James Patterson - The 9th Judgment

“Stop arguing with me.”

I laughed and turned my head so I could look at his strong profile in silhouette against the cobalt-blue dusk. I let centrifugal force hold me against the car door when Joe made the turn onto Arguello and I watched the steeples of St. John’s go by. I must’ve closed my eyes, because I woke hearing Joe telling me that we were home.

He helped me onto the sidewalk outside our building and steadied me as I got my balance.

Joe was asking, “What do you feel like having for dinner?” when I saw what had to be an illusion. Across the street was a blue Honda wagon with a crumpled right fender.

“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to the car.

I didn’t wait for Joe to answer. I knew that car. Even from twenty feet away, I could see writing on the windshield. Fear shot through me as if Pete Gordon had lit a fuse under the soles of my shoes.

How did he know where I lived?

Why had he driven his car to my door?

I ran out into the Lake Street traffic, dodging cars blowing past me. I reached the Honda, cupped my hands to the glass, and peered inside. I saw the little boy lying on his side across the backseat. Even in the low light, the round dark spot on Steven Gordon’s temple was a vivid red.

The psycho had shot his little boy.

He’d shot him-even though we’d done everything he asked us to do! I screamed, “No!” and wrenched the door open. The dome light flashed on, and I seized the child by the shoulder. The little boy’s eyes opened, and he jerked away from me, screaming.

He was alive. I gibbered, “Stevie, are you okay, are you okay? Everything’s going to be all right.”

“I want my mom-my.”

I used my thumb to wipe away the lipstick from the side of Steven’s head, a mark so obscene, I couldn’t bear to look at it. I took the child out of the car and swung him onto my hip, holding him tight. “Okay, little guy. Your mommy will be here soon.”

Joe was leaning into the front seat. He fastened his eyes on the letters written on the windshield.

“What is it? What does it say?” I asked him.

“Aw shit, Linds. This guy is crazy.”

“Tell me.”

“It says, ‘Now I want five million. Don’t screw it up again.’ ”

He was going to kill more people if he didn’t get the money. He’d done it before. I swayed on my feet, and Joe put his arms around me and the boy in my arms.

“He’s desperate,” Joe said. “He’s a terrorist. Don’t let him get to you, Linds. It’s all bull.”

I wanted Joe to be right, but the last time the city hadn’t come through with the ransom money, Gordon had killed three more people.

“Don’t screw it up again” wasn’t a taunt. It was a threat, a loaded gun pointed at the people of San Francisco. And because I seemed to have become Gordon’s connection to the rest of the world, that threat was also pointed at me.

Joe put his arm around me and led me back to his car, settling me into the backseat with Steven. He slid behind the wheel and locked the doors. I patted the boy’s back as Joe got Dick Benbow on the line. I thought about Stevie Gordon’s father, a homicidal maniac with nothing to lose.

Where the hell was he?

I didn’t think I could sleep until he was dead.

JACOBI HAD PUT a meaty hand on each of my shoulders and looked into my eyes. “Peter Gordon is the FBI’s problem, Boxer. You did everything you could do. The little boy is safe. Now, take a few days off. Take as much time as you need.”

I knew Jacobi was right. I needed a rest, physically and emotionally. I’d gotten so bad that I jumped when the drip coffeemaker hissed.

On Sunday, Joe and I reached Monster Park halfway through the first quarter. The 49ers were trailing the St. Louis Rams, but I didn’t care. I was with Joe. It was a great day to be sitting along the fifty-yard line. And, yeah, we were carrying guns and wearing Kevlar under our jackets.

A guard had to bump a couple of squatters from our pricey FBI-comped seats, but I forgot about that little skirmish as the screen pass unfolded below.

Arnaz Battle speared the slightly overthrown pass, tucked it in, and followed his blockers downfield. At the Rams’ forty, he cut to the right sideline and raced, untouched, to the end zone.

I was jumping up and down. Joe grabbed me and gave me a great big kiss, five stars at least. I heard someone shout from the tier above, a loudmouth yelling over the crowd noise, “Get a room!”

I turned and saw that it was one of the squatters we’d evicted. He was loaded and he was a jerk. I yelled back, “Get a life!” And, to my amazement, the lout got out of his seat and headed down to where Joe and I were sitting.

And he stood there, towering over us.

“What do you think?” the guy shouted, saliva spraying out of his mouth. “You think because you can afford these seats, you can do anything you want?”

I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I didn’t like what I saw. When a guy goes bug-nuts at a sporting event, the next thing you know, a lot of other guys want in on the action.

“Why don’t you go back to the seat you paid for?” Joe said, standing up. My fiancé is over six feet and solid, but he was not as big as the flabby loudmouth’s three hundred pounds. “We’re missing the game, and you’re making the lady uncomfortable.”

“What lady?” said the jerk. “I see a big-assed bitch, but I don’t see no lady.”

Joe reached out, grabbed the guy’s jacket, and held it tight under his chin. I put my badge up to his face and said, “Big-assed cop, you mean.”

I signaled to the stadium cops, who were jogging down the stairs. As the loudmouth was roughly hustled up the steps over encouraging shouts from the fans around us, I realized I was panting, adrenaline flooding through my veins all over again.

I had been a nanosecond from pulling my gun.

Joe put his arms around me and said, “What about it, Linds? As the man said, let’s get a room.”

“Great idea,” I said. “I’ve got one in mind.”

THE CURTAINS IN our bedroom were stirring with a light breeze coming in through the cracked-open window. Joe had cooked for us, bathed us, admired my “perfect bottom,” and wrapped me in terry cloth.

He wouldn’t let me do a thing.

I was on my back in the center of the bed, looking up at him, huge and gorgeous in the soft light coming from the desk lamp and the streetlight outside.

“Don’t move, Blondie,” Joe said.

He tossed his towel over the door without taking his eyes off me. My breathing had quickened, and I fumbled with the belt that cinched my robe at the waist.

“What did I tell you, Linds? Doctor’s orders. Don’t move.”

I laughed as he stretched out on the huge bed beside me.

“My nose itches,” I said.

“I’ve got an itch, too.”

“Okay, goofball.”

“Goofball, huh?”

He turned onto his side and kissed my neck, a certain way he has of getting me from zero to sixty. I reached up to put my arms around his neck, and he put them back down. “Lie still.”

He undid my robe and shifted me-and then we were both naked under the covers.

We lay entwined, facing each other, my leg hooked over Joe’s hip, his arms wrapped entirely around me, my cheek in the hollow of his neck. I felt safe and very loved and had a sense of wonder that after all the ups and downs we’d weathered, we’d arrived at this wonderful state.

Joe gathered my hair and twisted it around his hand, then kissed my throat. He reached around me and pulled me closer. I made a small adjustment with my hips so that he could enter me. For a moment, I forgot to inhale. I was at the edge of a precipice, and I didn’t want to stop.