Step on a Crack - Brossura

Patterson, James; Ledwidge, Michael

Brossura

ISBN 10: 1455599786 ISBN 13: 9781455599783

Casa editrice: Grand Central Pub, 2013

Riassunto

As he faces a devastating personal loss, Detective Michael Bennett is about to take on the most sinister challenge of his career: a kidnapping crisis that could destroy the most powerful people in America.

The nation has fallen into mourning after the unexpected death of a beloved former First Lady, and the most powerful people in the world gather in New York for her funeral. Then the inconceivable occurs: Billionaires, politicians, and superstars of every kind are suddenly trapped within one man's brilliant and ruthless scenario. Bennett, father of ten, is pulled into the fray. As the danger escalates, Michael is hit with devastating news: After fighting for many years, his wife has succumbed to a terrible disease.

As New York descends into chaos, Bennett has lost the great love of his life and faces raising his ten devastated children alone-and rescuing 34 hostages. Day after day, Bennett confronts the most ruthless man he has ever dealt with, a man who kills without hesitation and counters everything the NYPD and FBI throw at him with impunity. As the entire world watches and the tension boils to a searing heat, Bennett has to find a way out-or face responsibility for the greatest debacle in history.

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Informazioni sull?autore

James Patterson has had more New York Times bestsellers than any other writer, ever, according to Guinness World Records. Since his first novel won the Edgar Award in 1977 James Patterson's books have sold more than 300 million copies. He is the author of the Alex Cross novels, the most popular detective series of the past twenty-five years, including Kiss the Girls and Along Came a Spider. He writes full-time and lives in Florida with his family.

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Step on a Crack

By James Patterson, Michael Ledwidge

Grand Central Publishing

Copyright © 2013 James Patterson Michael Ledwidge
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4555-9978-3

CHAPTER 1

I'LL TELL YOU THIS—even on the so-called mean streets of New York, wherethe only thing harder to get than a taxi in the rain is attention, we weremanaging to turn heads that grim, gray December afternoon.

If anything could tug at the coiled-steel heart-strings of the Big Apple'sresidents, I guess the sight of my mobilized Bennett clan—Chrissy, three;Shawna, four; Trent, five; twins Fiona and Bridget, seven; Eddie, eight; Ricky,nine; Jane, ten; Brian, eleven; and Juliana, twelve—all dressed in theirSunday best and walking in size order behind me, could do the trick.

I suppose I should have felt some privilege in being granted the knowledge thatthe milk of human kindness hasn't completely dried up in our jaded metropolis.

But at the time, the gentle nods and warm smiles we received from every McClarenstroller–pushing Yummie, construction worker, and hot dog vendor from thesubway exit next to Bloomingdale's all the way to First Avenue were completelylost on me.

I had a lot on my mind.

The only New Yorker who didn't seem like he wanted to go on a cheek-pinchingbender was the old man in the hospital gown who cupped his cigaretteand wheeled his IV cart out of the way to let us into our destination—themain entrance of the terminal wing of the New York Hospital Cancer Center.

I guess he had a lot on his mind, too.

I don't know where New York Hospital recruits its staff for the terminal cancerwing, but my guess is somebody in Human Resources hacks into St. Peter'smainframe and swipes the saint list. The constancy of their compassion and theabsolute decency with which they treated me and my family were truly awe-inspiring.

But as I passed forever-smiling Kevin at reception and angelic Sally Hitchens,the head of the Nursing Department, it took everything I had to raise my headand manage a weak nod back at them.

To say I wasn't feeling very social would have been putting it mildly.

"Oh, look, Tom," a middle-aged woman, clearly a visitor, said to herhusband at the elevator. "A teacher brought some students in to sing Christmascarols. Isn't that so nice? Merry Christmas, children!"

We get that a lot. I'm of Irish American extraction, but my kids—alladopted—run the gamut. Trent and Shawna are African American; Ricky andJulia, Hispanic; and Jane is Korean. My youngest's favorite show is TheMagic School Bus. When we brought home the DVD, she exclaimed, "Daddy, it'sa show about our family!"

Give me a fuzzy red wig and I'm a six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound Ms. Frizzle. Icertainly don't look like what I am—a senior detective with the NYPDHomicide Division, a troubleshooter, negotiator, whatever's needed by whoeverneeds it.

