Second Honeymoon

by James Patterson

  “Where do you have your guys?” Sarah asked Melvin.

  “One outside the front of his house, one inside covering the only other way in—a sliding glass door to a patio,” he said.

  “The one stationed out front, is he in a patrol car or an unmarked?” asked Sarah.

  “Patrol car,” he answered. “Why?”

  I knew why. I also knew Sarah wanted to tread very carefully with her answer. We couldn’t come blowing into town, asking an officer to be a guinea pig.

  “We can’t catch this killer by scaring him away,” she said.

  Melvin nodded, scratching the edge of his thick mustache. He sort of looked like the great catcher and former captain of the Yankees Thurman Munson.

  “What are you suggesting?” he asked warily.

  “That Agent O’Hara and I take the front in an unmarked car, and you keep one of your guys inside, like you’ve been doing.”

  He chuckled, only to immediately apologize. “I’m sorry,” he said, turning to me. “I still can’t get over the fact that your name is also John O’Hara. Kinda like running into a tornado instead of away from it, no?”

  If you only knew, my friend. If you only knew.

  Melvin had no qualms about Sarah’s suggestion, if for no other reason than it meant he now had to dedicate only one of his men to this stakeout instead of two. “You’re saving me a nice chunk of overtime pay from a budget that’s already stretched too thin,” he said. He smiled. “How long can you stay in town?”

  “As long as it takes,” said Sarah.

  But we both knew that wasn’t true. You can only go AWOL from the Bureau for so long. We’d bought ourselves twenty-four hours—thirty-six tops.

  One way or the other we were headed for some kind of reckoning.

  Chapter 111

  “IF YOU NEED me I’ll be in the master bedroom,” I said jokingly, climbing into the back of our rented Grand Cherokee. With the rear seat down and a blanket, it actually wasn’t so bad compared to some of the fleabag motels I’d stayed in when I was undercover with the NYPD.

  I glanced at my watch. Twenty-three hours and counting.

  We remained parked diagonally across the street from John O’Hara’s house on Stillwater Lane. They sure got the “still” part right. Not only had there been no sign of Ned Sinclair, there was basically no sign of anyone.

  Except for real-estate agents, that is. Their signs were everywhere. Half the homes on the block, all ranch-style, all covered in gray, white, or brown shingles, were for sale. Suffice it to say Stillwater Lane had more than its fair share of mortgages in trouble.

  All in all, it was a pretty depressing sight, although it did solve a problem for us. Thanks to a real-estate agent that Chief Melvin knew, Sarah and I were able to use a vacant house down the street for bathroom trips and to wash up.

  But the sleeping we did in the Jeep. That was a no-brainer. If Ned Sinclair planned on making an appearance, we needed to be close. Real close.

  “Try not to snore, okay?” retorted Sarah from behind the wheel.

  She’d been busting my chops about the four hours of sleep we took turns getting during the night not being enough for me. I couldn’t help it, though. I was beat.

  I stretched out in the back. The Birdwood cop with the 8:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. shift inside the house was due in a half hour. He was bringing our dinner, too. A little catnap for me beforehand was just what the doctor ordered.

  Unfortunately, I’d barely closed my eyes when I heard Sarah mutter under her breath, “He’s early.”

  I sat up, looking out the side window to see a patrol car pull into O’Hara’s driveway.

  Out stepped Officer Lohman. I remembered his name because he’d brought us Chinese takeout the night before and I had the pork lo mein.

  Note to self: never order the pork lo mein in Birdwood, Nebraska.

  “Shit, where’s our pizza?” I said, seeing that he was empty-handed. Not only was he early, he’d forgotten our large pepperoni-and-mushroom. Had he no shame?

  Apparently he had no excuse, either. Sarah and I waited for him to come over to us and offer up some type of explanation. At the very least he needed to confirm what frequency we’d be using on our radios during his shift.

  But he was heading straight for O’Hara’s house. Immediately, Sarah stepped out of the Jeep. “I’ll see what’s up,” she said.

