Kill Alex Cross

mind?

“I know that Ethan and Zoe don’t deserve their fate, but then again, neither did I. You think I wouldn’t rather be somewhere else right now, with nothing to say? I only wish I was that lucky.

“So, here it is. If you want to know what I’m thinking while I’m doing this, I’ll tell you. The answer’s simple. I’m thinking about my son. My love.

“What are you thinking about?”

Stop.

RYAN TOWNSEND WAS a fidgety kid. Not that I could really blame him. He had a police detective staring him down from one side, and his parents from the other. His feet never stopped swinging, back and forth, the whole time we talked.

It had taken half a dozen phone calls, but Congressman and Mrs. Townsend had finally given me some time to speak with their son. All on their terms, of course. We met on Saturday, eight thirty a.m., at their sprawling mansard-roofed house on Thirtieth Street in Georgetown.

“This shouldn’t take too long,” I told Ryan up front. “I’ve read everything you told the FBI agents already. Most of it’s about the fight between you and Zoe on the morning of the kidnapping —”

“It wasn’t a fight,” the congressman cut me off. He and his wife were both perched on a clawfoot settee across from me. “With all due respect, Zoe hit Ryan with a book and bloodied his nose. Let’s just be clear about that.”

Ryan sank lower in his chair. His bare feet scuffed the walnut floorboards a little faster.

“Fair enough,” I said. “Ryan, what I’d really like to know is how things got so bad between you and Zoe to begin with.”

“Is that even relevant?” Mrs. Townsend asked. “Surely you’re not suggesting Ryan had anything to do with this.”

“Nothing like that,” I said. “I’m just trying to learn as much about Ethan and Zoe as I can. I think your son might have a unique perspective.”

This was why I wanted to meet with Ryan alone, but that issue had been a nonstarter with his parents. They had every right to sit in, and every intention of doing so.

“Go ahead, Ryan,” his father told him. “We’ve got nothing to hide here. You can answer the question.”

Ryan took a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks. “Zoe started it,” he said. “We were on this field trip to the Air and Space Museum last year, and I left my phone on the bus. Then she gets this stupid text from me — I mean, not from me. From my phone. And she just freaked.”

“Sweetie, don’t say ‘freaked.’” Mrs. Townsend gave me a quick self-conscious smile. Ryan rolled his eyes. The congressman checked his BlackBerry.

“Anyway, she got all in my face about it and didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t do it. So I said fine. Let her believe it. Ever since then, she’s just kind of had it in for me.”

I wasn’t convinced I was getting the whole story, but more than that, I just wanted to hear Ryan tell it. His words, his memory of the details.

“Do you know what was in that text?” I asked.

“I didn’t send it,” he said right away. “I swear!”

“That’s fine. I just need to hear what happened,” I said. “From you.”

“Ryan, answer the detective’s question. Do you know what was in the text or not?” the congressman asked.

For the first time, Ryan was looking me right in the eye. He wound the drawstring of a crimson Branaff School hoodie around one finger, then unwound it. Then he wound it up again.

Finally, he said, “Do you think they’re dead?”

“Ryan!” His mother looked horrified. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

I think he was just trying to change the subject, but I answered him anyway. “I hope not,” I said. Then I tore a page out of my notebook and slid it across the table. “How about if you write down what was in that text, and we’ll call it a morning?”

Ryan twisted around in his chair to look at his father again. The congressman nodded, and I set my pen down for him. He cupped his hand around the page while he wrote something, then turned it over and weighted it under an antique snow globe on the coffee table. For a few seconds, some glittery snow flew around the miniature Victorian house inside.

“Can I go now?” he asked.

“You can go. Thank you, Ryan. That was helpful.”

I waited for him to leave the room. Then I turned the paper over where his parents and I could see it. In a ragged, kid’s handwriting, it said, “Zoe C — I want 2 cum on yr tits.”

“Oh my God.” Mrs. Townsend looked away. “That is absolutely disgusting.”

The congressman took the paper off the table and pocketed it before there could be any question of my keeping it. “We’re going to speak with Headmaster Skillings about this — independent of anything else,” he said.

I could understand their embarrassment, but the profanity seemed like typical middle school bravado to me. Sad, but true. It was just the kind of thing a boy might write to impress his friends, sometime after the hormones started kicking in and before he really understood what it all meant. In any case, I thanked the Townsends for their