paragraph, not a single word, about what he'd done. What a frigging joke newspapers were.
They just lied their asses off, but everybody was supposed to believe them, right?
Suddenly, he was feeling so bad, so confused, that he wanted to just lie down on the sidewalk and cry. He shouldn't have killed those little kids, and he probably wouldn't have if he'd stayed on his medication. But the Depakote made him feel dopey, and he hated it as if it were strychnine.
So now his life was completely ruined. He was a goner. His whole life was over before it had really begun.
He was on the mean streets, and thinking about living out here permanently. Nobody is here. And nobody can stop Nobody.
He had come to visit the Sojourner Truth School again. Alex Cross's son went there and he was pissed as hell at Cross. The detective didn't think much of him, did he? He hadn't even come to the Teddy Roosevelt School with Sampson. Cross had dissed him again and again.
It was approaching the noon recess at the Truth School and he decided to stroll by, maybe to stand up close to the fenced yard where they had found Shanelie Green. Where he had brought the body. Maybe it was time to tempt the fates. See if there was a God in heaven. Whatever.
Rock-and-roll music was pounding nonstop in his head now.
Nine Inch Nails, Green Day, Oasis. He heard “Black Hole Sun” and “Like Suicide” from Soundgarden. Then “Chump” and “Basket Case” from Green Day's Dookie.
He caught himself, pulled himself back from the outer edge.
Man, he had gone ya-ya for a couple of minutes there. He had completely zoned out. How long had he been out of it? he wondered.
This was getting bad now. Or was it getting very good? Maybe he ought to take just a wee bit of the old Depakote. See if it brought him back anywhere near our solar system.
Suddenly, he spotted the black bitch Amazon woman coming toward him. It was already too late to move out of the way of the cyclone.
He recognized her right away She was the high-and-mighty principal from the Sojourner Truth School. She had a bead on him, had him in her sights. Man, she should have been wearing a o FVR T-shirt to play that kind of game. You put the bead on me -- then I'll put the bead on you, lady. You don't want my bead on you. Trust me on that, partner.
She was yelling, raising her voice anyway “Where do you go to school? Why aren't you there now? You can't stand around here.” She called loudly as she kept walking straight toward him.
FUCK YOU, BLACK BITCH. MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS.
WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE TALKING TO?
YOU... TALKIN'... TO... ME?
'Do you hear me, mister? You deaf or something? This is a drug-free area, so move on. Now. There's absolutely no loitering near this school. That means you, in the fatigue jacket! Move on.
Go on, get out of here.'
Just fuck you, all right? I'll move on when I'm good and ready.
She came right up to him, and she was big. A lot bigger than he was, anyway
“Move it or lose it. I won't take any crap from you. None at all. Now get out of here. You heard me.”
Well, hell. He moved on without giving her the satisfaction of word one. When he got up the block, he saw all the schoolkids being let outside into the yard with the high fence that didn't mean squat in terms of protection. Can't keep me out, he thought.
He looked for Cross's little boy, searched the school yard with his eyes. Found him, too. No sweat. Tall for his age. Beautiful, right? Kute as hell. Damon was his name-o, name-o.
The school principal was still out in the playground -- staring up the street at him, bad-eyeing him. Mrs. Johnson was her name-o.
Well, she was a dead woman now. She was already ancient history. Just like old Sojourner Truth -- the former slave former abolitionist. They all are the killer thought as he finally moved on. He had better things to do than loitering, wasting his precious time. He was a big star now. He was important. He was somebody Happy, happy. Joy, joy.
“You believe that,” he said to nobody in particular, just the generic voices crackling inside his head, “then you must be crazier than I am. I aren't happy There aren't no joy”
As he turned the corner, he saw a police car coming up the street toward the school. It was time to get the hell out of there, but he would be back.
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON I gathered up my files and all my notes on Jack and Jill. I headed to Langley, Virginia, again.
No music in the car that morning. Just the steady whhrrr of my tires on the roadway Jeanne Sterling had asked to see what I had come up with so far. She'd called halfa dozen times. She promised to reciprocate this time. You show me yours, I'll show you mine.
Okay? Why not? It made a lot of sense.
An Agency assistant sporting a military-style crew cut, a woman in her twenties, escorted me into a conference room on the seventh floor. The room was filled with bright light and was a far cry from my cube in the White House basement. I felt like a mouse out of its hole. Speaking of the White House, I hadn't heard from the Secret Service about any plan to investigate possible enemies of the President in high places. I would stir that pot again when I got back to D.C.