"Do you boys and girls know 'It Came Upon a Midnight Clear'?" the woman who hadlatched on to us persisted. I was just about to sharply point out her ignorancewhen Brian, my oldest son, glanced at the smoke coming out of my ears and pipedup.

"Oh, no, ma'am. I'm sorry. We don't. But we know 'Jingle Bells.'"

All the way up to dreaded Five, my ten kids sang "Jingle Bells" withgusto, and as we piled out of the elevator, I could see a happy tear in thewoman's eye. She wasn't here on vacation either, I realized, and my son hadsalvaged the situation better than a United Nations diplomat, certainly betterthan I ever could have.

I wanted to kiss his forehead, but eleven-year-old boys have killed over less,so I just gave him a manly pat on the back as we turned down a silent, whitecorridor.

Chrissy, with her arm around Shawna, her "best little pal" as she calls her, wasinto the second verse of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" as we passed thenurses' station. The little ones could have been life-size Precious Momentsfigurines in their dresses and pigtailed hair, thanks to the extreme makeoverwork of their older sisters, Juliana and Jane.

My kids are great. Amazing, really. Like everyone else lately, they had gone sofar above and beyond that it was hard to believe sometimes.

I guess it just pissed me off that they had to.

At the end of the second hallway we turned, a woman, wearing a flowered dressover her ninety-pound frame and a Yankees cap over her hairless head, wassitting in a wheelchair at the open door of 513.

"MOM!" the kids yelled, and the thunder of twenty feet suddenly shattered therelative silence of the hospital hall.

CHAPTER 2

THERE WAS HARDLY enough of my wife left to get twenty arms around, but the kidsmanaged it somehow. There were twenty-two arms when I got there. My wife was onmorphine, codeine, and Percocet, but the only time I saw her completely pain-free was that first moment when we arrived, when she had all her ducklingspressed around her.

"Michael," Maeve whispered to me. "Thank you. Thank you. They look sowonderful."

"So do you," I whispered back. "You didn't get out of that bed by yourselfagain, did you?"

Every day when we came to see her, she was dressed for company, her intravenouspain pack hidden away, a smile on her face.

"If you didn't want glamour, Mr. Bennett," my wife said, fighting the wearinessin her glazed eyes, "I guess you should have married someone else."

It was the morning of the previous New Year's Day when Maeve had complainedabout some stomach pain. We'd thought it was just some holiday indigestion, butwhen it hadn't gone away in two weeks, her doctor wanted to do a laparoscopyjust to be on the safe side. They found growths on both ovaries, and the biopsycame back with the worst news of all. Malignant. A week later, a second biopsyof the lymph nodes they took out with her uterus reported even worse news. Thecancer had spread, and it wasn't going to stop.

"Let me help you up this time, Maeve," I whispered as she started to pushherself up out of the chair.

"You want to get seriously hurt?" she said, glaring at me. "Mr.Tough Guy Detective!"

Maeve fought for her life and dignity like a banshee. She took on cancer the waythe outclassed Jake LaMotta took on Sugar Ray Robinson in the fifties, with anepic ferocity not to be believed.

She was a nurse herself and used every contact and every ounce of wisdom andexperience she'd gained. She underwent so many chemo and radiation treatments,it put a life-threatening strain on her heart. But even after the radicalattempts, after everything there was to be done had been done, the CAT scanrevealed growing tumors in both lungs, her liver, and her pancreas.

A quote from LaMotta rang in my ears as I watched Maeve stand on her wobblingtoothpick legs to prop herself up behind her wheelchair. "You never knocked medown, Ray," he supposedly said after Robinson TKO'd him. "You never knockedme down."

CHAPTER 3

MAEVE SAT DOWN on the bed and lifted a white chart from beside her.

"I got something for you, guys," she said softly. "Since it looks like I'm goingto be stuck here in this ridiculous place for a while longer, I decided I neededto come up with a list of chores for you."

Some of the older kids groaned. "Mom!"

"I know, I know. Chores. Who needs them?" Maeve said. "But here's my thinking.If you all work together, you can keep the apartment running for me until I getback. Okay, team? Then here we go. Julia, you're on lifeguard duty forbaths for the youngin's, and you're also responsible for getting them dressed inthe morning.