  I watched as she crossed the street, calling out Lohman’s name. When he turned around he looked startled, as if Sarah had surprised him.

  But that made no sense; he knew we were there.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Chapter 112

  IT HAPPENED SO fast, and yet in some strange and sickening way I felt as if I were watching it in slow motion. Probably because there was nothing I could do to save her.

  Halfway between the Jeep and Officer Lohman, Sarah made a desperate grab for her gun. Desperate because Lohman, inexplicably, had already reached for his.

  He got off one shot, the blood instantly exploding out of Sarah’s shoulder as she fell backward. His second shot got her in the other arm, spinning her around as she hit the pavement face-first.

  I should’ve gone out the back door of the Jeep, away from his line of fire. I was no good to her if I went down, too. But the adrenaline, the anger, the sheer frustration of watching her get blindsided had me bursting out into the street, running straight at him at full speed.

  He got off one shot as I raised my gun, the bullet buzzing so close to my ear I could feel the breeze.

  Now it’s my turn, asshole.

  He knew it, too. With the first squeeze of my trigger he was already on the run, diving behind the grille of his stolen patrol car. When he turned to fire back at me, I unloaded the rest of my clip so fast he dropped his gun trying to duck.

  “Here,” said Sarah, her voice straining as I knelt down in front of her. She lifted her arm just enough to hand me her gun. “Get him.”

  But I couldn’t even see him. And there was no way I would leave her side.

  Shielding her as best as I could, I waited for his next move.

  Instead it was someone else’s.

  The front door of the house swung open. It was the cop guarding O’Hara from the inside. His gun was drawn and he was confused as hell.

  Why is the FBI agent firing at my fellow officer?

  Only it wasn’t one of his fellow officers.

  Even in the uniform, even with the hat pulled down over his eyes, even in the shadows of the setting sun, even with my having seen only an outdated picture of him—I knew.

  “It’s him!” I yelled. “That’s Sinclair!”

  I couldn’t blame the cop for freezing for a split second, his mind piecing everything together, including the grim prospects for the real Officer Lohman. You just don’t steal an armed police officer’s uniform and car by saying “pretty please.”

  But if there was any doubt as to where this cop should be pointing his gun, Sinclair cleared it up right away. He sprang up from in front of the patrol car like a jack-in-the-box, squeezing off two quick shots at the cop before dropping out of sight again. The second shot splintered the wood frame of the front door, just barely missing the cop’s chest as he ducked back into the house. For sure, he was radioing for backup.

  For sure, Sinclair knew that, too.

  The next sound I heard was the door opening on the far side of the patrol car, the driver’s side. I couldn’t see him, and that was the plan. He was crawling behind the wheel, starting the engine. Ducking below the dash, he jammed on the gas, blindly backing out of the driveway.

  My first shot hit the side window, the glass shattering. I next went for the tires, taking out the two closest to me.

  But he was still moving, barreling into the street before shifting out of reverse, his tires squealing against the pavement as he hit the gas.

  “Go!” I heard behind me.

  It was as if Sarah had pooled all her remaining strength to make sure I wouldn’
t do what I was about to do. I did it anyway. I let Sinclair drive off without chasing him, and stayed to help her.

  I pulled out my folded handkerchief, pressing it firmly over the shoulder wound to stanch the bleeding.

  “Here,” came a voice behind me. The officer from inside the house was handing me a belt. “An ambulance is on the way.”

  I tightened the belt above the second wound, this one below the biceps. She’d already lost so much blood.

  “You’re going to be fine,” I told her. “Just fine.”

  She glanced at the Grand Cherokee, her voice weak. “You should’ve gone after him,” she said, barely above a whisper.

  “What, and miss playing doctor with you here?”

  I could tell she wanted to laugh, but she didn’t have the strength. “You big dope,” she said.

  I lifted her head, cradling it in my hands. Her breathing was slower, more labored. Where the hell is that ambulance?

  “Hang on, okay? You have to hang on for me,” I told her.

  She nodded ever so slightly, those beautiful jade-green eyes of hers struggling to stay open.

