James Patterson - Step On A Crack

Jack called out to his compatriot, “Little John, I couldn’t have said it any better myself.”

HOW COULD IT be Christmas Eve? I thought.

I stood on the corner of 50th Street and watched as snow began to fall, but not the soft, feathery flake variety. I flipped up my collar at the gritty bits of frozen rain that scoured at my face like sand tossed in a wind tunnel.

Over at the command center, I’d heard about a new problem for us to contend with. Along the lines of barricades, tourist crowds had gathered and were resisting being dispersed. Having been denied a peek at the Rock Center tree that had been cordoned off, they were content to stand around and gape at the unfolding spectacle.

I watched a group of teenage girls, cheerleaders from Wichita, Kansas, arrive at the northwest corner of 51st, laughing as they pumped handwritten free mercedes signs into the air. A few had siege of st. pat’s T-shirts over their sweaters.

I shook my head. You knew you were in trouble when somebody was selling T-shirts. I could see every member of my Manhattan North Homicide squad sporting them when I returned to the squad room. If I returned , that was.

I wandered over toward Lieutenant Reno and HRT chief Oakley, who were commiserating in front of the black FBI tactical bus. Oakley had a folded blueprint in his hand.

“Mike,” Oakley said, “we’re going over that first idea you had about the north spire again. Figuring out some way to go in the cathedral up there.”

I looked at the commando chief. His face was drawn and weary, but even in the cold murk, there was no mistaking the determination in his eyes. Oakley had lost one of his men, and it didn’t look like he would be slowing down until something was done about it.

“It’s probably the next best tactical option,” I said. “But after what happened in the concourse, I’m worried about getting ambushed again. And it might be a lot harder to fall back from three hundred feet in the air.”

“We’ve spoken to Will Matthews and the FBI special agent in charge,” Reno said. “The next decision to go tactical will be a full-force breach from every side. Next time they send us in, we won’t stop until every hijacker is taken out, Mike.”

I was standing there, trying to shrug off the implications of what Reno had just said, when I heard the squall of feedback coming from the north. I rubbed my eyes, trying to register what I was seeing. Here we go again.

Beyond the barricades and news trucks, a group of young black men was standing on top of a yellow school bus. A short boy tapped at the microphone stand in front of him.

“One, two,” came his amplified voice. Then there was a pause, and he started singing.

The song was “I Believe I Can Fly.” It was like a punch in the chest when the choir joined the soloist, bursting in with “Spread my wings and fly away.”

I could read the banner on the side of the bus. boys choir of harlem. Most of them were probably from one of the kidnapped reverends’ congregations.

All we needed was a Ferris wheel and cotton candy, and we could start charging admission to this freak show on Fifth Avenue.

Though I had to admit, the boys’ soaring voices brightened the gloom somehow.

Reno must have thought so, too, because he grinned as he shook his head.

“Only in New York,” he said.

A MAKESHIFT MESS HALL for the army of law enforcement had been set up right in the main lobby of Saks Fifth Avenue.

I went in through the revolving doors under the neon snowflakes to grab a quick bite to eat. The Four Seasons restaurant’s recent offer of hostage meals had been rejected by Jack, so they had given the food to us instead. Christmas Muzak blared down from garlanded ceiling speakers as I spooned duck prosciutto and turkey hash onto my daisy plate. It wasn’t the continuing surrealism of the siege situation that was alarming so much as the fact that I was starting to get used to it.

I could hear that the Boys Choir still believed they could fly as I came back out onto the street. I brought my food past the animatronic Santa in Saks’s plate-glass window and back to the trailer. I was on my second bite of tuna tartare when the crisis cell rang on my belt.

What now? I thought. What’s your pleasure, Jack? At your service, of course.

“Mike here,” I said.

“How’s it hanging, Mickey?” Jack said. “Cold enough for you? Kind of toasty in here.”

For a moment, I thought of the various strategies I could use. I could go passive or aggressive. Ask some questions to feel out his present mood. I was tired of strategies, though. Jack was the one toying with us, and I was sick of pretending it was the other way around. At this point, I was sick of talking to Jack, period. And it didn’t matter what I said, did it?

“Killing the mayor was a mistake,” I said, lowering my plastic fork. “You wanted us to believe you’re a psychopath not to be trifled with? Well, you did a good job. Only that just makes storming in there more of a foregone conclusion. Which, according to you, blows up the cathedral. Which will kill you. Which makes spending all that money kind of hard. So, you really are crazy? Help me out here. I’m having trouble keeping up.”

“So glum, Mick,” Jack said. “It’s like you’re giving up, and it’s only the third quarter. Check it out. You’ve finally started paying. That was good. Real good. Now, all you have to do is come through with the rest of the dough-re-mi. Then it will get real interesting, I promise. How do the bad guys get away with it? So, stick with me here. Reach way down deep. Oh, and by the way, before I forget. There’ll be another celebrity body at midnight.”

“Jack, listen. Don’t do it,” I said. “We can work something…”

“ Shut up !” Jack yelled.

I immediately stopped talking.

“I’m tired of your bull, my friend,” Jack said. “The delays. The stalling. You guys took your best shot and missed, and now it’s time for you to pay for messing with us. Piss me off a little more and instead of one dead celeb, I’ll make things so bad, Prada will be coming out with a body bag this season.

“You receiving my transmission loud and clear, Mike? I repeat, there will be another famous body at midnight. No more easy ones like the worthless mayor either. I’ve already made my selection. You’ll like this one. Oh, and stop that singing right now, or I believe I will kill all the female hostages .”

WITH ANOTHER BLOCK of excruciating downtime in front of us, I grabbed the opportunity to hand over the crisis phone to Ned Mason. Then I headed uptown to see Maeve.

I noticed a change when I came into her room. The sheets were different, flannel, new, and crisp. There was a vase full of fresh flowers, and she was wearing a new bathrobe. They were nice additions, so why did they creep me out?

Maeve was awake, watching CNN, which now had ongoing coverage of the siege. What ever happened to the Yule log? I found the remote and clicked off the set before I took her hand.

“Hey, you,” I said.

“I saw you on the tube,” Maeve said, smiling. “You always look so handsome in that suit. Whose christening did you wear it to? Shawna’s?”

“Chrissy’s,” I said.

“Chrissy,” my wife said with a sigh. “How is my little Peep?”

“She came into the nest the other night,” I said. “I forgot to tell you. I forgot to tell you a lot of things, Maeve. I…”

My wife raised her hand and put her finger to my lips.

“I know,” she said.

“I shouldn’t have been so concerned with my stupid job. I wish…”