"Brian, you're my cruise director, okay? Board games, video games, Duck,Duck, Goose. Anything you can think of that's not the TV. I need you tokeep all the young men as occupied as possible.

"Jane, you're on homework patrol. Get the house genius, Eddie,to help you. Ricky, I hereby dub you the Bennett house personal lunchchef. Remember, peanut butter and jelly for everyone except Eddie and Shawnathey get baloney.

"Let's see. Fiona and Bridget. Table setting and clearing. Youcould alternate, figure it out...."

"What about me?" Trent squeaked. "What's my job? I don't have a job yet."

"You're on shoe patrol, Trent Bennett," Maeve said. "All I ever hearfrom these complainers is 'Where's my shoes? Where's my shoes?' Your job is togather up all ten pairs and get them next to everybody's bed. Don't forget yourown."

"I won't," Trent said, nodding with five-year-old intensity.

"Shawna and Chrissy, I have a job for you girls, too."

"Yay," Chrissy said, and did a little ballerina twirl. She'd gotten theBarbie of Swan Lake DVD for her birthday a month before, and everyemotion now came with an impromptu interpretive dance.

"You know Socky's dish in the kitchen?" Maeve said.

Socky was a fickle white-and-gray cat that Maeve had pulled out of the garbagealongside our West End Avenue apartment house. My wife obviously has a thing forthe misfortunate and strays. The fact that she married me proved that a longtime ago.

Shawna nodded solemnly. At four, she was the quietest and most obedient andeasygoing of all my kids. Maeve and I used to laugh at the nature-versus-nurturedebate. All ten of our kids came from the womb prepackaged with his or her ownpersonality. A parent could enhance and certainly damage, but change? Make aquiet kid gabby or a social butterfly more cerebral? Uh-uh. Not gonna happen.

"Well, it's your job to make sure Socky always has water to drink in her dish.Oh, and listen up, gang," Maeve said, sliding down a little on the bed. At thatpoint, just sitting too long in one spot hurt her.

"I want to go over a couple of other things before I forget. In this family, wealways celebrate each other's birthdays. I don't care if you're four orfourteen, or forty and scattered around the world. We gotta stick by each other,okay? And meals—as long as you live under the same roof, you have at leastone meal a day together. I don't care if it's a dreaded hot dog in front of thedastardly TV as long as you're all there. I'm always there for you, right? Well,you have to be like me even if I'm not there. You got me? Trent,are you listening?"

"Hot dogs in front of the TV," Trent said, grinning. "I love hot dogs and TV."

We all laughed.

"And I love you," Maeve said. I could see her eyelids beginning to droop."You've made me so proud. You too, Michael, my brave detective."

Maeve was facing the grave with a dignity I was unaware human beings werecapable of, and she was proud of us? Of me? What felt like an entiremain of frigid water suddenly burst down the length of my spine. I wanted tostart wailing, to put my fist through something—the window, the TV, thedirty lead skylight out in the lounge. Instead, I stepped forward through thecrowd of my children, took off my wife's cap, and kissed her gently on theforehead.

"Okay, guys. Mom needs her rest," I said, fiercely struggling to keep the crackthat was in my heart out of my voice. "Time to go. Let's move it, troop."

CHAPTER 4

IT WAS THREE FORTY-FIVE when the Neat Man stepped off Fifth Avenue, climbedstone stairs, and walked into St. Patrick's Cathedral.

He snorted at the good folk kneeling in heavy silence and prayer. Sure, hethought, the Big Guy upstairs had to be real impressed with all this pietycoming from the nerve center of the modern world's Gomorrah.

A prim, dough-faced old gal had beaten him to the first seat in the pew besidethe nearest confessional along the cathedral's south wall. What the hell kind ofsins did she have to admit? he wondered, sitting down beside her. 'Forgiveme, Father, I bought the cheap chocolate chips for the grandkids' cookies.

A fortyish priest with salon-trimmed hair showed up a minute later. FatherPatrick Mackey did a poor job of hiding his double take when he spotted the NeatMan's icy smile.

It took a little longer for the baggy-necked old lady to get out of the pew thanto make her confession. Then the Neat Man almost knocked her down as he slid inafter her through the confessional door.

