New Jersey, near Princeton; March 1932
The Charles Lindbergh farmhouse glowed with bright, orangish lights. It
looked like a fiery castle, especially in that gloomy, fir-wooded region
of Jersey. Shreds of misty fog touched the boy as he moved closer and
closer to his first moment of real glory, his first kill.
It was pitch-dark and the grounds were soggy and muddy and thick with
puddles. He had anticipated as much. He'd planned for everything,
including the weather.
He wore a size nine man's work boot. The toe and heel of the boots were
stuffed with torn cloth and strips of the Philadelphia Inquirer.
He wanted to leave footprints, plenty of footprints. A man's
footprints. Not the prints of a twelve-year-old boy. They would lead
from the county highway called the Stoutsburg-Wertsville Road, up to,
then back from, the farmhouse.
He began to shiver as he reached a stand of pines, not thirty yards from
the sprawling house. The mansion was just as grand as he'd imagined:
seven bedrooms and four baths on the second floor alone. Lucky Lindy and
Anne Morrow's place in the country.
Cool beans, he thought.
The boy inched closer and closer toward the dining-room window. He was
fascinated by this condition known as fame. He thought a lot
about it. Almost all the time. What was fame really like? How did
it smell? How did it taste? What did fame look like close up?
"The most popular and glamorous man in the world" was right there
sitting at the table. Charles Lindbergh was tall, elegant, and
fabulously golden haired, with a fair complexion. "Lucky Lindy" truly
seemed above everyone else.
So did his wife, Anne Morrow Lindbergh. Anne had short hair. It was
curly and black, and it made her skin look chalky white. The light from
the candles on the table appeared to be dancing around her.
Both of them sat very straight in their chairs. Yes, they certainly
looked superior, as if they were God's special gifts to the world. They
kept their heads high, delicately eating their food. He strained to see
what was on the table. It looked like lamb chops on their perfect china.
"I'll be more famous than either of you pitiful stiffs," the boy finally
whispered. He promised that to himself. Every detail had been thought
through a thousand times, at least that often. He very methodically went
to work.
The boy retrieved a wooden ladder left near the garage by workingmen.
Holding the ladder tightly against his side, he moved toward a spot just
beyond the library window. He climbed silently up to the nursery. His
pulse was racing, and his heart was pounding so loud he could hear it.
Light cast from a hallway lamp illuminated the baby's room. He could see
the crib and the snoozing little prince in it. Charles Jr., "the most
famous child on earth."
On one side, to keep away drafts, was a colorful screen with
illustrations of barnyard animals.
He felt sly and cunning. "Here comes Mr. Fox," the boy whispered as he
quietly slid open the window.
Then he took another step up the ladder and was inside the nursery at
last.
Standing over the crib, he stared at the princeling. Curls of golden
hair like his father's, but fat. Charles Jr. was gone to fat at
only twenty months.
The boy could no longer control himself. Hot tears streamed from his
eyes.
James Patterson is one of the top-selling novelists in the world today.
In addition to writing novels, Mr. Patterson served as chairman of J. Walter Thompson, North America from 1990 to 1996. He began his advertising career as a junior copywriter with the company in 1971 and went on to become the youngest executive creative director and youngest chief executive officer in the company's history.
Patterson grew up in Newburgh, New York. He graduated summa cum laude with a B.A. in English from Manhattan College and summa cum laude with an M.A. in English from Vanderbilt University.
He lives in Palm Beach County, Florida.
