by Mary McBride
“Can’t,” Joe said, taking another sip from his glass, grinning at her over the rim. “No icebergs around here.”
Sara put her own glass down, then pulled her robe closer to ward off the sudden apprehensions. As opposed to her usual free-floating anxieties, these were based on very real dangers. “Tell me one more tune how it’s supposed to go tomorrow,” she asked him.
“It’ll go like clockwork, honey.” He put a reassuring hand over hers. “I promise. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”
“Tell me anyway, Joe. I forgot what time you said Frank Junior’s flight gets in.”
“Four o’clock.” He traded his champagne flute for a knife and fork, continuing to eat his filet mignon as if he hadn’t a worry in the world.
Sara’s world, on the other hand, seemed comprised of nothing but worries. Whole continents of them. “And then what happens?” she prompted.
“You don’t need to know all this, Sara. All you have to do is—”
“I want to know,” she said. “Otherwise I really will feel like a helpless worm skewered on a hook. If you’re planning to use me to catch this guy, I want to know the details. I need to know.”
He put his fork down. “Okay. This is the way it’s going to shake out. Frank’s picking his son up at the airport, then on their way home they’ll shoot the breeze about what’s happening at the university, what’s going on in the department.”
“Frank Senior and Junior have discussed the Ripper before?” she asked.
“Apparently. It’s probably why the guy’s been so successful for so long. He knows everything the police know. So Frank’s going to confide in him that our heretofore unreliable witness...” He gave her a quick wink, adding, “That’s you, babe,” before he continued to outline the plan.
“Frank will tell him that your memory miraculously cleared and that you’re set for working with a sketch artist first thing tomorrow morning. He’ll also add, as casually as possible, that there’s been a snafu in the department’s scheduling and nobody’s been assigned to you tonight. That unless he makes some calls, you’ll be all alone in your big, big house.”
Sara leaned forward. “And you’re hoping that, while Senior is making those fake calls, Junior will show up at my house.”
“That’s the plan.”
He spoke with such confidence, such ease, as if it had already been accomplished, as if it would work perfectly simply because mighty Joe Decker wanted it to. Sara, however, was more accustomed to seeking out the flies in the ointment, always anticipating the worst.
“Now tell me what can go wrong,” she said.
“Nothing.”
“Joe.” She dragged his name out to two, almost three whiny syllables.
“Nothing is going to go wrong, Sara,” he insisted. “Only Maggie and the captain are in on this so we can keep it as quiet as possible for the sake of the department. She’ll be parked out on Westbury. I’ll be in the house. Frank will be right behind Frank Junior. I don’t expect the whole thing to take more than a few minutes once it goes down.”
She raised a skeptical brow. “So, crazed killers always do exactly what you expect, Lieutenant?”
“In this case, yes.” He put down his fork and reached for her hand. The corners of his mouth were suddenly weighted down with seriousness. Before he spoke, he pressed his lips warmly to the backs of her fingers. “You don’t honestly believe I’d put you in any jeopardy, do you?”
“No, I don’t. But it’s not myself I’m worried about. It’s you.”
“Me!” He let out a surprised laugh. “I’ve been catching bad guys for a long time, babe, remember? Trust me, okay? Nobody’s going to get hurt tomorrow. But, if anybody does, it’s going to be Junior.”
There was nothing smug in his tone, and nothing that even hinted at macho bragging. It was confidence, pure and simple. To the marrow of his bones, Joe Decker—the good guy—believed in his abilities. That confidence was evident in the set of his jaw, the firm line of his mouth and the unwavering gaze of his steel gray eyes.
“I do trust you.” Sara sighed and squeezed his hand tighter. “And not only with my life. I trust you with my heart. I’m not sure I’ve ever done that before.”
His oh-so-serious mouth gave way to the smallest of smiles. “That’s because you know I’ll take good care of it.” The smile fairly sizzled when he added, “And all the rest of you, too.”
