The House of Cross

CHAPTER 1

Independence Mountains, Northern Nevada

COMING DOWN THE ALPINE road in a wheelchair‑adapted van with Massachusetts handicap plates, Malcomb felt groggy, still heavy-headed from the drugs, but also anxious and sweaty.

He glanced in his rearview and caught a glimpse of big sections of the dirt road winding along the rim of a canyon that fell away to his left.

Not back there yet, Malcomb thought hazily. But he’s coming for you. Expect nothing less now.

He was afraid then and checked the van’s large operating screen. He saw on the active navigator that he was on a U.S. Forest Service road, heading north and downhill toward a flat ribbon of highway far in the distance. He glanced right at the little metal wallet and the iPhone on the passenger seat and cursed when he saw no bars on the screen.

Then he checked the gas gauge and was shocked to see he had less than a quarter tank. That son of a bitch! He wants to limit how far I can go. But screw him. I can make that highway wherever I am. I know I can.

The road got very steep and twisty just ahead. Unsure of the controls, Malcomb squeezed the handbrake on the steering wheel, glanced in the rearview again, and headed into the first curve. Still nothing behind him.

He made it down through back‑to‑back S‑curves just as snowflakes began to fall from the leaden sky. He hit a short straight, squeezed the gas control, and didn’t look at the rearview again until he had to use the brakes to enter another corkscrew.

This time he caught a glimpse of them exiting the upper part of the S, a half mile back.

The blue Tahoe, he thought, trying to breathe, trying to stay calm, trying to tell himself he could make it to the highway.

But with only a quarter of a tank? And what happens after I get there?

Will I have cell service? Will anyone believe the story I have to tell?

Malcomb heard a thumping sound. He looked in the rearview and almost lost it. They’ve got the helicopter!

He looked at the cell phone screen again, saw one bar. “Tor message, Siri,” he said. “Voice.”

“Tor activated,” Siri said. “Recipient?”

“Cross,” he said, glancing again in the rearview but not seeing the chopper. “Alex Cross.”

“Start message on the beep.”

“Dr. Cross,” Malcomb said as he reached the third and final series of S‑curves. “There’s a good chance I will not survive. There are things I want to tell you so that you may bring to justice those responsible for my death. First, you know me as —”

The thumping came again, louder this time. Panicked, he accelerated into the first turn of the last S. He came around the apex of the turn, and to his shock the Bell Jet Ranger helicopter rose up out of the depths of the canyon to his left.

The blue and white chopper hovered in the falling snow. The man in the copilot’s seat wore headphones and sunglasses, but he was without a doubt Malcomb’s double.

Then the tail of the bird drifted. There was a man in a harness tethered to the interior roof hanging out the side, one foot on the strut, shouldering a military‑style rifle.

Malcomb did the only thing he could think of and squeezed the gas control. The van went shooting out of the first curve in that final S and grazed the canyon wall with the passenger‑side door, sending a shower of sparks into the falling snow.

He glanced at the sideview, saw the helicopter turning to follow him. He shouted, “They’re coming for me, Cross. You know my brother, but —”

The helicopter roared up behind him as he reached the last tight turn in the road. He ducked a little, looked in the sideview, and saw the bird coming fast, the gunman hanging out of it.

As he came out of the turn, he saw the road ahead was blocked by a big dump truck with a snowplow. Without thinking, he slammed on the brakes and tugged hard left on the wheel.

The van smashed into the guardrail going fifty‑plus. The bumper caught the rail and hung up on it, causing the rear of the van to catapult up and over.

Malcomb screamed and caught an upside‑down image of the bumper tearing free of the rail. The helicopter came into view as the van fell. It caromed off the side of the cliff, plunged another two hundred feet, and hit a pile of rocks.

The gas tank exploded. The wreckage began to burn.

Back up on the cliff, a woman wearing a tan sheriff’s uniform and a heavy coat came out from behind the snowplow; she was followed by an older guy in coveralls. They went to the edge and looked down at the van burning, sending black smoke up through the snow.

“Didn’t expect that,” the plow driver said. “But it’ll work.”

The deputy nodded, picked up her radio, clicked the mic button, and looked up at the helicopter swinging away.

“That went easier than we thought, sir,” she said. “And the new snow won’t hurt our cause none.”

