James Patterson - Alex Cross 01 - Along Came a Spider

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Make-Believe

Along Came a Spider

By: James Patterson

Prologue

et's PlayL

(1932)

New Jersey, near Princeton; March 1932

The Charles Lindbergh farmhouse glowed with bright, orangish lights. It

ched the boy as he moved closer

nd closer to his first moment of real glory, his first kill. It was s.

l of

e boots were stuffed with torn cloth and strips of the Philadelphia

d the Stoutsburg-Wertsville Road, up to, then back

om, the farmhouse.

from

and 4 baths on the second floor alone.

ucky Lindy and Anne Morrow's place in the country. Cool beans, he

ut it. Almost all the time. What was fame really like? How

id it smell) How did it taste? What did fame look like close up?

ir. It was

y white. The light

om the candles on the table appeared to be dancing around her.

eads high, delicately eating their food. He

trained to see what was on the table. It looked like lamb chops on

oy finally

hispered. He promised that to himself. Every detail had been

looked like a fiery castle, especially in that gloomy, fir-wooded regio

of Jersey. Shreds of misty fog tou

pitch-dark and the grounds were soggy and muddy and thick with puddle

He had anticipated as much. He'd planned for everything, includin

the weather. He wore a size nine man's work boot. The toe and hee

Inquirer.

He wanted to leave footprints, plenty of footprints. A man's footprints.

Not the prints of a twelve-year-old boy. They would lead from the

county highway calle

He began to shiver as he reached a stand of pines, not thirty yards

the sprawling house. The mansion was just as grand as he'd

imagined: seven bedrooms

thought.

The boy inched closer and closer toward the diningroom window.

was fascinated by this condition known as fame. He thought a lot

abo

"The most popular and glamorous man in the world" was right there

sitting at the table. Charles Lindbergh was tall, elegant, and

fabulously golden haired, with a fair complexion. "Lucky Lindy"

truly seemed above everyone else.

So did his wife, Anne Morrow Lindbergh. Anne had short ha

curly and black, and it made her skin look chalk

Both of them sat very straight in their chairs. Yes ' they

certainly looked superior, as if they were God's special gifts to the

world. They kept their h

their perfect china.

"I'll be more famous than either of you pitiful stiffs," the b

thought through a thousand times, at least that often. He ver

methodically went to work.

The boy retrieved a wooden ladder left near the garage by working-men.

olding the ladder tightly against his side, he moved toward a spot just

hear

ight cast from a hallway lamp illuminated the baby's room. He

e felt sly and cunning. "Here comes Mr. Fox," the boy

hen he took another step up the ladder and was inside the nursery at

harles Jr. was gone to

t at only twenty months.

he boy could no longer control himself. Hot tears streamed from

. His whole body began to shake, from frustration and

ge-only mixed with the most incredible joy of his life.

'Well, daddy's little man. It's our time now," he muttered to

ed to cry, the boy plopped the rubber ball right into

e little drooly mouth. He reached down into the crib and took r. All

ran back across the muddy fields with the precious, struggling

undle in his arms and disappeared into the darkness. Less than two

hat was only the start of things to come. After all, he was only a

y kidnapper. He

art One

beyond the library window. He climbed silently up to the nursery.

His pulse was racing, and his heart was pounding so loud he could

it.

could see the crib and the snoozing little prince in it. Charles

Jr., "the most famous child on earth. " On one side, to keep away

drafts, was a colorful screen with illustrations of barnyard animals.

whispered as he quietly slid open the window.

last. Standing over the crib, he stared at the princeling. Curls of

golden hair like his father's, but fat. C

his eyes

himself He took a tiny rubber, ball with an attached elastic band from

his pocket. He quickly slipped the odd-looking looped device over

Charles Jr.'s head, just as the small blue eyes opened.

As the baby start

Baby Lindbergh into his arms and went swiftly back down the ladde

according to plan.

The boy

miles from the farmhouse, he buried the spoiled-rotten Lindbergh

baby-buried him alive.

boy himself.

He, not Bruno Richard Hauptmann, was the Lindbergh bab

had done it all by himself. Coot beans.

