James Patterson - Step On A Crack

They wanted things to go slow, methodically slow. That way, the crowds would gather. That way, the media, along with the rest of the world watching at home, would come together to put the pressure on so that this thing would be resolved. But the pressure wasn’t on them, I realized.

It was on us.

Someone had finally done it. Someone had devised law enforcement’s worst nightmare. As time went by and the bodies piled up, we looked worse and worse. It made any decision to breach the cathedral in a rescue attempt almost impossible. If we screwed up, and boom , the place went up, people wouldn’t blame the hijackers, they’d blame us.

I let the crisis phone ring four times before I answered it.

“Hi. It’s Jack,” he said, and actually sounded gleeful. “Hi-Jack. Get it? Sure, it’s not as funny as Rooney, but I’m thinking his stand-up days are over. Time’s up, Mike. No more excuses. No more delays. If all the money isn’t in my account by nine o’clock tomorrow morning, there’ll be so many dead rich and famous people under the ol’ tree this Christmas, Santa’ll have to leave all the presents in the fireplace.”

IT WAS COMING on two in the morning when I slowly, painfully, lifted my head off the laptop keyboard I’d been using for a pillow. I was aware of the earring Maeve had given me. Also, that for the first time in hours, the activity in the makeshift Rockefeller command center had died down to a murmur.

Our work was almost done here. It had taken every ounce of finagling and begging and negotiating, but we’d somehow gotten all but four of the seventy-three million dollars together.

Delta Force had arrived around midnight and was working with the FBI and NYPD tactical people, trying to find some weakness, some helpful detail that had been overlooked. I’d heard that a mock-up of the cathedral was being built at an army base in Westchester to assist the commandos to plan for a breach.

As a kid, the thought of ever seeing soldiers patrolling the streets of New York was ridiculous, a scene from a B science-fiction movie. Seeing the soldiers on the perimeter of Ground Zero and watching the F-14s buzzing the Midtown skyscrapers as they flew air cover after 9/11 still didn’t seem real to me, but it was .

I sat up as an army general came past my desk. Seeing combat boots on NYC ground twice in one lifetime, I thought as I watched the officer and his entourage enter the command boardroom, seemed unfair.

“Why don’t you take a breather, Mike?” Paul Martelli told me with a yawn. He’d just come back from catching some sleep. “Nothing going on here for a little while.”

“We’re coming down to the end of this thing,” I said. “I don’t want to be missing if I’m needed.”

Martelli patted me on the shoulder.

“Listen, Mike,” he said, “we all know about your wife, your family situation. I can’t even imagine the stress you’re under. We’ll call you the second something develops. Now get out of here. Go be with your family. Mason and I have you covered.”

Martelli didn’t have to tell me twice. Anyway, I felt the negotiations were over- they’d won . We still had to negotiate the hostages’ release and whatever kind of transportation the hijackers thought they would need to get them to safety. But all that could wait.

Maeve was sleeping when I came in. I wasn’t about to wake her from such a peaceful state. On her bedside table, Jimmy Stewart was reluctantly receiving a cigar from Potter on the screen of the portable DVD player. I shut it off.

I stood there staring at my dear, sweet wife, the treasure of my life.

I smiled as I remembered our first date. I had just taken my finger off the bell to her apartment when she threw open the door and kissed me. There was a flash of her honey-brown eyes, the spiced sweetness of her perfume, and without preamble, soft lips hit me, and my heart smacked against the back of my chest like a handball.

“Thought I’d save us a little awkwardness later,” she’d said, her smile beaming as I stammered a bit, reeling against her threshold.

“Sweet Maeve,” I whispered now from the foot of her bed. “There’ll never be a man as lucky as me. I love you so much, my queen.” I touched a finger to my lips, then to hers.

Minutes later, I swung crosstown again. There wasn’t a soul on the windswept streets. Even the homeless had gone home for Christmas, I guessed.

I went into the kids’ rooms and checked on them. There were probably visions of PlayStation and XBox dancing in their heads instead of sugarplums, but at least they were snug in their beds as required. Seamus was snoring to beat the band on top of the chaise in my bedroom, cookie crumbs on his cheeks. My eleventh kid. I tossed a throw on him and turned out the light.

My biggest shock came when I stepped into the living room. Not only was there a grand tree, but it had been decorated to the nines. The kids’ gifts had been pulled from the back of my closet, expertly wrapped, and stacked in ten piles under it.

There was a note on the DVD remote sitting on the sectional. hit play, it said. merry christmas! mary catherine.

I did as instructed. A video shot of Chrissy, dressed as an angel and proceeding up the aisle in Holy Name’s gym, filled the screen.

I teared up, but not angrily this time. What an awesome job Mary Catherine and my grandfather had done. What could be more beautiful than this?

Duh, how about Maeve there, healthy, beside you ? a voice inside me said.

I didn’t have the strength to listen to voices right now. It would all be over soon. I wiped my eyes to watch as my boys, now shepherds, came wandering from afar toward the stage. God save the Bennetts .

I DON’T KNOW what I appreciated more when I woke up early on Christmas morning. The unmatchably wonderful smell of coffee and bacon wafting through my open door or the barely stifled giggling coming from the other side of my bed.

“Oh, no,” I said, sitting up after a particularly loud titter. “All my children are sound asleep… and there’s Irish ghosts in my room!”

There was an explosion of laughter as Shawna, Chrissy, and Trent tackled me back onto my pillow.

“It’s not ghosts,” Trent said, kangaroo-bouncing up and down beside my head. “It’s Christmas!”

Tugging one hand apiece, Chrissy and Shawna got me to my feet and pulled me out into the sweetly pine-scented living room.

I got my Christmas present right there and then when I looked down at my two little ones. Norman Rockwell couldn’t have painted it any better. Christmas-tree lights softly illuminating the breathless, saucer-eyed wonder of two little girls on this special day of days.

“You were right, Daddy!” Chrissy said, letting me go as she clapped her hands over her head. “I left the kitchen window open, and Santa made it!”

I saw Trent shaking a box.

“How about you little guys wake up the big ones first,” I said. “Then we’ll open presents together, okay?”

Three little comets rocketed out of the room simultaneously. I headed for the kitchen, following that wonderful smell. Mary Catherine smiled at me as she poured pancake batter into a skillet.

“Merry Christmas, Mike,” she said. “Do you like your fried egg on top of the pancake or on the side?”

“Whatever’s easiest,” I said, stunned to learn that having both pancakes and eggs at once was within the realm of the possible. “I don’t know how I’m ever going to thank you for all you’ve done for my family. The tree, taping the pageant, wrapping the gifts. Heck, I’m starting to think maybe Santa is real. You sure you’re not from Tipperary by way of the North Pole?”