I nod. “Yeah. Two of them. Just like you do.”
“That’s right,” says Phillips. “You met my family. What did Lisa say about me?”
I’m wondering how long Phillips has been on my tail. How much he knows about the investigation. “She said you had multiple deployments and that you came back a changed man.”
“But you asked her about the bombings, right? And I bet she told you that I could never kill innocent people.”
“That’s right. She did. But maybe that’s because she still loves you.”
“Lisa’s a good woman, John. Sheknowsme.”
I think about my conversations with Phillips’s fellow soldiers, Quint Spooner and Rick Bannon, the ones who told me about his bursts of violence and his fondness for explosives. They seemed to know him too.
“So why the gun, Aiden? Why sneak into my house like some paid assassin? If you knew we were looking for you, why not just turn yourself in, provide your alibis, and prove that you’re not the bomber?”
“I told you. I don’t trust the government. I especially don’t trust the CIA. They twist things. They fabricate things. They paint people in ways that aren’t true.”
“You worked for them, Aiden. Maybe it takes one to know one. You’re not exactly making yourself look innocent here. You’re in my home holding a gun on me.”
Phillips waves his pistol. “Do you have any more weapons in the house?”
I don’t see any point in lying. If he plans to shoot me, one gun is as good as another. “I’ve got a Ruger pistol in a safe upstairs.”
“Good. We’re gonna need it.”
“Need it for what?”
Phillips stands up. “You want to catch the real bomber, John? The one who’s actually behind all this?”
“You know I do.”
“Good. I’ll take you right to him.”
CHAPTER 89
Cross
ALEX CROSS SHOWERS AS soon as he gets back to his hotel room. He wants to get the smell of Colton Brophy’s house out of his nostrils.
He emerges from the steamy bathroom with a towel around his waist and slips on a clean pair of boxers. Even though it’s barely dark, he slides under the bedsheets, discouraged and exhausted. A few seconds later, he drifts off into a light sleep, the kind where old memories bubble to the surface:
“Daddy! Watch me!”
Alex holds his arms out as Damon, age seven, heads toward him on the sidewalk outside their house. The training wheels are off the red Schwinn bike, and Damon is wobbling along precariously. He looks like he could topple over any second. Alex is ready to intercept him, grab the handlebars, and give him another push. Then he decides to change tactics.
“Pedal harder!” Alex yells. “The faster you go, the more control you have!”
Damon leans his head forward, his white bike helmet gleaming in the sunlight.
His skinny legs start to pump. The front wheel straightens out. A smile takes over his face. He’s speeding toward Alex, ringing the bell as he comes.
“Don’t stop me!” he calls out. “I can do it!”
Alex lowers his arms and steps aside as Damon whizzes past him toward a small hill, shouting “Yippee!” at the top of his lungs.
As his son’s helmet disappears below the rise, Alex runs to the crest and calls after him. “Damon! Come back! That’s far enough!”
But Damon is already turning the corner behind a thick hedge.
