Double Cross

“Is that my Glock?” Bree was staring at the gun clenched in Bell ’s hand.

“Yes, it is. Very good. Don’t you remember when Neil Stephens took it from you? Yes, yes, that was me. What can I say, I can act.”

“I remember everything, asshole. You’re not as good as you think you are.”

“Perhaps. But apparently that still makes me good enough, doesn’t it?”

“What is all this?” I asked, trying to slow things down, trying to slow Bell down, anyway, and maybe even get a few answers from him.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve figured most of it out, Dr. Cross. You’re smart enough for that, aren’t you?”

“So if I said thirty-three thirty-seven Georgia Avenue -” I tried.

“You’d be wasting your breath, of course. No one is watching-yet.”

Bell dipped his eyes toward the camera and back. “Live audio would have been nice, but then again, I’m not an idiot. Detective Stone, I want you facedown, hands out at your side. Cross”-he motioned toward the center chair-“have a seat. Take a load off.”

“What about -”

He fired once into the wall just over Sampson’s shoulder. “I said sit down.”

I did as I was told, and then footsteps sounded overhead. They steadily crossed the floor and thumped down some nearby stairs. Not the ones Bree and I had used, though-another entrance.

Tyler Bell kept the camera aimed at me without actually looking around. I guessed that he wanted my reaction to this on film. A door at the far end of the room opened. I couldn’t see who was there-not yet.

“What took you so long?” Bell said.

“Sorry. Had to lock up. Not the best of neighborhoods.”

Then I realized who it was. The woman I knew as Sandy Quinlan was just walking into the room. She’d taken off the dark wig and glasses she’d worn while she was driving the Highlander; now she looked the way I was used to seeing her. Except for her eyes. They played over me as though we’d never met.

And with the shock of seeing “Sandy Quinlan” here came another rush of clarity, and of grudging respect for DCAK.

“Anthony,” I said. Not a question, a statement of fact.

I didn’t fool myself into thinking that was his real name, but it was how I knew him. As I stared at DCAK, I could see the resemblance now. He was pretty good with makeup, and he was a talented actor. I had to give him that much.

He took a little bow. “I am good, aren’t I? Stage acting, for the most part. New York, San Francisco, New Haven, London. In many ways, I’m proudest of the way I played Anthony, and played you as well, Dr. Cross. As they say-in your face!”

“So, are you Tyler Bell?” I asked next.

He seemed a little surprised by the question. Or was he acting again? “Didn’t you hear? The poor bastard went crazy. Came to DC and murdered a shitload of people. Including the detective who killed his brother. Then he just disappeared off the face of the earth. No one ever saw him again.”

Bree asked, “Did you kill Bell in Montana?”

“Tell you what.” He wagged the Glock in little circles. “Let’s get you ready for the broadcast first. Then I’ll show you what happened to Tyler Bell. How’s that for cooperating fully with the police?”

“ Sandy ” was standing next to him now. He kissed her, making a show of it, and gave her the gun. Then he transferred the camera to her as well. Now what?

“Smile,” she said, “or whatever. Just be natural. Be yourselves.”

She bent her knees for a steadier shot and zoomed out until the image on the laptop included Sampson, Bree, and me.

“Okay, I’m set here. Whenever you’re ready, we can begin. We’re going live now. We’re rolling,” she said. “And… action.”

Chapter 118

ANTHONY DEMAO-that was the only name I had for him-slowly walked around behind me, which was not exactly where I wanted him to be.

“Out of sight, out of mind?” he asked, and laughed. “Or maybe not, Doc.”

Suddenly, the rope dug into my wrists as he tightened it, then knotted it off. Next he anchored it to an eye hook or grommet, something in the floor that I couldn’t see. The contraption kept me from standing, though, or even sitting up straight. That’s why Sampson’s frame was so hunched over, I realized.

And it was all playing out in real time on the laptop across from me. I wondered how many people were watching this right now, and I hoped Nana and the kids weren’t among them.

When he’d finished with me and then Bree, he retrieved his gun from Sandy and took his place at the center of the floor. He tucked the Glock in the rear of his waistband, then went into a half squat, hands clasped behind him like they were tied the same as ours. What the hell was he doing now?

His face screwed into a terrible grimace. Then he sobbed loudly. He continued to sob. He was acting, I realized with a start. Playing another part. Who was he this time?

He was definitely playing someone other than himself. Pretending to sob, to be sad. “Why are you doing this to me? I don’t understand. Please, just let me get up. I won’t run away, I promise. Please, man, I’m begging you. I’m begging you!”

Suddenly the gun came out from behind Anthony’s back, and he pointed it at his own head. Now he spoke as DCAK: “You want to stay alive, Mr. Bell, you just keep on talking for me. Let me hear you say ‘A, E, I, O, U.’ ”

“A, E, I, O, U,” he blubbered, in what I assumed was a pretty good imitation of Tyler Bell.

“You closed Bell ’s bank account yourself, right?” Bree asked before I got the chance.

“And played Tyler Bell at the grocery store before that,” I added. That explained the milk and other duplicate food we’d found in the refrigerator back at the cabin.

Anthony stood up straight again and turned side to side, showing off the beard, the nose, the heavy brow. “Pretty good makeup job, right? Took the molds right off Tyler Bell’s face.”

“Jesus Christ.” Bree sounded more disgusted than anything. “You almost make me ashamed to be human.”

“Wait, I’ve got another one for you. This is good shit. Check it out, Detectives.”

He grew still for a moment. His face morphed into anguish, but someone else’s, not Bell ’s.

The posture turned crooked, the energy was less frenetic, and the voice-the one he’d used in our sessions- was deeper, southern, with a different timbre than the others.

“Oh, Jesus, I killed my best friend. Matthew, man, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. What am I gonna do now?” His speech slowed as he went on, and the accent broadened until it had become a caricature of itself. “I ain’t nothin’ but a poor sumbitch of a vet with a shrink that don’t know Gulf War syndrome from German fuckin’ measles.”

His eyes fell coldly on me.

“I got it all on tape, Dr. Cross. Every one of our sessions on audio, with me right there under your nose. I took some pictures too.” He looked over at Sandy. “You and her. When Sandy tongue kissed you in front of your office and said she wished you’d met under different circumstances.”

“I’ll tell you a secret.” Sandy replayed the moment between her and me from outside my office. “I wish I’d met you somewhere else.”

I remembered the kiss and how Sandy had motioned me over to the curb, apparently setting up a photo op for Anthony.

“Okay,” I said. “Now how about why?”