Along Came a Spider - James Patterson [96]
“Did you touch bottom? You have to touch bottom on the day’s first dive.”
“Or what?” I asked Jezzie.
“Or you’re a lily-livered chicken, and you’ll drown or be lost forever in the deep woods before day’s end. That’s a true tale. I’ve seen it happen many, many times here in the Middle of Nowhere.”
We played like children in the lake. We’d both been working hard. Too hard—for almost a year of our lives.
There was a cedar ladder, the easy way back up onto the dock. The ladder was newly built. I could smell the freshness of the wood. There weren’t any splinters yet. I wondered if Jezzie had built it herself—on her vacation—just before the kidnapping.
We held on to the ladder, and on to each other. Somewhere distant on the lake, ducks honked. It was a funny sound. There was little more than a ripple on the water table that stretched out before us. Tiny waves tickled under Jezzie’s chin.
“I love you when you’re like this. You get so vulnerable,” she said. “The real you starts to show up.”
“I feel like everything’s been unreal for such a long time,” I said to Jezzie. “The kidnapping. The search for Soneji. The trial in Washington.”
“This is the only thing that’s real for the moment. Okay? I like being with you so.” Jezzie put her head on my chest.
“You like it so?”
“Yes. I like it so. See how uncomplicated it can be?” She gestured around at the picturesque lake, the deep ring of fir trees. “Don’t you see? It’s all so natural. It will be fine. I promise. No bass fishermen will ever come between us.”
Jezzie was right. For the first time in a very long time, I felt as if everything could work out—everything that might happen from now on. Things were as slow and uncomplicated and good as could be. Neither of us wanted the weekend to end.
CHAPTER 61
“I’M A HOMICIDE DETECTIVE with the Washington Police Department. My official rank is divisional chief. Sometimes, I get assigned to violent crimes where there are psychological considerations that might mean something to the case.”
I stated this under oath inside a crowded, hushed, very electric Washington courtroom. It was Monday morning. The weekend seemed a million miles away. Beads of perspiration started to roll across my scalp.
“Can you tell us why you are assigned cases with psychological implications?” Anthony Nathan asked me.
“I’m a psychologist as well as a detective. I had a private practice before I joined the D.C. police force,” I said. “Prior to that, I worked in agriculture. I was a migrant farmworker for a year.”
“Your degree is from?” Nathan refused to be distracted from establishing me as an impressive-as-hell person.
“As you already know, Mr. Nathan, my doctorate is from Johns Hopkins.”
“One of the finest schools in the country, certainly this part of the country,” he said.
“Objection. That’s Mr. Nathan’s opinion.” Mary Warner made a fair legal point.
Judge Kaplan upheld the objection.
“You’ve also published articles in Psychiatric Archives, in the American Journal of Psychiatry.” Nathan continued as if Ms. Warner and Judge Kaplan were inconsequential.
“I’ve written a few papers. It’s really not such a big deal, Mr. Nathan. A lot of psychologists publish.”
“But not in the Journal and Archives, Dr. Cross. What was the subject of these learned articles?”
“I write about the criminal mind. I know enough three- and four-syllable words to qualify for the so-called learned journals.”
“I admire your modesty, I honestly do. Tell me something, Dr. Cross. You’ve observed me these past few weeks. How would you describe my personality?”
“I’d need some private sessions for that, Mr. Nathan. I’m not sure if you could pay me enough for the therapy.”
There was laughter throughout the courtroom. Even Judge Kaplan enjoyed a rare moment of mirth.
“Hazard a guess,” Nathan continued. “I can take it.”
He had a quick and very inventive mind. Anthony Nathan was highly creative. He had first established that I was my own witness, not an “expert” in his pocket.
“You