"Before we got to the prison, Adanne told me about a long piece she was writing-it was to appear in the London Guardian… the Guardian. Maybe some other papers. I'm not sure.
"She had learned that the United States might be manipulating factions in the Delta… to ensure the oil fields would stay in the right hands. Adanne had tapes of interviews. They were taken from her.
“Whoever captured us… must have them now. You have the tapes, don't you?”
I stopped talking and waited for an answer, any kind of response.
But no one said anything. That was the technique - and guess what? It worked. I kept talking.
“Adanne told me the man known as the Tiger was also being paid by our government. I don't know if that's true. You probably know, don't you?”
I stopped again, then went on. "By the CIA, maybe. The oil companies? By someone from here. Adanne wrote that, and she told another writer, named Ellie Cox. She was killed because of what she knew.
“That's what I know. That's what Adanne found out. That's all of it.”
I stopped again. There was still no response, not a word from the interrogator.
I waited.
I waited.
I waited.
Cross Country
Chapter 151
YOU THINK YOU know what's going to happen in life. But you never do. And usually the surprises aren't good ones either.
No one spoke to me for a long time, and I kept waiting for somebody to put a gun to my head, to finally pull the trigger.
Hours after I was interrogated, I heard footsteps in the room where I was being kept. More than one person. At least two.
I pulled myself away from the wall and moved forward. I stumbled and fell to my knees. I pushed myself back up and somebody grabbed my arm.
“Fucker can't even walk by himself.”
I heard a door being slid open and then I felt cool air hit my face. I was pulled forward and then shoved inside some kind of van or truck.
“Let's go!” said someone in the front. “We don't have much time for this.”
For what?
What was happening now?
I had no idea where I was going now, but I knew the chances were good that I was going to die. At certain times in the past, I'd been pleasantly surprised that I'd lasted as long as I had. Still, it felt unreal that I would probably die in the next few minutes. I prayed for my family; and then I said a prayer for myself.
Good, moderately lapsed Christian that I am, I even said a prayer of contrition.
Then the van pulled to a stop. This was it. “End of the line!” I heard one of the bastards say.
I was pushed out and landed hard on the street, and then I heard the vehicle drive away, gravel crunching under spinning tires.
I crawled up and over a curb and then just lay there, partly on grass, partly on a sidewalk or walkway.
They hadn't killed me.
I was still alive.
Finally-I slept.
Cross Country
Chapter 152
THEN I WAS awake; at least I thought I was.
“I'm Officer Maise, with the DC Metro police. Are you all right, sir?” The patrolman spoke to me even as he lifted the hood that covered my head.
“Why are your hands tied? What happened to you?” he asked next.
“I'm Alex Cross. I'm a detective with Major Crimes- I was kidnapped.”
He had the hood all the way off now, but I couldn't see much of anything yet, not even his face. My eyes were slow to adjust to the light-to the streetlights mostly. It was dark outside. Night.
“Yes, sir, Detective Cross. We've all been looking for you,” patrolman Maise said. “Let me call it in.”
“How long… you been looking?”
“Three days.”
Finally, I could see his face, which showed concern but also surprise. He had found me. I was alive. I'd been missing for three days.
“Can you get these binds off?” I asked.
“I'll call it in first. Then I'll get the ropes off you.”
“No press,” I told him.
“Of course not. Why would I call the press?” the patrolman asked.
“I don't know,” I said. “I guess I'm not thinking straight yet.”
Cross Country
Chapter 153
I WAS TAKEN home by Officer Maise. The house on Fifth Street was dark and obviously empty Bree had been staying with us off and on, but she had kept her place, so I figured she was at her apartment tonight. Why would she stay here by herself?
I would call Bree soon, but I needed to go inside the house right now. I entered through the sunporch, passing the silent piano on my way, imagining playing it for the kids or, sometimes, just for myself.
No, I guess I was remembering.
The kitchen had been cleaned up since the last time I'd been there. Probably Bree had done it.
Now it was neat, as if nobody lived here.
I continued walking from room to room, everything quiet, and I felt unbearably sad. I turned on lights as I went, feeling like a visitor in my own house. Nothing about my life felt right, or even real. The world had become such a cruel, unsafe place. How had it happened?
How much blame should America take, and did accepting blame really help anybody? Wasn't it time to stop offering criticism and start providing solutions? It was easy to be a critic; it took no imagination. Problem solving was the bitch.
