Free Hope to Die by James Patterson Page A

opinion: the less they know, the better.”
    “I agree,” Mahoney said.
    “I don’t,” the homicide captain said. “Detective Aaliyah’s right. We have to get them involved now. Someone somewhere could have seen Cross’s kids, or his grandmother, or Mulch.”
    “Do you want me to talk to them?” Aaliyah asked. “The reporters.”
    “My job, Detective,” Quintus said. “Go get some sleep. All of you. You’re no good to Cross or his family if you can’t think straight.”
    The homicide captain went down off the porch and out onto the street.
    “Sorry if I stepped on any toes or poked any sacred cows,” Aaliyah said to Sampson and Mahoney.
    “Apology accepted,” the FBI agent said wearily. “We’re a bit sensitive when it comes to Alex. He’s one of a kind.”
    “I know,” she said. “Alex Cross is one of the reasons I wanted to become a cop in the first place.”
    Aaliyah climbed off the porch then, thinking that what she’d said was true. She’d read about Cross’s exploits as a teenager and admired him almost as much as she admired her father.
    The detective cringed. Her dad. Bernie. She’d promised herself she’d go knock on his door this morning. But she was simply too exhausted to make the hour-long drive.
    Down on the sidewalk, Captain Quintus had an army of reporters surrounding him. Aaliyah went in the opposite direction, heading to her car.
    As she got in and pulled out into traffic, her thoughts kept returning to Cross’s last words to her.
Mulch has us heading in the general direction of hell
.
    Us?
Who was with Cross?
    Mulch has us heading in the general direction of hell
.
    What did that mean?
    On the one hand, it could be a figure of speech.
    On the other, it could mean that Cross had communicated with the madman. Couldn’t it? Or was that just a figment of her tired and frazzled imagination?

CHAPTER
24
     
    “DON’T FRET, MARCUS,” ACADIA chided. “You know Cross’ll call you ’fore too long.”
    “I told him to call right back, and it’s been hours,” Sunday said coldly, looking straight ahead from the backseat of the Durango, watching out the windshield as Cochran drove them along that muddy road in the forest toward Harrow’s place.
    The rain had stopped. Dawn was coming on.
    “He’s got no choice,” Acadia said. “Cross will—”
    “I know he’ll call,” Sunday snapped at her. “The question is, why is he waiting so long? What’s his angle? What’s he doing?”
    “Three birches coming up,” Cochran said, and slowed to a stop.
    Acadia handed Sunday another gym bag, said, “You’re sure it’s smart to end this all so soon?”
    “We’ve made our point in Cross’s mind,” Sunday said. “Time to take care of loose ends and move on. That’s how this game works, right? We keep moving. We keep everything in motion. That way, Cross stays off balance, can’t focus, can’t even find a target.”
    Acadia shrugged. “Your game. Your rules.”
    Cochran said, “Fifteen minutes?”
    “Make it twenty,” Sunday said, and got out of the car.
    As the day brightened, he climbed down the bank, found that overgrown logging trail, and followed it again to the ledge above the clearing and Harrow’s shack. Sunday saw wisps of smoke rolling lazily from the stovepipe and did not pause, continuing down the steep slope until he was at the edge of the yard.
    Right on cue, the door opened slightly and the Rottweiler came bounding out. He circled Sunday, who stood stone still and let the dog wind him for a scent that might indicate a weapon. When the dog barked that he was clean, Sunday set off for the door, which opened wider.
    He climbed the stoop past the chain saw and the gas can and closed the door quickly behind him, calling to Harrow, “Your dog’s taking a dump.”
    “Long as it ain’t in here,” Harrow said, sitting down at the table. “You got the extra hundred K?”
    “You get in and out clean?” asked Sunday, sitting down too and noticing the mirror