Free Jack & Jill by James Patterson Page A

them from afar—
father and son.
He thought of his own father, the totally worthless prick.
    Then he saw the tall, pretty schoolteacher wave and get into her car. Instinctively, he hated her, too. Worthless black bitch. Phony teacher smile spread all over her face.
    POW! POW! POW!
    Three perfect headshots.
    Three exploding head melons.
    That’s what they all deserved. Summary executions.
    A really rude thought was forming in his mind as he watched the scene near the school. He already knew a lot of things about Alex Cross.
Cross was his detective, wasn’t he? Cross had been assigned to his case, right? So Cross was his meat. A cop, just like his own father had been.
    The really interesting thing was that nobody had paid much attention to the first killing. The murder had almost gone unnoticed. The papers in Washington had barely picked it up. Same with TV. Nobody cared about a little black girl in Southeast. Why the hell should they?
    All they cared about was Jack and Jill. Rich white people afraid for their lives.
Scar-y!
Well, fuck Jack and Jill. He was better than Jack and Jill, and he was going to demonstrate it.
    The school principal drove past his hiding place in a cluster of overgrown bushes. He knew who she was, too. Mrs. Johnson of the Truth School. The Whitney Houston of Southeast, right? Screw, her, man.
    His eyes slowly drifted back to Alex Cross and his son. He felt anger rising inside him, steam building up. It was as if his secret button had been pushed again. The hair on his neck was standing at attention. He was beginning to see red, feeling spraying mists of red in his brain.
Somebody’s
blood, right? Cross’s? His son’s? He loved the idea of them dying together. He could see it, man.
    He followed Alex Cross and his kid home—in his rage state—but keeping a safe distance. He was thinking about what he was going to do next.
    He was better than Jack and Jill.
He’d prove it to Cross and everyone else.

CHAPTER
18

    THE FESTIVE charity gala for the Council on Mental Health was being held at the Pension Building on F Street and Fourth on Friday night. The grand ballroom was three stories, with huge marble columns everywhere, and more than a thousand guests noisily seated around a glistening working fountain. The waiters and waitresses wore Santa Claus hats. The band broke into a lively swing version of “Winter Wonderland.” What great fun.
    The guest speaker for the evening was none other than the Princess of Wales. Sam Harrison was there as well.
Jack was there.
    He observed Princess Di closely as she entered the guttering, stately ballroom. Her entourage included a financier rumored to be her next husband, the Brazilian ambassador and his wife, and several celebrities from the chic American fashion world. Ironically, two of the models in the group appeared to suffer from anorexia nervosa—the flip side of bulimia, the nervous disorder that had plagued Diana for the previous dozen years.
    Jack moved a few steps closer to Princess Di. He was intrigued, and had serious questions about the quality of her security arrangement. He watched the Secret Service boys make a discreet sweep, then remain on duty nearby, earphones at the ready.
    A formal toastmaster had been brought all the way from England to properly salute the queen—the council’s president—and host Walter Annenberg. The ambassador spoke briefly, then a lavish, though overcooked and underspiced, dinner followed: baby lamb with sauce Niçoise and haricots verts.
    When the princess finally rose to speak during dessert, an orange almond tart with orange sauce and Marsala cream, Jack was less than thirty feet away from her. She wore an expensive gold sheath of taffeta with sequins, but he found her somewhat gawky, at least to his taste. Her large feet made him think of the cartoon character Daisy Duck.
Princess Daisy,
that was his moniker for Di.
    Diana’s speech at the gala was very personal, if familiar, to those who had followed her