“Goddamn!” says Danny. “This is impressive. Says Alex here is a forensic psychologist. I think that means he’s a headshrinker.”
Now all the men gather around Alex. Larry and Brett have their guns raised. One of the other men is holding Alex’s weapon.
Five men. Four guns.
Not good.
Suddenly, a look of recognition comes over Danny’s face. “Wait a minute! Alex Cross! I saw you! I saw you on the news! You were bellyachin’ about your missing kid. He’s been kidnapped or some damn thing.”
“That’s right,” says Alex. “And I have information that Brett and Larry here know something about it.”
“The hell we do,” says Larry.
Danny shakes his head. “I know these gentlemen. All four of ’em. None finer. If they say they had nothing to do with your missing boy, then that’s God’s truth.”
Alex’s heart is thudding hard and cold in his chest. “Let’s just call the local sheriff and let him sort this out.”
“I guess this is your lucky day,” says Danny. He pulls a badgeout of his pocket and holds it up. “You’re talkin’ to him.” He points around the motel room. “Hospitality is just my side gig.”
Alex checks the badge. Looks authentic. “Okay, then, Sheriff,” he says. “You might want to check those duffels on the floor. I observed bags of white powder when I entered the room.”
“That so?” says Danny. “Brett, what’ve you got in there?”
Brett grins, exposing thick yellowed teeth. “I bought a box of cornstarch this morning at the Piggly Wiggly over in Dalton. Damn box fell and split open here. Me and the guys scooped as much as we could into those little plastic bags. Didn’t want anything to go to waste.”
“Sounds very prudent,” says Danny. He lifts the .45 toward Alex’s head. “Now, Dr. Cross, you wouldn’t happen to have your concealed-weapons permit on your person, would you?”
“That’s ridiculous,” says Alex. “Why would I? All my paperwork is in DC.”
“That’s a shame,” says Danny. “I’m afraid I’m gonna need to confiscate your sidearm.”
“That’s a mistake,” says Alex.
Danny’s expression darkens. “No, Doc. I thinkyoumade the mistake. You invaded a private place of business and threatened four innocent men with a loaded weapon.”
Alex feels the rage building in his chest. “These men know something about my son!”
“They say otherwise. You got a wallet, Dr. Cross?”
Alex pulls out his billfold and hands it over.
Danny flips through it and pulls out all the cash, four twenty-dollar bills. He pockets them. “This’ll defray the cost for damage you caused.” He tosses the wallet back to Alex, then gestures tothe door with the barrel of his pistol. “Now, get off my property and out of my town.”
Alex realizes he has no play here. Not now. He waves his hands in surrender and heads out. “Okay. You win.”
As he steps into the parking lot, he hears Brett say from behind him, “Good luck finding your little chocolate drop!”
Larry adds, “He’s probably in an alley somewhere with a needle full of junk in his arm.”
Alex sets his jaw, swallows his fury, and just keeps walking.
CHAPTER 74
Sampson
I’M AT DC METRO POLICE headquarters, calling my seventh contact of the evening, one of the names I got from CIA agent Tom Walsh. At my elbow is a stack of personnel files that were couriered over from Langley.
The man I just called is Quint Spooner, a former U.S. Army Ranger now living in Arapahoe, South Dakota. According to the files, Spooner served in the army with Aiden Phillips, and I have a lot of questions for him. He picks up the phone, and after the introductions and a little small talk about South Dakota winters, I get right to it.