•••

CHAPTER 2

Washington, DC

AT SIX P.M. ON a mid‑December day, Emma Franklin hurried out of the elevator and down a long hall in the basement of the Prettyman U.S. Court House. The tall forty‑six‑year‑old carried a purse and a leather briefcase and wore a long gray puffy coat over her navy‑blue pantsuit.

Franklin pushed through the door into the annex garage and was relieved to see her ride waiting. The driver, a tall redhead in her late thirties, jumped out of the Cadillac town car.

“Good evening, Judge Franklin,” she said, coming around to open the rear passenger door.

Franklin smiled. “How are you, Agnes?”

“Outstanding, ma’am. And you?”

“Just peachy,” the judge said. She climbed in and put her attaché case and purse on the seat beside her.

Agnes closed the door, got in the driver’s seat, and turned on the car. “I don’t hear that expression — ‘just peachy’ — too often.”

Franklin laughed. “It was something my grandmother used to say.”

Agnes put the car in gear and drove to the exit. “She lived in Georgia, ma’am?”

“Valdosta,” Franklin said. “Pretty place.”

“Had to be warmer than here,” the driver said, pulling by the guard shack and out onto C Street. Snow had begun to fall.

“I heard it’s going to be sixteen degrees tonight,” the judge said, and involuntarily shuddered. “Older I get, the more I can’t stand the cold.”

“I hear you,” Agnes said. She took a right on Third Street and headed south. “Days like today, I’m thinking Miami.”

“I’ll be there for Christmas.”

“Lucky you.”

“My brother bought a place and invited my sisters and their families and me.”

“That’s nice for you. First year after and all.”

Franklin smiled sadly and nodded. “How’s the divorce going, Agnes?”

“I keep telling myself I can see the finish line.”

Judge Franklin looked out the window at the Christmas displays, her mind flickering with memories of the prior December, walking at night in Alexandria, admiring the lights with her late husband, Paul. What a difference a year makes.

“What do you think of Sue Winter’s pick for attorney general?” Agnes asked.

Franklin turned, happy for the distraction and change of subject. “She made a solid choice in Malone. Impeccable record when he was U.S. attorney in Phoenix.”

“I was surprised she didn’t pick a woman,” Agnes said.

The judge shrugged. “Sue’s from Arizona and worked with Malone. And State and Defense have already gone to women.”

“I say load the entire cabinet with women. The more the merrier.” Franklin chuckled. “I like the way you think.”

As they crossed the Fourteenth Street Bridge, the driver asked, “Are you going to the inauguration?”

“Absolutely. Wouldn’t miss it.” “What about the inaugural balls?”

Franklin looked out the window at the inky darkness of the river. “I haven’t decided if I’m ready for that yet.”

“Understandable, ma’am.”

The judge nodded and looked at her left hand, wondering when the time would be right to take off her wedding band. It had been almost nine months now.

They drove on in silence.

Ten minutes later, Agnes turned onto Franklin’s quiet street in Alexandria.

In the headlights’ glare, through the snowflakes, she saw a powerfully built, short‑haired blond woman running down the sidewalk in a warm‑up suit with a reflective vest, a neck gaiter, a fleece headband low over orange‑lens safety glasses to block the snow, and one of those hydration backpacks. As they passed her, Franklin saw she wore a headlamp as well.

Agnes pulled into the drive of Franklin’s bungalow. “Home again, home again.”

Franklin looked at her dark house, said, “Jiggety‑jig.”

Agnes left the headlights on, came around the back of the car, and opened the door. “Same time in the morning, Judge?”

“Fifteen minutes earlier, please,” Franklin said, climbing out with her briefcase and purse.

“Judge Franklin!”

Both the judge and the driver turned to see the blond runner on the sidewalk just a few yards away, her headlamp aimed down and between them. She was squared off in a horse stance, gripping a pistol with a suppressor with both hands. She said something, though Franklin did not catch the words.

“Why are—” Franklin managed before the woman shot her twice, once between the eyes, once over her right eyebrow.

Agnes spun, tried to run. The woman shot her twice between the shoulder blades, then bent over and retrieved the knapsack and the four shell casings from the sidewalk. She stuffed the casings and the gun in the little pack, zipped it up, put it on. She pushed hard against the left side of her neck, felt it crack, and jogged away.