James Patterson - I, Michael Bennett

“Wait a second. You actually worship death?” I said, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“In a way, yes,” Perrine said. “Death wins eventually, always, and every time.”

“But I don’t get it,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

“Get what?” he said.

“If death is so great, why don’t you put your money where your mouth is and kill yourself? I mean, go for it. Please.”

He shook his head.

“You do not understand,” he said.

“I understand perfectly,” I said raising a finger and pointing it at him. “It’s you who doesn’t get it. You don’t worship death, Perrine. You worship murder. You worship power and evil and hurting people.”

Perrine sat up with a loud snap of his chair.

“What I believe and what my men believe is… ”

He suddenly stopped and caught hold of himself. He smiled as he smoothed his jumpsuit.

“My apologies, Detective. I promised myself that I would not lose my composure, but here I am letting my temper get the best of me.”

He dropped his voice into a whisper as he leaned forward, staring into my eyes.

“Now, let us stop fucking around, yes? I have a one-time offer for you, and it is quite a deal, so consider it closely. I give you two hundred fifty million dollars. Let me repeat, that is two hundred fifty million dollars, and you get me out of here. Offshore account. My girl’s number is already on your phone. You’ll have access within two hours.”

“What?” I said, stifling a laugh.

“You do not think I am serious?” he said, light flashing in his weird, faded-blue eyes. “I am a man of very considerable means, but what can money do for me here in this place? We need to get rolling immediately. What’s the American expression? ‘Window of opportunity’? Our window of opportunity here is closing very rapidly.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Or, more precisely, I couldn’t believe how open and confident Perrine was as he offered his bribe. He truly seemed to believe that I would take his blood money.

Since time was of the essence, I decided to give him my answer right away. My right hand suddenly reached under the table, grabbed one of the legs of his chair, and pulled it. Perrine yelled as he slammed down backward onto the concrete floor.

I heard the guard, watching through the one-way mirror, come running. Perrine cursed a blue streak at me as he tried to scramble to his feet.

“When are you going to get it into that thick skull of yours, Perrine?” I said as the locks on the door clicked open. “You’re in the big city now, and no matter how much money or how many freakish drug soldiers you have, I’m going to make you pay for all the evil you’ve done.

“Do you know why? It’s simple. I’m going to do it because it’s my job. I’m the garbageman and you’re the garbage, so into the back of the truck and on to the dump we go. Comprenez-vous? ”

As the guards took him away, Perrine tried to spit on me but ended up just spitting on himself. As he began to curse at me again, I smiled. I knew all along that talking to Perrine would be useless. The only reason I’d come up here was to piss him off as much as I could. Knocking his ass onto the floor had been icing on the cake.

Finally, my day was taking a turn for the better, I thought as I headed back toward the room where they were holding my gun.

This was even better than squirrel therapy.

Bright and early Wednesday morning, I was finally doing it. Finally and happily hitting the road on the long-awaited Bennett family vacation. It was smooth sailing, too. Well, at least for the first five blocks it was. As I pulled onto the West Side Highway, the air conditioner of the beat-up rented bus I was driving began hosing my knees with ice water.

I wouldn’t have minded so much except that the bus had a stick shift, and we were in the middle of bumper-to-bumper traffic. For the better part of an hour, it was clutch and soak and brake and soak and clutch. To make matters worse, all my wiseacre kids were scrunched down in their seats behind me so as not to be spotted by anyone they knew.

When I pulled up in front of our building in the Cheez-It-colored minibus, I guess Trent’s cry of, “Hey, look, everyone! Dad bought a dorkmobile!” summed up the general consensus on the transportation. We usually travel in our Ford Econoline van, but with all our luggage, even that was too small for my clan of cave bears.

And the kids were right. The bus was a beat-up yellow eyesore. Luckily for me, though, as a well-seasoned dad, I had long ago become immune to embarrassment on matters of style.

Yet even an incontinent bus and my ten mortified dependents couldn’t remove the smile from my face as I made my escape from New York. No price was too high for the privilege of not having to look at or think about Perrine or body bags or my bosses, at least for a little while.

Thankfully, the traffic, along with my kids’ complaining groans, finally thinned out after we put the George Washington Bridge and its truly mind-blowing vehicular congestion in our rearview mirror. I really couldn’t wait to get up to the old family house on Orange Lake. This year, we had the place to ourselves for the last two months of summer. I couldn’t wait to force-feed a little peace and quiet and country living to my kids, who thought the New York City border was the very edge of the earth.

My mood lifted even more five minutes later, as we came over the span of the Henry Hudson Bridge and I saw the majestic river sparkling far below. Even the kids seemed duly impressed with the massive Hudson and the stark cliffs of the New Jersey Palisades.

“This is it, kids,” I said as we finally came through the toll-booth. “Full speed ahead for the SS Dorkmobile. Northward ho!”

I put the Bennett magic bus in the left-hand lane and gave her all she had, which turned out to be about fifty-five. About an hour later, I knew we were home free as we got off I-684 onto westbound I-84. I always loved that section of I-84 between Connecticut and the Hudson, where it’s nothing but trees and rugged hills.

I was taking in the distant Catskill Mountains vista near East Fishkill when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Hey, Dad,” Jane suddenly said in my ear. “A sign back there said Ludingtonville. Is that named after Sybil Ludington?”

“Actually, yes. I believe it is.”

“Sybil who?” said Bridget, pulling out her earbuds.

“Sybil Ludington. She was only like the coolest sixteen-year-old girl ever,” Jane said, turning to her little sister. “In the Revolutionary War, she got on a horse and warned everyone in the New York militia that the British were coming. She was like Paul Revere, only better because she had to ride farther and faster. This is awesome, Dad,” she said, patting me on the shoulder. “I didn’t know this was going to be a historical trip.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” I said.

“Tell me I didn’t just hear a history lesson,” Ricky yelled from a few rows back. “News flash, Lady Einstein. Just because Dad is making us ride this stupid school bus doesn’t mean we’re at school.”

Eddie raised his hand.

“Ooh, ooh, Teacher Jane! Please finish your lesson about the Ride of Sybil Paddington, and when you’re done, may I have permission to open the window and hurl?”

“Enough, ye scalawags,” Father Seamus Bennett announced from the last row. “There’ll be no hurling on this bus except if it’s the sport that Irishmen play.”

I looked over at Mary Catherine, who was trying not to grin at me over the Anne Rivers Siddons paperback in her hand.

“Are we there yet?” I whined.

The last of my thoughts and concerns about my job and the city flew away as we crossed the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge. This was always the best part of the trip when I was a kid: the final marker that said good-bye, concrete and crowds and sweating on the subway, and hello, swim trunks and blue sky and summer fun.