(1992)

CHAPTER1

EARLY ON THE MORNING of December 21, 1992, I was the picture of

gton,

d wounded children's toys. I couldn't have cared less.

his was home.

gled in the kitchen. Maybe I'd won the D.C., or

irginia, or Maryland lottery and they'd forgotten to call the night

Nana? Can you get that?" I called from the porch.

ther called back. "No sense me gettin' up, too. No

ense means nonsense in my dictionary."

n knew I'd be up. Sampson knows me better than

y own kids.

he said. No

ther I.D. was necessary. Sampson and I have been best friends

orner

ot us dead over a pilfered pack of Chesterfields.

ana Mama would have done even worse to us if she'd known about our

f I wasn't up, I am now, " I said into the phone receiver. "Tell

contentment on the sun porch of our house on 5th Street in Washin

D.C. The small, narrow room was cluttered with mildewing winter coats,

work boots, an

I was playing Gershwin on our slightly out-of-tune, formerly grand

piano. It was just past 5 A.M., and cold as a meat locker on the

porch. I was prepared to sacrifice a little for "An American in

Paris."

The phone jan

before. I play all three games of misfortune regularly.

'It's for you. You might as well get it yourself," my testy

grandmo

That's not exactly what was said, but it went some thing like that. It

always does.

I hobbled into the kitchen, sidestepping more toys on morning-stiff

legs. I was thirty-eight at the time. As the saying goes, if

I'd known I was going to live that long, I would have taken better ca

of myself. The call turned out to be from my partner in crime, John

Sampson. Sampso

"Mornin', brown sugar. You up, aren't you?"

since we were nine years old and took up shoplifting at Park's C

Variety store near the projects. At the time, we had no idea that

old Park would have sh

crime spree.

me something good."

"There's been another murder. Looks like our boy again," Sampson

feel my stomach rolling. This wasn't the way I wanted the day to

tart. "Shit. Fuck me.

looked up from her steaming tea and runny eggs. She shot

e one of her sanctimonious, lady-of-the-house looks. She was

still does volunteer work at

eventy-nine. Sampson continued to give me gory details about the

age

g to live in this house."

here's been another bad murder over in Langley Terrace. It looks

hat's too bad," Nana Mama said to me. Her soft brown eyes grabbed

. Sometimes I

ink we ought to move out of Washington, Alex."

ut we'll probably tough it

ut."

es, black people always do. We -persevere. We always suffer

. It was a

urder day, and that meant I'd be seeing white people. Over the

bed, was a picture of Maria Cross. Three

ears before, my wife had been murdered in a drive-by shooting. That

said. "They're waitin' on us. Half the free world's there

already.

"It's too early in the morning to see the meat wagon," I muttered. I

could

Nana Mama

already dressed for school, where she

day's first homicides.

"Watch your language, Alex," Nana said. "Please watch your langu

so long as you're plannin

"I'll be there in about ten minutes," I told Sampson. "I own this

house," I said to Nana. She groaned as if she were hearing that terrible

news for the first time.

like that killer. I'm afraid that it is," I told her.

mine and held. Her white hair looked like one of the doilies she

puts on all our livingroom chairs. "That's such a bad part of what

the politicians have let become a deplorable city

"Sometimes I think the same thing," I said, "b

in silence."

"Not always in silence," I said to her.

I had already decided to wear my old Harris Tweed jacket

sport coat, I put on my Georgetown warm-up jacket. It goes better

with the neighborhood.

On the bureau, by the

murder, like the majority of murders in Southeast, had never been

solved.

I kissed my grandmother on the way out the kitchen door. We've done

thing of me.

rks

partment. It doesn't. People

ait for my appearance at crime scenes in D.C., though.

MS ambulance. MORTUARY was cheerfully

tenciled on the door.

ere a couple of fire engines at the murder house. The

eighborhood's ambulance-chasers, mostly eye-fucking males, were hanging

nd pink and blue curlers in their hair, were up on their

orches shivering in the cold.

an blue.

it had

een abandoned in the driveway.

uck this. Let's go back to bed," Sampson said. "I just remembered

love my work, love Homicide," I said with a sneer. "See that?

ite

with a fur collar came waddling up

Sampson and me as we approached the house. Both his hands were

mmed in his pockets for warmth.

his lower

that since I was eight years old

so say good-bye, just in case we never see each other n. It's been

like that for almost thirty years, ever since Nana Mama first took me in

and decided she could make some

She made a homicide detective, with a doctorate in psychology, who wo

and lives in the ghettos of Washington, D.C.

