ALEX CROSS EPUB

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Alex Cross Epub

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Pages:141
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ISBN:504-6-22239-333-2
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Cross, please come! Cross," the loud shouts continued. I didn't recognize the woman's voice, but privacy doesn't seem to count when your first name is Doctor.

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I held the kids down, my hands fastened onto the tops of their small heads. Cross, not you two. Just keep on humming and hold my place. I'll be right back. I smiled at his joke. He is a second-grade wise guy already. I hurried to the back door, grabbing my service revolver on the way. This can be a bad neighborhood even for a cop, which I am. I peered out through the foggy and grimy windowpanes to see who was on our porch steps.

I recognized the young woman.

She lived in the Langley projects. Rita Washington was a twenty- three-year-old pipe-head who prowled our streets like a gray ghost.

Rita was smart, nice enough, but impressionable and weak. She had taken a very bad turn in her life, lost her looks, and now was probably doomed.

I opened the door and felt a cold, wet gust of wind slap against my face. There was a lot of blood on Rita's hands and wrists and on the front of her green fake-leather car coat "Rita, what in hell happened to you? I guessed that she'd been gut-shot or stabbed over some drugs. It be real bad! He call your name. He ask for you, Dr. I'll be right back!

I tried not to step on the bright red blood dripping like wet paint all over our porch steps. I could feel my heart going whump, whump, whump, and I was sweating profusely in spite of the nasty, steady, cold spring rain.

Blood was pounding furiously in my head. Every muscle and tendon in my body was straining, and my stomach clenched real hard. I held eleven-year-old Marcus Daniels in my arms, clutched tightly against my chest.

The little boy was bleeding badly. Rita Washington had found Marcus on the oily, darkened stairway leading to the basement in his building and had taken me to his crumpled body. People who don't normally stare at much in Southeast were staring at me as I rumbled forward like a ten-axle semi on the loose in the inner city. I out paced gypsy cabs, shouting at everybody to get out of my way. I ran over broken glass and rubble, Irish Rose bottles, and occasional dismal patches of weeds and loose dirt.

This was our neighborhood; our share in The Dream; our capital. I remembered a saying I'd heard about D. My neck and arms were on fire, and my muscles continued to strain. Halfway there, Marcus cried out in a tiny voice, "Doctor Alex, man.

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I knew why. I knew a lot about little Marcus. I raced up the steep, freshly paved asphalt drive of St. Anthony's Hospital, "St.

Tony's Spaghetti House" as it's sometimes called in the projects. The driver wore a Chicago Bulls cap pulled sideways, its brim pointing strangely in my direction.

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Loud rap music blared from the van, and it must have been deafening inside. The driver and medic didn't stop, didn't seem to consider stopping. Life in Southeast goes like that sometimes. You can't stop for every murder or mugging that you come across on your daily rounds. I knew my way to St. Anthony's emergency room. I'd been there too many times. I shouldered open the familiar swinging glass door. We're at the hospital," I whispered to the little boy, but he didn't hear me.

He was unconscious now. People, I need help with this boy! The Pizza Hut delivery man would have gotten more attention. A bored-looking security guard glanced my way and gave me his practiced, flat-faced stare. A shabby stretcher clattered loudly down the halls of medicine.

I saw nurses I knew. Annie Bell Waters and Tanya Hey-wood, in particular. She didn't ask me any questions as she pushed other hospital workers and the walking wounded out of our path.

I smelled hospital antiseptic on everything. We finally located a room about the size of a clothes closet. The young-looking doctor who rushed in told me to leave. Both his wrists are cut. It's a suicide attempt. Hold on, baby," I whispered to Marcus. Casanova popped the trunk latch of his car and peered into the wide, shiny-wet eyes staring out at him. What a pity. What a waste, he thought as he looked down at her.

He was also angry at her. She had disobeyed the rules. She'd ruined the fantasy du jour. Her dark-brown eyes showed fear and pain, but he could still see the stubbornness and spunk there. He took out his black carrying bag first, then he roughly lifted her one hundred twelve pounds out of the car. He made no effort to be gentle at this point. She had on dark green Wake Forest University running shorts, a white tank top, and brand-new Nike cross-training shoes.

She was a typical spoiled college brat, he knew, but achingly beautiful.

Are you sure?

Her slender ankles were bound with a leather thong that stretched about two and a half feet. Her hands were tied behind her back, also with a leather thong.

Go straight unless I tell you otherwise. Now walk," he ordered. Hut, hut, hut. Thicker and darker.

Creepier and creepier. He swung his black bag as if he were a child carrying a lunch box. He loved the dark woods. Always had. Casanova was tall and athletic, well built, and good-looking. He knew that he could have many women, but not the way he wanted them.

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That's fine with me. Linda Blair, wasn't that the actress's name? Creepier and creepier. Book Appearances 4.