4th of July - James Patterson [85]
As I made my way through the crowd, Mayor Tom Hefferon came out of the station house wearing khaki shorts, a polo shirt, and a fishing hat covering his bald spot. He shook my hand and said, “I hope you’ll spend all of your vacations in Half Moon Bay, Lieutenant.”
Then he tapped on a microphone and the crowd quieted down.
“Everyone. Thanks for coming. This is truly Independence Day,” he said, a tremor cracking his voice. “We’re free, free to resume our lives.”
He put up his hand to quell the applause. “I give you our chief of police, Peter Stark.”
The chief was in full uniform, complete with brass buttons, shiny badge, and gun. As he shook hands with the mayor, the corners of his mouth turned up and, yes, he smiled. Then he cleared his throat and bent over the mike.
“We have a suspect in custody, and he has confessed to the murders that have terrorized the residents of Half Moon Bay.” A cheer went up into the morning mist, and some people broke down and wept with relief. A little boy brought a lit sparkler up to the platform and handed it to the chief.
“Thank you, Ryan. This is my boy,” he said to the crowd, his voice choking up. “You hang on to that, okay?” The chief pulled the child next to him, kept his hand on his son’s shoulder as he went on with his speech.
He said that the police had done their job, that the rest was up to the DA and the justice system. Then he thanked me “for being an invaluable resource to this police department” and, to more and wilder cheers, he handed a brass medal on a ribbon to his son. A patrolman held the boy’s sparkler while Ryan hung the medal around Martha’s neck. Her first commendation.
“Good dog,” said the chief.
Stark then credited every officer in his command and the state police for all they had done to “stop this one-man crime wave that took the lives of innocent citizens.”
As for me, by bringing in the killer, I’d gotten back into my own good graces.
I was still “a damned good cop.”
But even as I basked in the moment, I had to fight down a disturbing thought. It was like the little boy who was waving his sparkler and pulling on his father’s sleeve and demanding attention.
It was a thought like that.
What if the “one-man crime wave” didn’t stop?
Chapter 133
THAT NIGHT, FIREWORKS EXPLODED with incessant booms and rapid-fire cracks over Pillar Point and bloomed in the sky. I put a pillow over my head, but it didn’t block the noise worth a damn.
My hero dog was squashed way under the bed, her back against the wall.
“It’s nothing, Boo. It’ll be over soon. Chin up.”
I fell asleep only to be jolted out of it by the metallic rattle of a key in the lock.
Martha heard it, too, and streaked out of the bedroom toward the front door, barking sharply.
Someone was coming through the door.
It all happened so fast.
I wrapped my hand around my gun, lowered myself from the bed to the rag carpet, and, with my pulse hammering, I crept toward the front room.
I was touching the walls, counting the doorways between my room and the living room, my heart in my throat, when I saw the shadowy figure coming into the house.
I went into a crouch, clasped my piece with both hands in front of me, and yelled out, “Put your fucking hands where I can see them. Do it now.”
There was a shrill scream.
Moonlight pouring in from the open doorway lit my sister’s terrified face. The small child she was carrying in her arms screamed along with her.
I almost screamed myself.
I stood up, took my finger off the trigger, and let my gun hand fall to my side.
“Cat, it’s me. I’m so sorry. That’ll do, Martha! That’ll do.”
“Lindsay?” Cat came toward me, adjusting Meredith in her arms. “Is that gun loaded?”
Brigid, only six, trailed behind my sister. She pressed a floppy stuffed animal over her face and broke into a piercing wail.
My hands were shaking, and the blood was pounding in my ears.
Oh, my God. I could have shot my sister.
Chapter 134
I PUT THE GUN down on a table and grabbed Cat and Meredith into one fierce hug.
“I’m