  Until, finally, they no longer could.

  Chapter 113

  THE NURSE HOOKING up Sarah’s fifth blood transfusion at Great Plains Regional Medical Center had no idea that she and her pink smock were all that stood between me and the verbal beat-down that absolutely, positively was coming my way courtesy of Dan Driesen. He’d just walked in the door straight from Casper, his jacket off and sleeves rolled up. He didn’t say a word to me, but if looks could kill I would’ve been toes-up at the morgue.

  I couldn’t blame the guy for being mad as hell. Up until that moment, my reputation had merely preceded me. Now I’d managed to exceed it in ways that would surely get me suspended again, if not booted from the Bureau forever.

  Sure, Sarah was a big girl and had made her own decision to join me in Birdwood, but now she was lying unconscious after thirteen hours and counting, having lost more blood than, quote, “most folks live to tell about.”

  This according to her doctor, who delivered the line with a face so straight it could cut glass.

  “Visiting hours are over in fifteen minutes,” announced the nurse as she left the room. She might as well have rung the bell ringside at Madison Square Garden.

  Gentlemen, touch gloves and come out fighting.

  Driesen circled me for a moment, as if waiting to see whether I’d offer up some lame excuse or, worse, try to argue that I hadn’t done anything wrong. But that would just be me leaning into his first punch. That much I knew not to do.

  Finally, as I simply stared back at him in silence, he unloaded on me.

  “What the fuck were you thinking?” he asked.

  “I’m—”

  “Shut up!” he said. “Do you realize how many ways to Sunday you screwed things up?”

  “I know that—”

  “SHUT UP!” he yelled. “I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT!”

  I stood up, taking a step toward him. “THEN STOP FUCKING ASKING ME QUESTIONS!” I yelled back.

  It was a bad move, but I couldn’t help it. Besides, what was one more bad move on the heels of so many others?

  Driesen got up in my face so tight I could count his pores. The thought of leaning into his punch was no longer a metaphor. The guy looked as if he actually wanted to take a swing at me.

  It was only fitting, then, that I’d be saved by the bell, courtesy of the same woman who’d rung it in the first place.

  The nurse and her pink smock stormed back into the room, the rubber soles of her shoes squeaking on the floor like nails on a blackboard.

  “That’s it!” she snapped. “Visiting hours are over!”

  Driesen looked at her for a moment, his eyebrows angled as if trying to decide how to respond. He opted for calm and apologetic. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “We’ll keep it down.”

  “You’re damn right,” she said in reply. “I want you both out of here…now!”

  For good measure, she pointed toward the door, like a gestapo Babe Ruth calling his home-run shot.

  Of course, as the reigning expert in the room on bad moves, I could’ve told her she should’ve quit while she was ahead.

  On a dime, Driesen scrapped calm and apologetic in favor of outright apocalyptic. In a voice louder than I thought humanly possible, he laid into this short and stout woman so fast and furious that it would’ve been funny if it weren’t so scary.

  That’s when I knew. Driesen was more than Sarah’s boss. He was a mentor—her rabbi, a father figure. We both really needed her to be okay.

  Score one for screaming like a madman.

  No sooner had Driesen let up for a second, if only to catch his breath, than we heard the best sound in the world…a voice I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear again.

  “Jeez, can’t a girl get some sleep around here?”

  In unison we all turned to Sarah lying in the bed, her eyes now open. Driesen smiled. I smiled. Even the nurse smiled.

  Then Sarah smiled.

  She was going to be okay.

  Chapter 114

  I WANTED TO rush over to her. Hold her. Kiss her. At the very least I wanted to take her hand so I could feel her touch against mine.

  All things I couldn’t do.

  With Driesen in the room I was merely Sarah’s colleague at the Bureau who was very happy to see that she was going to survive. All smiles and relief—from a proper and platonic distance.

  Sarah’s doctor was summoned. As soon as he arrived Driesen waved me over to the corner of the room by the door. There was no more yelling, no more right up in my face. Chalk it up to the overwhelmingly good feeling in the room. Still, as he spoke, there was no mistaking the tone. He was dead serious.

