Cat and Mouse

again. He was sure that it was. After all, it was only fair that he be recognized as the best.
    He let the aiming post of the rifle sight gently come to rest on Christine Johnson’s forehead.
There, there, isn’t that nice
.
    She had very expressive brown eyes and a wide smile that seemed genuine from this distance. She was tall, attractive, and had a commanding presence.
The school principal
. A few loose hairs lay curled on her cheek. It was easy to see what Cross saw in her.
    What a handsome couple they made, and what a tragedy this was going to be, what a damn shame. Even with all the wear and tear, Cross still looked good, impressive, a little like Muhammad Ali in his prime. His smile was dazzling.
    As Christine Johnson walked away and headed toward the red-brick school building, Alex Cross suddenly glanced in the direction of Soneji’s Jeep.
    The tall detective seemed to be looking right into the driver’s side of the windshield. Right into Soneji’s eyes.
    That was okay. Nothing to worry about, nothing to fear. He knew what he was doing. He wasn’t taking any risks. Not here, not yet.
    It was all set to start in a couple of minutes, but in his mind it had already happened. It had happened a hundred times. He knew every single move from this point until the end.
    Gary Soneji started the Jeep and headed toward Union Station. The scene of the crime-to-be, the scene of his masterpiece theater.
    “Think the unthinkable,” he muttered under his breath, “then
do
the unthinkable.”

Chapter 5

    A FTER THE last bell had rung and most of the kids were safe and sound in their classrooms, Christine Johnson took a slow walk down the long deserted corridors of the Sojourner Truth School. She did this almost every morning, and considered it one of her special treats to herself. You had to have treats sometimes, and this beat a trip to Starbucks for cafi latte.
    The hallways were empty and pleasantly quiet — and always sparkling clean, as she felt a good school ought to be.
    There had been a time when she and a few of her teachers had actually mopped the floors themselves, but now Mr. Gomez and a porter named Lonnie Walker did it two nights a week, every week. Once you got good people thinking in the right way, it was amazing how many of them agreed a school should be clean and safe, and were willing to help. Once people believed the right thing could actually happen, it often did.
    The corridor walls were covered with lively, colorful artwork by the kids, and everybody loved the hope and energy it produced. Christine glanced at the drawings and posters every morning, and it was always something different, another child’s perspective that caught her eye and delighted her inner person.
    This particular morning, she paused to look at a simple yet dazzling crayon drawing of a little girl holding hands with her mommy and daddy in front of a new house. They all had round faces and happy smiles and a nice sense of purpose. She checked out a few illustrated stories: “Our Community,” “Nigeria,” “Whaling.”
    But she was out here walking for a different reason today. She was thinking about her husband, George, and how he died, and why. She wished she could bring him back and talk to him now. She wanted to hold George at least one more time.
Oh God, she needed to talk to him
.
    She wandered to the far end of the hall to Room 111, which was light yellow and called
Buttercup
. The kids had named the rooms themselves, and the names changed every year in the fall. It was
their
school, after all.
    Christine slowly and quietly opened the door a crack. She saw Bobbie Shaw, the second-grade teacher, scrubbing notes on the blackboard. Then she noticed row after row of mostly attentive faces, and among them Jannie Cross.
    She found herself smiling as she watched Jannie, who happened to be talking to Ms. Shaw. Jannie Cross was so animated and bright, and she had such a sweet perspective on the world. She was a lot like her father.
Smart, sensitive, handsome as sin
.
    Christine eventually walked on. Preoccupied, she found herself climbing the concrete stairs to the second floor. Even the walls of the stairwells were decorated with projects and brightly colored artwork, which was part of the reason most of the kids believed that this was “their school.” Once you understood something was “yours,” you protected it, felt a part of it. It was a simple enough idea, but one that the government in Washington seemed not to