As pleasing as the notion was to her, Sara winced ever so slightly. She moved herself up, then scuttled off the bed with more speed than grace before heading for the curtained window where she stood with her arms tightly wrapped around her. “You’re not getting any bargain, Decker.”
“I wasn’t looking for a bargain, Campbell,” he said behind her. “As a matter of fact, I wasn’t looking for anything or anyone until you just kind of flopped down on the pavement right in front of me.”
“No, what I mean is...”
“Shh.”
Sara heard a rustle of sheets and then Joe was close behind her, his arms wrapping around her, his cheek pressing against hers and his warmth seeping through her back.
“I know exactly what you mean,” he whispered huskily. “It doesn’t matter. Honey, it doesn’t make any difference to me if you want to stay cooped up at home twenty-four hours a day fifty-two weeks a year. It’s okay.” He brushed her cheek with his lips. “Hell, babe. It’s great, even. It makes you easier to find.”
“Well, that’s one way of looking at it,” she said with a pronounced sigh, still unconvinced despite the sincerity in his voice. She didn’t doubt that he meant what he was saying. In fact, she was sure of that. He understood her agoraphobia. More important, he accepted it. At least he did now. But what about in six months? Being cooped up in the dead of winter in front of a cozy fire was one thing. What about in the good old summertime? How accepting would he be when June busted out all over?
“You don’t believe me, do you?” he asked, slowly turning her in his arms until they were face-to-face. “Sara?” He urged her chin up with his thumb. “What do I have to do to make you see that I love you just the way you are and that I’m not going to try to change you? I’ll help you if you want to change. I’ll hold your hand or do whatever it takes, but only if it’s what you want. What do I have to do to convince you?”
She bit her lip, blinking back tears, thinking there was nothing in the world he could do to make her believe there wouldn’t come a day when he’d grow restless and bored, when all he wanted to do would be to break free of her limitations, to smash all her selfimposed barriers and well-constructed walls. “I... I don’t think you can convince me.”
He let out his breath in a long, exasperated sigh, but he never once diverted his eyes from hers or lessened the intensity of his gaze. His expression was somehow fierce and puzzled and patient all at the same time. “Do you even want me to try?” he asked.
“Do I—” The question took her completely by surprise. She had expected him to shout at her, to throw up his hands in frustration, perhaps even turn his back and walk away. After all, that’s what everybody else did when she was being defensive. When she said, “Leave me alone,” people generally did.
“Do you want me to convince you?” he asked.
“Well, I...” Sara stammered before she found her voice. “Yes. Yes, I do. Convince me, Decker, if you think you can.”
“All right. Don’t move,” he told her. “Wait right here by the window.”
Sara did as she was told, and while she stood there, she watched Joe move about their suite with deliberation, snapping off lights one by one, pitching her a grin from each lamp and wall switch. Finally, the only illumination that remained was the red dot that glowed on the smoke detector on the far wall. The suite was pitch black, and she couldn’t see Joe anymore. What in heaven’s name was he doing? She half expected that brilliant grin of his to materialize high overhead—disembodied, Cheshire-catlike.
“Don’t move.” His voice was just to her
right, close even though she hadn’t heard his footsteps.
“What in the world are you—”
Sara’s question was cut off by a sudden whoosh of fabric. A distinct breeze tickled the back of her neck, and when she turned around, she found herself standing before a wide wall of glass, twenty stories above the night city and its moving traffic and myriad twinkling lights.
“There’s your big, bad world, Sara,” Joe whispered as his arms curved around her once more from behind.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, then added with a plaintive sigh, “from here.”
He murmured in apparent agreement, moving closer, holding her tighter. “Look over there to the southeast. Right about at ten o’clock. What do you see?”
Imagining the cityscape below as a clock face, Sara decided ten o’clock must be where the big premiere light sat atop the magnificent old Nile Theater. At the moment, its long blue beam moved across the sky as if it were a glowing minute hand. “The Nile? Is that what you mean?”
“Uh-huh. Would you want to go there right now?”
“No.” A tiny wing of fear fluttered in her chest, brushed against her ribs.
“Why not?” Joe asked softly.
