Double Cross

table were screwed into the floor as a safety precaution. The toilet had an automatic shutdown so cells couldn’t be flooded. Kyle had “earned” a black-and-white TV, but it only played self-help and religious programming, so who would want to watch it?

The lawyer felt claustrophobic, terribly so, and thought that it would be difficult not to lose one’s sanity in this tiny hellhole. Mason Wainwright finally had to laugh at that. Most people would feel that he had lost his sanity a long time ago, even before he became one of the Mastermind’s disciples.

When a guard did a check just before mealtime at six that night, he couldn’t believe what he saw. He immediately pushed the panic button on his belt. Then he waited for help to come running. Still, the guard couldn’t take his eyes away from the jail cell.

Kyle Craig had hung himself!

Chapter 33

THE SUN WAS SHINING in Kyle Craig’s eyes, and what a glorious thing that was. The sun! Imagine. He drove Mason Wainwright’s Jaguar coupe a couple of miles over the speed limit to a mall outside Denver, where a Mercedes SUV was waiting for him. Now this was more like it, power and comfort. Plus, nobody would be looking for the Mercedes.

Kyle Craig had doubters to confound and frustrate.

Followers to delight.

Promises to keep, promises written in blood, promises recorded in the august Washington Post and the New York Times.

Yes, he would see the sun again, and he’d see a whole lot more than that too.

He was traveling to Washington, but he thought he’d take a roundabout route, visit a few enemies, maybe kill them in their own homes.

He was going to make a name for himself again, and he had a plan on how to do it.

Not a word of it on paper, though-everything in his head.

“My God, just look at that sun!” he exclaimed.

Chapter 34

I WAS HOME on Fifth Street and had just finished eating a late dinner with Nana and the kids when the phone started to ring off the hook. Most of us were in the kitchen doing a family cleanup. Damon, Jannie, and I were taking care of everything; Ali was supervising; and Nana was reading the papers in the living room-the Washington Post and USA Today, her favorites.

Her TV show was on tonight too, Grey’s Anatomy. Nana loved the series because she felt there were three very bright and true-enough-to-life black characters in the ensemble cast, which she believed was a first for TV. Grey’s Anatomy was one thing that she and I agreed on. We were both addicts of the medical drama, and we were rarely disappointed for our devotion and attention.

Jannie frowned when she answered the phone and discovered, to her amazement, that it wasn’t for her. “It’s for you, Daddy.”

“What a surprise,” I said. “Major upset.”

“It’s not a girl,” Jannie came right back, “so you can forget about that. It’s not Bree.”

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t what I heard during the next few confounding seconds on the telephone.

“Alex, this is Hal Brady.” Brady was the chief of detectives these days at the MPD, an old friend, the boss of Thor Richter and all the rest of us.

“Hi, Chief.” I managed a few words, but mostly I was in an intent listening mode. The fact that Brady was calling me at home wasn’t a good sign.

“This isn’t about Bree, is it?” I suddenly had a premonition.

“No, no. Bree is fine. In fact, she’s in the office with me now. I’ll let you talk with her in a minute,” Brady said, then continued. “Alex, the reason I’m calling is that Kyle Craig escaped from ADX Florence sometime today. They’re still working out the details of how he did it, but this can’t be good. Not for you, not for any of us. He’s on the loose. They have no idea where he went.”

I didn’t hesitate for a second. “I need a favor,” I told the chief. “A big favor.”

Chapter 35

I’D BEEN OUT to the supermaximum-security prison in Florence a couple of times since Kyle Craig had been incarcerated there. On the flight, I made a few notes about him from the papers I’d collected over the years. Even as I scribbled the notes, I was recalling certain incidents between us. At one time, Kyle had been a friend, at least I’d thought so. He’d fooled a lot of people along the way, and I have always been a terrible sucker for those who seem to lead a good life.

I wrote in my notepad:

Expects to be recognized as superior; has a grandiose sense of his own self-importance; narcissistic to an extreme.

Interpersonally exploitive; complex thinker.

Superficial charm. Can turn it on and off at will.

Sibling rivalry (probably killed one brother).

Severely abused, physically and emotionally, by his father. Or so he claims.

Duke University undergraduate and law school. Top of his class. Made it look easy.

IQ: 145-155 range.

No conscience.

Father, William Hyland Craig, former army general, chairman of two Fortune 500 companies, now deceased.

Mother, Miriam, still living in Charlotte.

Former FBI DIC, trained at Quantico, where he also taught new agents.

Highly competitive, especially with me.

I arrived in Florence, Colorado, around noon the day after Kyle’s escape, and very little seemed to have changed about the supermaximum-security prison. I spent the first hour talking with two of the guards who knew Kyle Craig particularly well; then I interviewed Warden Richard Krock. The warden seemed more shocked than any of us that Kyle, or anybody else, could have escaped from Florence. No one ever had before; no one had even come close.

“As you now know,” Krock told me, “the lawyer went back to Craig’s cell, wearing a prosthetic mask, and then hung himself there. What you don’t know is that we videotaped some of his early visits with Craig. Would you like to see them?”

I sure would.