Page 6 of Cross Down
“I’m not talking about being scared,” I say. “I’m talking about the poor kids, moms, and dads out there, from Anacostia to Woodley Park, none of them knowing there are targets on their backs.”
She starts to reply and other members of the task force join in, but the president raises a hand.
“Detective Sampson makes a number of good points,” he says. “General, the DC National Guard can be activated only on my orders, right?”
“That is correct, sir,” the general replies. “The National Guard in other states and territories can also be activated only by their respective governors.”
“Then I’ll make it happen when it’s necessary,” he says. “Got that, Helen?”
His chief of staff says, “Gotten, sir.”
He says, “As to the other suggestions, Doris, make those happen as well.”
The secretary of homeland security gives me a look with flamethrower eyes; if she could, she’d cut me down right now and leave a pile of ash. “Absolutely, Mr. President,” she says reluctantly.
He stands up, meaning the meeting is over. “General, tomorrow at nine a.m.?”
“Yes, sir,” he says. “I’ll let the participants know the location.”
“Very well,” the president says, and suddenly he looks tired and overwhelmed. “Bless you all.”
Once the president leaves, the briefing papers get passed up to the front of the room, where they are carefully collected by Colonel Kendricks. Alex, at my side, says in a low voice, “Guess that’s what they mean about speaking truth to power, eh?”
“Somebody had to do it, Alex.”
He gently slaps me on the back. “Good job. You beat me by about sixty seconds. Let’s brief the chief and then go home and grab some dinner. It’s a little late, but everyone’s been waiting for us.”
I smile, though now I feel as tired as the president looks. “Nana Mama cooking?”
“Doesn’t she always?”
Chapter
5
Alex Cross’s homeon Fifth Street in Southeast DC is its usual rolling chaos of laughing, good-natured insults, and more laughter. When we finish dinner, we crowd into the kitchen to help clean up after another one of Nana Mama’s memorable meals. Tonight’s roast pork loin was so tender it melted off the bone; it was served with potatoes and green beans and a dish of homemade applesauce at each table setting.
Alex, me, my daughter, Willow, and Alex’s two youngest kids—Ali and Jannie—wash and dry the dishes. Nana Mama slaps Ali’s hand as he tries to clean her big black cast-iron skillet.
“You leave that skillet alone, young man.”
“But it’s dirty and heavy,” he says. “I was just trying to help.”
She smiles and rubs his head. “That’s being a good boy, and thank you, but nobody cleans that skillet ’cept me. It took me months to season it right so it cooks perfect, and one good scrubbing with soap and a sponge will ruin it.”
After we wash the dishes, dry them, and put them all away, it’s time for dessert. I eat my homemade brownies with vanilla ice cream standing by the counter, remembering many, many years back when Nana Mama brought me to stay here after my mother went to prison the first time. My father had abandoned us long before that.
This old house with the well-kept rooms has always been my shelter, even with my home not far away. The Cross family is one that I proudly call my own.
When some form of calm returns to the kitchen, Ali goes upstairs to his room, allegedly to do homework, while Nana Mama, Willow, and Jannie move to the living room. The girls keep their eyes on the screens of their individual game consoles, and Nana Mama watches a reality-TV show about rich and pampered women who call themselves housewives. “If I had their money and jewels,” she once said, “no network would want to film me, ’cause I’d be so damn boring and happy.”
Alex and I slip out to the front porch, sit on old wicker chairs, and sip from the tumblers of bourbon in our hands. It’s reasonably quiet out here tonight, with only a few cars driving by and the occasional blare of a horn or a siren. I ask, “How’s Bree?”
“Working late,” he says. “Nana Mama saved a plate for her.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Busy,” Alex says.