“Too crowded,” she said, trying to come up with a reason that didn’t include the words panic or attack. “I just wouldn’t.”
“Neither would I,” he said. “Want to know why?”
Sara nodded, feeling the day’s growth of stubble on the cheek pressed against hers.
“I wouldn’t want to go to the Nile because you’re not there,” he said. “Now, what do you see out there at, oh, about two o’clock?”
Sara gazed a little to the right. “In the park, you mean?”
“Can you see the roller coaster?”
She saw it clearly, outlined with thousands of multicolored blinking lights. “I used to ride on that when I was little. My parents had their chauffeur, Daniel, take me to the park a couple times a year.”
“Want to go there now?”
“No,” she responded immediately. “You know I don’t, Joe.”
“Well, neither do I. Want to know why?”
“Why?”
He moved even closer, as close as the terry of their two robes allowed. “Because you’re not there, Sara.” His lips brushed her ear, sending a scatter of goose bumps down her arms. There was a thread of amusement in his voice when he asked, “Am I making my point here? Or do you need more?”
“More,” she said, leaning her head back against his shoulder, not sure whether she meant more touching or more convincing or both. Decker was so good at both of them.
“All right. Let’s see. Aha. Just over there. Can you see the beacon on top of the Stolar Building?”
Sara’s eyes had drifted closed, but she answered yes anyway. That beacon was a longtime landmark on the tall office building. It changed colors with the seasons, and she supposed it was either red or green this month, or maybe leftover orange from Halloween.
“There’s a great little restaurant in the basement there,” Joe continued. “Almost as good as Mama Savona’s. Want to go?”
She rolled her head on his shoulder, meaning no, no way, absolutely not.
“Neither do I,” he said. “Know why?”
Sara smiled. “Let me guess. Because I’m not there?”
“Bingo.” His hand slipped between the lapels of her robe to gently cup her breast. His voice was like warm velvet at her ear, like the resonant purr of a barely tame yet deeply contented lion. “I want to be with you, Sara. I want to come home to you, wherever that might be, for the next forty or fifty years.”
“Yes,” she said. “I want that, too.” She’d never wanted anything more.
Without another word, Joe scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed where they made slow, sweet love. As if the next forty or fifty years were beginning then and there. As if they had all the time in the world.
As if their world that night was perfectly safe and secure, with no dark corners where danger might lurk. Just one big round bed. Population: two.
Chapter 14
It was nearly one o’clock the next afternoon when Joe pulled into Sara’s driveway and turned off the ignition. He’d move the car out of sight later, he decided. No sense in unsettling Sara with the tactical small stuff, plus he didn’t want to jog a half mile along Westbury Boulevard carrying a not-so-easily concealed weapon.
“Home, sweet home,” he said with a glance to his right, expecting to see relief on Sara’s face. It was there, but it was accompanied by another emotion, one he couldn’t readily identify. The slant of her lips was contemplative, almost sad. “What are you thinking?” he asked.
She sighed, looking even more wistful. “I was thinking that I’m really going to miss our lovely little sanctuary on the twentieth floor. I’m glad to be home, sure, but I loved being there with you. Every minute of it.”
“Me, too.” He curved his hand around her neck, drawing her close, then once again tasting the mouth that had become so familiar, so generous, so unbelievably soft and sweet. He had kissed her so much during the past twenty-four hours, it was a wonder her lips weren’t callused.
They had stayed in bed this morning, kissing and more, protected by the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, until nearly checkout time. They hadn’t even bothered to order breakfast, because a visit from room service would have meant that one of them would have had to get up and get dressed, but mostly because they were only hungry for each other. Kissing Sara brought Joe’s hunger back with a vengeance.
“We can go back there sometime,” he said. “Anytime. Whenever you want.”
“That would be nice.”
Her tone didn’t quite match her words, though, and when Joe pulled back, he noticed the tiny tic of worry at the edges of her smile. He could almost hear her pulse rate picking up speed, signaling distress. That served as a fairly emphatic if not grim reminder that their idyllic little honeymoon had come to an end, and it was time to get back to business. In Sara’s case, that seemed to mean succumbing once more to her anxieties. In his case, it meant getting ready to bring down the South Side Ripper.
