James Patterson - Step On A Crack

“Jack? Come in,” came a voice from his radio.

“What now?” he answered.

“Come back to the chapel right now!” the radio said. “One of the fish has fallen and claims he can’t get up.”

Jack shook his head with a snort of disgust. His guys were great come ball-crushing time. They had guts and were loyal and obedient to a fault. But have them make a decision on their own about the tiniest shit, you were asking for a confirmed miracle.

He keyed the Motorola.

“On my way,” he said, getting to his feet.

Not again , Jack thought when he arrived at the rear chapel rail.

Another big shot was slabbed out on the marble floor.

REAL ESTATE TYCOON Xavier Brown’s eyes were rolled way back in his head, his open silk shirt showing an expanse of snow-blind white belly. The talk show woman, Eugena, was sitting almost on top of him, compressing his chest with the heels of her hands, saying, “Hold on, hold on, Xavier.”

“What the hell did you do to him?” Jack said to Little John.

“Nothing,” Little John answered defensively. “That’s just it. Fatty got up, complained his arm was hurting him, and then boom, down he goes. Beached whale.”

Jack knelt next to the talk show lady. He had to admit, even given how much he despised these worthless, privileged wimps, it was a little weird. He was starting to respect some of them-like Eugena.

“How’s he looking?” he asked her.

“Very bad,” Eugena said, continuing CPR. “His pulse is very weak. If he doesn’t get to a hospital, he’ll die. No , I don’t know that for certain, but it’s what I think.”

“Damn,” Jack said, standing directly over Brown. Another snag. Potentially a very costly one. What to do to protect his investment?

Jack snatched up his phone and hit redial.

“Mike here,” came the detective’s voice. Jack had to admit the cop was good. They just sent out the mayor carved up like a Halloween pumpkin, and the cop sounded like a concierge at a four-star hotel. You know it, pal. The hijacker is always right .

“You got a problem,” Jack said. “Hot-shit honcho Xavier Brown’s stock has just taken a sudden nosedive. I think his ticker’s having trouble keeping up with all the fun and excitement. Tell you what, Mike, I’ll let him out of here before his aorta explodes, but you have to pay his ransom first.”

“We don’t have it all together yet, Jack,” the detective said. “You have to give us more time.”

More time, is it? Jack thought. Wonder why. To figure out another way in and take us out, perhaps? These dolts couldn’t help sticking to the dusty playbook, could they? No wonder he was going to get away with this.

“Go ahead and send his money first then,” Jack said. “Or then again, don’t. But tell his people they better decide quick. X. Brown is looking like the next time he makes it into the Wall Street Journal , it’s going to be on the Obit page. I’ll be watching the account. I see my money, I open the front door.”

“I’ll let them know,” the negotiator said.

“You do that,” Jack said.

It took five of his men to drag the heavy financier up the aisle toward the main entrance of the cathedral. His guys looked like a radical tree-hugging order of monks trying to save a manatee. Eugena Humphrey tagged along the whole way, even dropping down to give the tycoon CPR in the vestibule. She was turning out to be a pretty good chick.

He turned when one of his men called to him from one of the little security rooms off the main altar. A laptop sat on a beat-up desk before the man.

“They did it!” the gunman said with excitement. “They moved it already. The money is there.”

Jack smiled as he came over and looked at the screen. A three followed by six zeros was in the column next to their Costa Rican bank account number. By way of a half dozen Cayman Island, Isle of Man, and Swiss banks, untwisting the pretzel of dummy accounts and wire transfers would be impossible.

Three million. He was a millionaire.

Before he was forty, too.

He was almost giddy when he lifted his radio.

“Release the Fat Man,” he said.

JACK WAS SO JUICED by the progress, he helped pass out lunch to the hostages himself. Actually, he took great pleasure in providing a cold Mickey D’s-only menu for the fussy celebrity gourmands. “Dah, dah, dot, dah, dah-I’m lovin’ it.”

He paused at the front of the chapel, staring out at his favorite captives. Funny, they didn’t look like they were ready for the red carpet anymore. Had to be a real bitch and a half, trying to face the day without their maids and personal trainers and lifestyle coaches. Pale and crumpled and baggy-eyed, munching on their fast food, they reminded him of something.

Oh, yeah, he remembered.

Human beings.

He took the microphone off its stand.

“Hey, everybody,” he said. “Finally, things are starting to break our way. Ransoms have begun rolling in. Won’t be long now. Hope all your stockings are hung over the chimney with care.”

Jack paused. His amplified sigh was almost wistful.

“Got to hand it to you as a whole, guys,” he said. “I really thought a bunch of soft celebrities like yourselves would freak out under the circumstances. But for the most part, you’ve proved me wrong. You held up better than expected, and for that, you should be proud. And I really do hope the authorities continue cooperating. You can take this experience with you and get on with your lives. And even if a couple more of you have to be eliminated, you can go down realizing how lucky you are to die in your prime. It’ll be James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, and you. You might have made yourselves stars, but think about it. A couple in the back of the head on the steps of St. Paddy’s? It’ll turn you into legends.”

As Jack stepped down from the pulpit, Eugena Humphrey stood.

“Sir,” she called out bravely, “may I communicate with you about something? Can we talk?”

Jack reached into his robe for his Taser, then stopped himself. There was a mesmerizing sincerity in the talk show host’s face that even he couldn’t deny was compelling.

“Make it snappy,” Jack finally said.

“Thank you,” Eugena said. She cleared her throat and looked directly into Jack’s eyes.

No wonder this lady was so successful, Jack thought, feeling the weight of her confidence and intensity. It was as if the two of them were together in a small, cozy room-instead of yelling at each other over guns and hostages.

“What I want to say is this,” Eugena said. “We’re all truly sorry if who we are and what our lifestyles are all about have hurt you in some way. I’ll be the first to admit that I am sometimes consumed with things instead of other people’s feelings. But, honestly, after this ordeal, I do feel different. I’m going to enjoy the simple things in life again. I’ve learned from this experience, as I’m sure all of us have, and in some strange way, I’d actually like to thank you. But please, don’t kill anybody else. Because deep down, you’re right. We’re not special. We’re just people. Like you.”

Jack stood there, just staring at the woman. He would have thought it was impossible, but he almost felt guilty for a second. This stupid broad’s somewhat eloquent plea had almost unnerved him. He didn’t even watch her stupid show.

Jack was about to announce that whatever happened, she herself would be spared, when Little John, standing beside Eugena, drew his nine millimeter. He pressed the steel barrel to the talk show host’s cheek.

“That was really emotional,” Little John said, cocking the hammer with his thumb. “I’m crying so hard, I wet my panties. But you must have missed the e-mail about nobody giving a crap. Now, you either put a sock in it, or I’ll put a bullet in it. This isn’t your talk show, lady. This is our show.”