James Patterson - Merry Christmas, Alex Cross

By the time I finished reading him his rights, the front door was rammed open, and Nu’s men were breaking through the door between the porch and the kitchen. They ran to us, used zip ties on Fowler’s ankles and wrists.

Medics rushed into the house. The two SWAT officers lifted Fowler to his feet. He was going to have a hell of a black eye from the pounding he’d taken against the floor.

He stared at me. “Why didn’t you let them kill me?”

“Like I said, I believe in the redemptive power of Christmas.”

“Not for me.” Fowler shook his head. “I’ll be in a jail cell. I’ll be tortured by what I’ve done for the rest of my life.”

“Unless you testify,” I said.

“What?”

“Come forward with what you know. Tell the truth about the Huntington’s drug and the hepatitis vaccine. You can still save lives, prevent brain damage.”

Fowler stared at me as if this had never occurred to him.

“Merry Christmas, Fowler,” I said. Then SWAT took him away.

My eyes began to water, and I wiped them on the back of my sleeve. Maybe what my grandmother had always said about Christmas was true.

“You okay, Alex?” Nu asked.

He’d come in through the broken-down back door.

“Yeah,” I said, watching Fowler disappear. “I’m doing fine.”

We went to the living room, where McGoey was on top of everything. Crime scene photographers were already snapping away at the broken lamps, the shot-up gifts, and the busted Christmas tree. Social workers were talking to the kids-wiping faces, feeding them fruit, getting them to the bathroom. EMTs were working on Dr. Nicholson.

A gurney was brought through the front door. Two EMT guys slid a board under the badly wounded man. They carefully hoisted him onto the gurney and carried him out.

Diana followed the gurney. She stopped for a second and turned to me.

“God bless you, Detective.”

“You too. Take care of your husband, your kids,” I told her.

“Somebody close the damn door,” Nu shouted. “It’s cold in here.”

“Yeah, you’ve got it rough, Adam,” I told him.

McGoey smiled and said, “The plan worked. You’re a smart guy.”

“What if it hadn’t worked?” I asked. “What would you be saying then?”

“I’d be saying, ‘You’re the dumbass who got himself shot on Christmas morning.’”

The three of us took a last look at the living room. I doubted there was much that hadn’t been cracked, smashed, broken, or torn.

“God,” said McGoey. “Looks like there was one helluva party here.”

“Oh, there was,” I said. “One helluva party.” I shook my head. I felt like I should smile. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

I looked at my watch. It was nearly eight thirty a.m. I took out my phone and tapped in Bree’s name.

“Hey,” I said. “Save me some sweet bacon. I’m coming home.”

Snow in Washington, DC, is always a disaster. Four inches can snarl traffic inside the Beltway. Eight inches will most definitely spawn a nightmare of accidents and near gridlock. True paralysis, however, arrives when the snow depth exceeds fourteen inches, a rare event.

Between ten o’clock on Christmas Eve and ten the following evening, nearly twenty-three inches of snow would blanket the city. It shut down the airport. It shut down the Metro and the bus system. Few cars moved that entire Christmas Day.

At around nine on that Christmas morning, there was only fourteen inches of snow to deal with, but I still couldn’t get my car to move. I had to have a Metro patrol unit bring me home. The officer and I had to get out twice to push the stuck cruiser from a drift over on Constitution Avenue. I’d given Nu back his extra boots, and my shoes got soaked and my toes were numb when I reached our home on Fifth Street.

Needless to say, when my family heard the front door open, almost everybody rushed over to kiss me and hug me and wish me merry Christmas. I held Bree tight, said, “This is the best present I could ever get.”

But Nana remained seated in her chair, her little throne.

“My, my,” she finally said. “Is that my grandson over there? Must be a real special occasion that’s got him visiting. Oh, I guess it’s Christmas.”

I walked to her chair and lifted her up. We stood with our arms around each other, and I never would have imagined a woman that size could have so much strength. She nearly squeezed the air right out of me.

“I just made you some sweet bacon,” she said.

“Sweet bacon and a nap sounds just about perfect,” I said.

Even Nana Mama decided that spending Christmas Eve convincing a crazy man not to kill his family was enough of a reason for me to be excused from attending eleven o’clock mass.

Bree tucked me in and I slept like a dead man for four hours, up until I heard Damon cheering downstairs. He’d become a big hockey fan at prep school and was watching a television broadcast of a game being played at a rink set up inside Fenway Park.

I came downstairs groggily, smelled turkey roasting, and looked at the television. “Snowing in Boston too.”

“It’s snowing everywhere,” Jannie said. “They say it won’t stop here until, like, tonight. Kind of a waste, if you ask me.”

“Why’s that?”

“If it was like two weeks from now, they’d call off school.”

“The reporters say you saved a guy’s life last night,” Damon said.

“Maybe two guys’ lives,” I replied.

“That’s pretty cool.”

“A gift, if you think about it.”

I spent the rest of the afternoon eating too many cookies, watching the game, holding Bree whenever I could, and listening to my grandmother tell stories about Christmases past while she made yams with little marshmallows, and brussels sprouts with leftover bits of sweet bacon, and a pecan pie that I almost risked my fingers to taste.

“Stay away from that now,” Nana kept saying and swatting at my hand.

I taught Damon to carve the turkey when it came out of the oven around five. I carried that platter. Everyone else brought in his or her favorite dish. Damon had the marshmallow yams. Bree had whipped potatoes. Ava brought the cranberry sauce. Jannie carried the stuffing as if she were in a procession.

And, just like every year, someone had to be asked to bring in the brussels sprouts. That would be me.

We sat at the table with cloth napkins, good china, a little crystal for the Christmas wine.

“Alex,” Nana said. That was my signal to say grace. We held hands with one another. Bree held mine so tight that I thought she might never let go.

Then I spoke. “Let us thank the Lord for this meal. And also for our health and happiness. And-for being a good family gathered together like this on Christmas Day.”

I paused and then said, “Now let us silently give our own personal thanks.”

“I’m glad my dad is home!” Damon said and we all smiled.

“Me too,” I said.

Then the room went completely silent. The seconds passed. I had a lot to be thankful for: the safety of my family, my own survival, the joy of-

The prayerful silence was broken by Ava.

“I’m hungry. Doesn’t the Lord know it’s Christmas?”

We all laughed. And then the bowls and platters of food were passed around. And just as we started to dig in, my cell phone rang.

Before the phone jangled, everyone had been happy, thrilled to have me home at last, safe and sound. Now every face fell.

Nana shook a butter knife at me. “Don’t you dare answer that, Alex. Don’t you dare.”

Though everyone had been fine once I got home, I knew the hostage situation had taken its toll. Not only had I been in danger, but I had missed our family traditions. I had not been home to sing carols and put the kids to bed on Christmas Eve. I had not been up at dawn with Nana Mama to stuff the stockings. I had not been there to watch my children open their presents, and I had not been around to help make sweet bacon.