"Yes, my son," said the priest behind the screen.

"Northeast corner of Fifty-first and Madison," the Neat Man said. "Twentyminutes, Fodder. Be there, or else there will be consequences."

It was more like thirty minutes later when Father Mackey opened the passengerdoor of the Neat Man's idling van. He had exchanged his priest duds for a brightblue ski jacket and jeans. He pulled a cardboard tube from beneath the jacket'spuffy folds.

"You got it!" the Neat Man said. "Well done, Fodder. You're a good assistant."

The priest nodded as he craned his neck back toward the church. "We shoulddrive," he said.

Ten minutes later, they parked in an empty lot beside an abandoned heliport. Outthrough the windshield, the East River looked like a field of trampled mudstretching before them. The Neat Man stifled a joke as he popped the lid off thecylinder the priest had brought. You could practically taste the PCBs in theair, he thought.

The prints inside were old and cracked, yellowed at the edges like parchment.The Neat Man stopped his tracing finger at the center of the second print.

There it was! It wasn't just a rumor. It was real.

And he had it.

The final detail for his masterpiece.

"And no one knows you have these?" the Neat Man said.

"No one," the priest said, and chuckled.

"Doesn't the paranoia of the Church boggle the mind? The institution I work foris a puzzle palace."

The Neat Man clucked his tongue, unable to take his eyes off the architecturaldrawing. But finally, he lifted a silenced Colt Woodsman out from underneath theseat of the van. The double tap of the .22 was subtle to the ear, but it was asif a grenade had gone off inside Father Mackey's head. "Go straight to hell,"the Neat Man said.

Then he did a frantic scan of his face in the rearview and threw his head backin horror. Specks of blood freckled his forehead above his right eye. It wasonly after he'd scoured the hateful spots with Wet-Naps and upended a bottle ofrubbing alcohol onto his face that his breathing returned to normal.

Then the Neat Man whistled tunelessly as he rolled up the prints and put themback into their cylinder.

A masterpiece, he thought once again, in the making.

CHAPTER 5

THE KIDS WERE a blur of activity once we got back home that evening. From everyroom of our apartment, instead of television and electronic gunfire, came thesatisfying sound of busy Bennetts.

Water splashed as Julia prepped Shawna and Chrissy's bath. Brian sat at thedining room table with a deck of cards, patiently teaching Trent and Eddie howto play twenty-one.

"Bam," I could hear Ricky, like an Emeril Mini-Me, say from the kitchenas he squeezed jelly onto each slice of Wonder bread. "Bam ... bam."

Jane had the flash cards out on the floor of her room and was preparing Fionaand Bridget for the 2014 SAT.

I didn't hear a complaint, a whine, or even a silly question out of anyone.

Add brilliant to the list of my wife's attributes. She must have knownhow much the kids were hurting, how disoriented and useless they felt, so shehad given them something to do to fill that void, to feel useful.

I only wished I could come up with something to make myself feel the same way.

As most parents will tell you, bedtime is the roughest time of day. Everyone,not excluding parents, is tired and cranky, and restlessness can degrade quicklyto frustration, yelling, threats, and punishments. I didn't know how Maeve didit every night—some magical, innate sense of measure and calm, I hadassumed. It was one of the things that I was most worried about having to takeon.

But by eight o'clock that night, from the sound coming out of the apartment, youwould have thought we had all left on a Christmas vacation.

I almost expected to see the window open and bedsheets tied together when I wentinto the little girls' room but all I saw were Chrissy, Shawna, Fiona, andBridget with their sheets tucked to their chins, and Julia closing an Oliviabook.

"Good night, Chrissy," I said, kissing her on her forehead. "Much love from yourdad."

I was heartened by my clutch Dad performance as I went on my rounds.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Step on a Crack by James Patterson, Michael Ledwidge. Copyright © 2013 James Patterson Michael Ledwidge. Excerpted by permission of Grand Central Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Dettagli dell?edizione

• Editore: Grand Central Pub
• Data di pubblicazione: 2013
• ISBN 10: 1455599786
• ISBN 13: 9781455599783
• Rilegatura: Copertina flessibile
• Lingua: Inglese
• Numero di pagine: 388
• Contatto del produttore: non disponibile