted. The moving green dot was back onhis screen. It was headed south on Summit Lane, leading out of the park and toward a residential area. As Poe gained on it, the rider whipped around a roundabout and headed onto a main road. Fast and agile.

“He’s good,” said Poe.

Two panel trucks blocked the lanes ahead. Poe swerved onto the median and gunned past them. He followed the bike down several residential streets again. He was just a few car lengths behind when it merged onto the Garden State Parkway, weaving through traffic and pulling away fast.

Marple glanced at the highway signs as they whipped past.

The chase was headed toward the Jersey Shore.

CHAPTER 87

“DAMMIT!”

Holmes flinched as Poe pounded the dashboard.

They’d lost the bike five minutes ago. The rider had made a wild turn off the highway, then aimed east toward Asbury Park. Somewhere on the backstreets of the seaside town, he’d simply evaporated into thin air. Now Poe was driving in a slow crawl up Ocean Avenue North, dodging sloppy-drunk college kids heading back from the clubs.

“It doesn’t work as well in congested areas,” said Holmes, tapping his phone.

Poe looked over at the empty screen. “You mean it works forshitin congested areas.”

Holmes let out an exasperated sigh. Poe was right. They were searching blind.

“I think we should get out and split up,” said Poe. “We can cover more territory that way.” He swung the car into a parking spot and cut the engine. “Find the rider and he’ll lead us to the kidnappers.” All three climbed out and gathered around the trunk of the car. Holmes checked his app one more time.

“Nothing,” he said. “If it starts working again, I’ll text you.”

“I won’t hold my breath,” said Poe. “Margaret, you check the hotels. I’ll check the parking garages.”

Marple nodded.

“I’ll take the boardwalk,” said Holmes.

“Good hunting,” said Poe. “Keep in touch.”

Holmes waited for his partners to head off in opposite directions. Then he patted the holster in the small of his back, the one holding his backup pistol—the one nobody else knew he was packing.

After his near-death experience at the Siglik residence, Marple had refused to give back his favorite gun. Poe had agreed with the ban. But Holmes wasn’t about to walk around unarmed, especially on a case like this. His gun. His secret. He figured that what his partners didn’t know couldn’t hurt them.

He moved quickly toward the fabled wooden walkway along the beach. From a mural on the side of a building, a topless mermaid in a sailor’s cap stared down at him. Holmes walked briskly, sweeping the crowd for a man in leather with a large bag. As if it would be that easy. He knew the rider could have gone to ground anywhere in the city. Or he could have delivered the bag and headed out of town. He might have ditched the bike and switched to a car. Or a boat.

He was worried for Zozi Turner and Eton Charles. With the ransom in hand, the kidnappers might kill the prisoners to cover their tracks. If Zozi and Eton weren’t dead already.

Five minutes up the boardwalk, Holmes heard the sound of laughter from the beach. He looked down and saw a gaggle of teenage girls, shoes held high, playfully dodging incoming waves. His head started to spin. He closed his eyes. Then he started to sweat.

In his mind, the laughter became screams. For a second, he was back under the Siglik mansion, staring at gaunt faces and vats of acid. He felt dizzy and weak. The boardwalk lights went blurry. Thefishy smell of the surf morphed into another kind of rot. The sickish odor of decaying flesh.

---