CHAPTER 2

I AM OFFICIALLY a Deputy Chief of Detectives, Which, in the words of

Shakespeare and Mr. Faulkner, is a lot of sound and fury,

signifying nada. The title should make me the number-six or -seven

person in the Washington Police De

A trio of D.C. Metro blue-and-whites were parked helter-skelter in

front of 41-15 Benning Road. A crime lab van with blackened windows

had arrived. So had an E

There w

around. Older women with winter coats thrown over their pajamas a

night gowns, a

The row house was dilapidated clapboard, painted a gaudy Caribbe

An old Chevette with a broken, taped-up side window looked as if

what this is going to be like. I hate this job lately."

There's the M. E. already in his plastic suit. And there

are the crime-lab boys. And who's this coming our way now?" A wh

sergeant in a puffy blue-black parka

"Sampson? Uh, Detective Cross?" The sergeant cracked

jaw the way some people do when they're trying to clear their ears in

airplanes. He knew exactly who we were. He knew we were cops.

e was busting our chops.

enior Detective Sampson," I answered the sergeant. "I'm Deputy

eant was a jelly-roll-belly Irish type, probably left over from

e Civil War. His face looked like a wedding cake left out in the

ou could probably lose a little of them toches," Sampson advised him.

o meet the white Eddie

d at me. "You

ear what he said? Fuck you?"

ut at the gym attached to

t. Anthony's-St. A's. Together, we weigh about five s

he wears a raggy Kangol hat,

r a yellow bandanna. Some people call him "John-John" because he's

ite task

etimes

e are.

couple of uniforms had already been inside the house. A nervous

"Wuz up, man?" Sampson doesn't like his,chops being busted very

much.

Chief Cross."

The serg

rain. He didn't seem to be buying my tweed jacket ensemble.

" Everybody's freezin' their toches off," he wheezed. "That's wuz up."

"Might give Jenny Craig a call.

"Fuck you," said the sergeant. It was nice t

Murphy. "Master of the riposte." Sampson grinne

Sampson and I are both physical. We work o

hundred pounds. We can intimidate, if we want to. Sometime

it's necessary in our line of work.

I'm only six three. John is six nine and growing. He always

wears Wayfarer sunglasses. Sometimes

so big he could be two Johns.

We walked past the sergeant toward the murder house. Our el

force team is supposed to be above this kind of confrontation. Som

neighbor had called the precinct around four-thirty. She thought

she'd spotted a prowler. The, woman had been up with the night-jitters.

It comes with the neighborhood.

The two uniformed patrolmen found three bodies inside. When they

called it in, they were instructed to wait for the Special Investigator

Team. It's made up of eight black officers

supposedly slated for better things in the department.

The outside door to the kitchen was ajar. I pushed it all the way

pen. The doors of every house have a unique sound when they open

was pitch-black in the house. Eerie. The wind was sucked

e didn't turn on the lights, Sir," one of the uniforms said from

nodded. "Was the kitchen door open when you came?" I turned

twenty-three or

enty-four, real frightened that morning. I couldn't blame him.

h. No. No sign of forced entry. It was unlocked, sir.

inum flashlight and we all peered inside the kitchen.

vinyl

ront windows of all the People's drugstores. The

mells of Lysol and burnt grease melded into something strange to the

ampson and I hesitated, taking it all in the way the murderer might

e was right here," I said. "He came in through the kitchen. He

e out."

and close. This one whined like an old man.

through the open door, and I could hear something rattling inside.

behind me. "You're Dr. Cross, right?"

to the patrolman. He was white, babyfaced, growing a little

mustache to compensate for it. He was probably

The patrolman was very nervous. "It's a real bad mess in there,

sir. It's a family." One of the patrolmen switched on a powerful

milled- alum

There was a cheap Formica breakfast table with matching lime green

chairs. A black Bart Simpson clock was on one wall. It was the

kind you see in the f

nose, though not entirely unpleasant. There were a lot worse smel

in homicide cases.

have just a few hours earlier.

was here, where we're standing. "

"Don't talk like that, Alex," Sampson said. "Sound like Jeane

Dixon. Creep m

No matter how many times you do this kind of thing, it never gets

easier. You don't want to have to go inside.