  “This is what happens now, whether you like it or not,” he began before detailing what would be my open-ended stay at the Bureau Hotel back in New York until Sinclair was caught. House arrest, for all intents and purposes. “Are we clear?”

  “We’re clear,” I answered.

  The only freedom I had was once again choosing whether or not to pull the boys from camp to join me.

  “Think about it for a moment while I make a couple of calls,” said Driesen, reaching for his cell.

  He left the room, finally leaving Sarah and me alone. Hospitals are one big revolving door, and there was no telling when a nurse, doctor, or even Driesen would return, so I made it fast. The kiss. The hug. The chance to tell her that she scared the hell out of me. The one thing I didn’t need to tell her was that I hadn’t felt this way about another woman since my wife had died.

  But Sarah had figured that out on her own.

  “I recognized him,” she said, referring to Sinclair. “But he recognized me first.”

  “Only by a fraction of a second,” I said.

  She glanced at her shoulder and then her other arm, both heavily bandaged. “That’s all it took.”

  I squeezed her hand, smiling. “Lucky shots.”

  Sure enough, without so much as a knock on the door, another nurse strolled in. I quickly let go of Sarah’s hand, although this particular nurse was so preoccupied with the bouquet of yellow lilies she was carrying that it hardly seemed to matter. “These just arrived for you,” she announced. She placed them down on the windowsill, but not before burying her nose deep into the bouquet, breathing deeply. “They smell terrific.”

  Sarah looked at the flowers and then back at me as the nurse walked out. There had to be at least two dozen lilies, beautifully arranged.

  “Don’t look at me; I didn’t send them,” I said.

  She laughed. “It sure wasn’t Driesen. Flowers are definitely not in his repertoire.”

  “Maybe it’s standing operating procedure from Quantico,” I said jokingly. “One dozen for every bullet you take.”

  I walked over to the bouquet, spotting a small envelope attached to the lip of the glass vase. Pulling out the card, I read it silently.

  �
�Who’s it from?” she asked.

  I didn’t answer right away. I was reading the card for a second time, thinking. Thinking fast.

  Sarah tried again. “John, who are they from?”

  I looked up at her, shaking my head. “So much for my Quantico theory,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They must have screwed up the names. These are for someone named Jessica Baker,” I said. “I’ll go clear it up with the nurse.”

  I walked over and gave Sarah a kiss on the forehead. Then I walked out of the room, onto an elevator, and out of the hospital. I didn’t go see the nurse. And I made damn sure that Dan Driesen didn’t see me.

  I hated lying to Sarah, but it would have been worse if she had to lie to protect me. I could practically hear Driesen cursing my name and asking Sarah where the hell I was going.

  But she wouldn’t be able to tell him. No one would. No one knew where I was going now.

  This hunch was all mine.

  Chapter 115

  THE RAIN WAS relentless, beating down on my windshield so hard that the wipers could barely keep up. If I had been driving, I would’ve had to pull over. But I wasn’t driving.

  For the past two days, I’d been parked on an access road within Kensico Cemetery in Valhalla, New York. To get there I’d taken two flights from Birdwood, Nebraska, driven one rental car from Westchester County Airport, and made one stop at the local Stop & Shop to load up on food and water.

  The only other place I stopped along the way was a Radio Shack, where I bought a cell phone charger that plugged into the cigarette lighter. The long-haired clerk roaming the aisle tried to sell me on a backup battery that provided an additional six hours of talk time.

  “Good to know,” I told him. In other words, thanks but no thanks.

  Truth was, I didn’t even need the talk time I already had. I couldn’t risk being found via GPS, so I was only turning on the phone once every few hours, and only to check messages.

  The ones from Driesen tapered off after the first twenty-four hours. As for those from Sarah, I didn’t expect any, nor did they come. Some small part of her was surely miffed that I was keeping her in the dark, but the rest of her knew I had my reasons. Soon enough, she’d know them. The only question was whether I’d be right.