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“My name is Alex Cross,” I said.
There was a long pause before he said, “I’ve heard of you.”
“And I’ve heard of you,” I said. “You’re an impressive man, Mr. Fowler.”
He laughed acidly at that. “I’m a fucking loser, Cross. Let’s call it what it is, because I am, in no way, the man I was.”
“If you say so,” I replied, then paused. “So what are we doing here?”
“We?” Fowler said. “There’s no we here. There’s just you, Cross, and all your well-armed friends out there, the members of the jury, looking to spoil my fun.”
Fun. I shut my eyes. That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. It meant that he planned to toy with his hostages and us. He would enjoy that, so he would try to draw out the experience. This was looking like it was going to be a long Christmas Eve night.
“Is that what this is, a game?” I asked. “Or a trial?”
“Both,” he said in a reasonable tone. “That’s what a trial is, isn’t it? A game played with deadly intent?”
“I suppose.”
“You suppose. Before we move on, Cross, a word of advice.”
“Yes?”
Fowler began screaming: “Don’t fuck with me! Don’t lie to me! And don’t try to game me. If you try to game me in my courtroom, you will lose!”
I kept my voice steady. “I hear your concerns, Mr. Fowler. And I will not lie to you or try to game you. But here’s a word of advice back at you. You can talk. And I promise I’ll listen. I’ll really listen. But now…here’s the important part…I’ll listen up to a point.”
“When do we get to that point?” he asked, calmer now.
“When I say so,” I said, taking a chance with my answer. It was actually not my call when negotiations would be broken off and an assault authorized. But I wanted Fowler to believe that I had that power. I wanted him to belie
ve that he was talking directly to the man in charge.
A silence, and then Fowler spoke again.
“Okay, Alex Cross. We’ve got the start of a deal,” Fowler said. “You’re going to be my jury foreman.”
CHAPTER
14
BEFORE I COULD REPLY TO THAT, FOWLER APPARENTLY PULLED THE PHONE AWAY from his mouth because he sounded farther off as he began to scream, “I swear, this snot-nosed kid better shut up, Diana. Shut her up! Now!”
I could hear Chloe crying hysterically. I could also hear Diana Fowler Nicholson saying, “Henry, for God’s sake, she’s scared, she’s tired, she’s hungry.”
Without missing a beat, and with cold sarcasm in his voice, Fowler said, “If she’s hungry, tell her to eat the sandwich I brought.” Then he let go with a sickening snicker. “PB and J, little Trey’s favorite. Don’t worry, I’ll save him one.”
Diana again. “Henry—”
“Shut the hell up, Diana!” Fowler screamed. “I have no reason and, frankly, no desire to talk to you!” Then two gunshots.
In his calm voice, Fowler said, “There goes your precious Ming vase and your cute little Swarovski crystal cigarette box, Diana. I just want you to fully understand the reality now: this room, your life, they are nothing but a great big shooting gallery to—”
Dr. Nicholson’s voice cut him off. “What’s wrong with you, Fowler? You’re nothing but—”
Another gunshot. Sweat was pouring off my brow. Children crying, but no other sounds. Then Fowler returned to his crazy screaming voice. “Listen, you pathetic quack! You’re the one I most want to put in the grave. Do you understand that? You’re the one I want to kill. Do you understand that?”
There was no answer from the doctor.