You don't want to see any more horrible nightmares in your lifetime.

"They're upstairs," the cop with the mustache said. He filled us in on

who the victims were. A family named Sanders. Two women and a

ive young cop I'd seen

round the station.

f us entered the death house together. We each took a

eep breath. Sampson patted my shoulder. He knew that child

ath,

, Suzette Sanders, fourteen years on this earth. She

as just a young girl but had been prettier than her mother. She ve

her years. Suzette was gagged with dark blue

anty hose.

ajama

daughter were bound to an

itation brass bedpost. Satin underwear,

red mesh stockings, and flowery bed sheets ad been used to tie

em up.

tions. "Homicide cases H234 914 through 916. A mother,

enage daughter, little boy. The women have been slashed with

remely sharp. A straight razor, possibly.

t deal Of blood, fecal matter. I believe the two

omen, both the mother and daughter, were prostitutes. I've seen

small boy.

His partner, a short, well-built black man, hadn't said a word yet. His

name was Butchie Dykes. He was a sensit

The four o

homicide had me shook.

The three bodies were upstairs in the front bedroom, just off the top o

the stairs.

There was the mother, Jean "Poo" Sanders, thirty-two. Even in de

her face was haunting. She had big brown eyes, high cheekbones,

full lips that had already turned purplish. Her mouth was stretche

open in a scream.

Poo's daughter

wore a mauve ribbon in her braided hair and a tiny nose earring to pro

she was older than

A baby son, Mustaf Sanders, three years old, was lying faceup, and his

little cheeks seemed stained with tears. He was wearing a "p

bag" like my own kids wear. Just as Nana Mama had said, it was a b

part of what somebody had let become a bad city. In this big bad

country of ours. The mother and the

black and

I took out the pocket recorder I carry and began to put down my first

observa

something ext

"Their breasts have been cut off. The breasts are nowhere to be

found. The pubic hair of the women has been shaved. There ar

multiple stab wounds, what the pathologists call 'patterns of rage.'

There is a grea

them around."

My voice was a low drone. I wondered if I'd be able to understand

ll the words later.

ustaf

are Bears. He

hed.

don't believe he wanted to kill the boy," I said to Sampson. "He

he."

The same Thing that did Condon Terrace earlier this

eek.

was always

stein.

aggie Rose was at Washington Day School in Georgetown, where she was

Katherine Rose,

fter all. Maggie couldn't walk past a mall video store without

People

ecause of all that stuff, Maggie Rose tried to disappear into the

"The little boy's body seems to have been casually tossed aside. M

Sanders has on hand-me-down pajamas that are covered with C

is a tiny, incidental pile in the room. " I couldn't help grieving

as I looked down at the little boy, his sad, lifeless eyes staring up at

me. Everything was very noisy inside my head. My heart ac

Poor little Mustaf, whoever you were.

or s

"Or it. " Sampson shook his head. "I vote for it. It's a

Thing, Alex.

CHAPTER 3

SINCE SHE HAD BEEN THREE OR FOUR years old, Maggie Rose Dunne

watched by people. At nine, she was used to special attention, to

people gawking at her as if she was Maggie Scissorhands, or Girl

Franken

That morning she was being watched, but she didn't know it. This

one time, Maggie Rose would have cared. This one time, it mattered ver

much.

trying to blend in with the other hundred and thirty students . At

that moment, they were all singing enthusiastically at assembly.

Blending in wasn't easy for Maggie Rose, even though she desperately

wanted to. She was the nine-year-old daughter of

seeing a picture of her mother. Her mother's movies seemed to be on

the tube about every other night. Her morn got

nominated for Oscars more often than most actresses mentioned in

magazine.

woodwork a lot. That morning she had on a beat-up Fido Dido

sweatshirt with strategic holes front and rear. She'd picked out

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摘要：

Make-BelieveAlongCameaSpiderBy:JamesPattersonPrologueet'sPlayL(1932)NewJersey,nearPrinceton;March1932TheCharlesLindberghfarmhouseglowedwithbright,orangishlights.Itnchedtheboyashemovedcloserndclosertohisfirstmomentofrealglory,hisfirstkill.Itwass.glofebootswerestuffedwithtornclothandstripsofthePhilade...

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