Double Cross

to the killer was amateur.

Or perhaps imitation, if he wanted to be kind.

Chapter 58

NO ONE WHO HADN’T spent time in a supermaximum-security prison could possibly understand his feelings now. That night in Iowa City -wearing another of his prosthetic masks-Kyle Craig roamed around, taking in the sights, savoring being there.

He checked out the campus, which was situated on both sides of the river. The school was nicely integrated into the downtown area, and there were lots of quaint clothing, jewelry, and bookstores, and an incredible number of places to eat and drink. He happened on something interesting called the Iowa Avenue Literary Walk, which featured the words of writers with “ Iowa ties”-Tennessee Williams, Kurt Vonnegut, even Flannery O’Connor, one of his favorites because she was so wonderfully wrong in the head.

Just past nine, he stopped into a bar called the Sanctuary. It looked like it might actually cater to some adults, not just college students, so he wouldn’t stand out too much. There were oodles of wainscoting inside and booths that looked like old church pews. And, yes indeed, an older crowd.

“Yes, sir. What can I get you?” he heard the very instant he sat at the bar.

The bartender looked as if he’d probably been a student at the university and then had decided to stay in town, which seemed like a reasonable choice. White-blond hair cut short, with a contemporary flip in the front. Probably midtwenties. Depressingly dull from the look of his eyes and his broad, welcoming smile.

“How ya doing, buddy?” said Craig. No more or less than a cordial greeting. He asked about the wines, then ordered a Brunello di Montalcino that seemed to tower in quality above the other reds served in the restaurant.

“The Brunello is available only by the bottle. I don’t know if I made that clear, sir.”

“It’s not a problem. I’m not driving after I leave here,” Kyle Craig said, and affected a pleasant chuckle. “I’ll take the bottle. Uncork it and let it breathe for me, please. And I’d like the Brie-and-apple appetizer. Could they please cut a fresh apple?”

“I could help you with that Brunello. If you need help?”

A voice-female-came from Kyle’s right. He turned and saw a woman seated a few stools away. She was by herself. Smiling pleasantly at him. Police? he wondered. Then- No. Then-Unless she’s very good at what she does.

“I’m Camille Pogue,” she said, and smiled in a manner that struck him as both shy and slightly sly. Dark hair, petite, probably no more than five feet in her stockings. Mid-to-late thirties, he guessed. Obviously lonely, though she shouldn’t be, given her looks, which interested him somewhat. He was drawn to people who had a little complexity to them, at least until he had them figured out.

“I think I’d enjoy the company,” Kyle said, and cast a smile back her way. Nothing too aggressive. “I’m Alex… Cross. Nice to meet you.”

“Hello, Alex.”

Kyle moved down the bar and sat beside Camille, and they talked rather easily for the next half hour or so. She turned out to be bright and only mildly neurotic on the face of things. She taught art history at the university, specializing in the Italian Renaissance. She had lived in Rome, Florence, and Venice, and now she was back in the United States but not sure if she wanted to stay here, meaning in America, not just Iowa City.

“Because America isn’t as you remembered it or because it is exactly as you remembered it?” Kyle asked.

She laughed. “I think it’s a little of both, Alex. The political naivete and indifference in the States just drives me crazy sometimes. But what bothers me most is the conformity. It’s a cancer, and it appears to be spreading, especially in the media. Everybody seems afraid to have an opinion of their own.”

Kyle nodded. “You might accuse me of the latter for saying this, Camille, but I couldn’t agree more.”

She leaned in close but not in a way that could be off-putting or threatening. “So, are you different, Alex?” she asked.

“I’m different, I think. No, I’m sure that I am. In a good way, of course.”

“Of course.”

They walked around the town square after they finished off the Brunello. Then she took him home to a pretty gray-and-white Colonial on a side street off Clinton, with window boxes bursting with colorful flowers. The teacher had the entire ground floor, which was decorated with European furniture and art, and was quite spacious and open and welcoming. Another side of her revealed, a nice side too. Homey? Homespun?

“Have you eaten, Alex? Other than your apple and cheese? Your freshly cut apple,” she said, swinging toward him, a bit more forward inside her own place. She had soft breasts, but the rest of her seemed firm. Very nice and desirable, and suddenly Kyle knew exactly how he wanted her. Actually, he felt an incredible rush of lust.

But first, he yanked off his mask-and her eyes went wide with wonder and fear. “Oh no!” she said.

Not wishing to waste any more time, Kyle thrust forward the ice pick that he had palmed in his right hand. The point passed through the front of Camille’s throat and slid all the way out the back. Her blue eyes went to the size of silver dollars, then seemed to roll back into her forehead. Then she was no more, submitting to his waiting arms.

“That’ll do it. Now let’s make love, shall we?” Kyle said to the dead professor. “I told you I was different, didn’t I?”

Before he departed from Camille Pogue’s apartment, he left another clue for whoever might come to collect the body. The clue was a small figurine representing a somewhat famous Midwestern statue called The Scout. It would be out of place in the art professor’s apartment, but he doubted that anyone would get it.

That was fine with Kyle-he got it. As Kevin Bacon had so eloquently said in the magnificent movie Diner, it was “a smile.”

Chapter 59

THE NEXT DAY HELD two very nasty surprises for me, as surprises so often are. The first was news that Kyle Craig had murdered his mother out in Colorado. And he had left a Hallmark greeting card-unsigned-for us to find. That meant either he was getting confidential information from a source inside the MPD or somehow he was communicating with the killer, with DCAK. Was that possible? And if it was, what the hell was the relationship between the two of them?

This wasn’t the first time Kyle had communicated with other killers, I knew. There had been Casanova and the Gentleman Caller, possibly Mr. Smith. And now DCAK? Maybe even the lawyer in Colorado had been a killer. Or was he just a follower? A devotee?

Late in the day, I received the second jolt, and it came from Brian Kitzmiller, who called and asked me to check out something on the Internet. He directed me to the site in question. Great news-somebody had set up a blog for me. I began to read and felt a little sick as I did.

You call yourself the Dragon Slayer? What’s that about? Fantasy role-playing games? Are you a gamer, Cross? What excites you? Moves you? You’ve piqued my curiosity. After all, you are the one who caught the great Kyle Craig.

Let’s say I’m watching you and your family a great deal these days. And I notice you’re spending a lot of “alone time” in little Ali’s bedroom late at night. Am I wrong about that? I don’t think so, but feel free to defend yourself from all accusations and rumors.

And Bree Stone-what are we to make of her? Who was the last female you managed to see for any length of