After he hauled Sara’s enormous suitcase out of the trunk of his car, he leaned in to unlock the long metal box he’d had welded to the interior, removing his SR-60 sniper rifle with its night vision scope. Just in case Junior got a little unpredictable.
“Good Lord,” Sara murmured when he emerged from the depths of the trunk with the weapon. She took a step back, blinked, then stared at him as if a black mamba snake had suddenly materialized in his hand rather than a black chrome gun. “You’re not actually going to use that thing, are you?” she asked.
“What? This?” He grinned his damnedest, hoping to reassure her. “Nah. It’s just a prop, babe, to make me look like the meanest kid on the block.”
She shivered, obviously unconvinced. “I think I like your little gun better,” she said, then shrugged and started up the sidewalk toward the house.
It had snowed while they’d been at the hotel, and as he followed her, he had to smile at the dainty little footprints she made. He’d have to remember to bring a shovel to clear the walk when he came out to move his car. Not that he really expected Junior to notice the size elevens that followed in her wake, but the more alone and vulnerable Miss Sara Campbell looked, the better.
It wasn’t easy for Sara to pretend it was just a normal afternoon. After she unpacked—feeling foolish as she put away a ten-day wardrobe for their two-day stay at the hotel—she tried to work at her computer a while, but couldn’t concentrate while visions of pistols and sniper rifles and ski masks reeled through her head.
She wandered downstairs and into the kitchen, where she tried to plan a menu for Thanksgiving dinner next week. She’d invite Joe’s family, she decided. Parents, sisters, brothers, the entire crew. If she, Mohammed, couldn’t go to the mountain, then she’d simply bring the mountain here to Westbury Boulevard for turkey and all the trimmings. B
ut every time she looked at her watch or the clock above the refrigerator, she found herself counting off the minutes until four o’clock instead of calculating pounds of green beans and cranberries and yams.
Frank Junior’s flight was due at four. Then Sara totaled up time for moving sidewalks and baggage carousels, a trek across a parking lot, a busy ticket booth, a long drive to the Cobbles’ home and then the deadly trip from there to here, the trap on Westbury Boulevard. The mathematics of this cat-and-mouse game gave her a headache. She tried not to think at all, left the kitchen and settled in front of the fireplace, frowning into the flames while she punished her cuticles and chewed her nails.
Joe, meanwhile, seemed to handle the tension and the prospect of danger far better than she did. Well, he was used to it, she supposed. After all, it was his job. He spent the afternoon in constant motion—shoveling the sidewalk, driving his car around the block, doing a salvo of sit-ups and push-ups and just prowling around the house like a guard dog, eager to confront a burglar or two and to sink his incisors deep into a criminal’s leg.
A little after four, Joe’s prowling brought him into the den. Without a word, he kissed the top of Sara’s head, then went to the phone, where he punched in a succession of numbers. Sara watched the taut lines of his body and the fierce concentration on his face as he listened to whatever was being said on the other end of the line. When he finally put the receiver in its cradle, he drew in a long, silent breath, then rolled his neck and shoulders slightly, as if to ease the accumulated tension there.
“The plane was on time,” he said quietly. “It’s at the gate right now.”
“That’s good,” Sara answered, thinking it wasn’t good at all. She’d much prefer to hear that Junior’s flight had been canceled. Or, heaven help her, worse. “What if he doesn’t come?”
“He’ll come. Frank Cobble might not be the world’s best cop, but he’s a great salesman. He could probably sell snake oil to a cobra. He’ll make Junior think that getting to you will be a cinch.”
As if to emphasize his certainty, Joe pulled out his automatic, checked the clip, then returned it to his holster. Sara had watched him do that at least a dozen times in the past few hours. It was like a nervous tic. If he habitually inspected the rifle, too, she didn’t know. He’d put that nasty-looking piece of equipment out of sight.