by Mary McBride
From behind the ski mask, the Ripper’s eyes glinted feverishly. More wolf than man. Sara tried to scream but the cold air rushed into her throat and shattered her cry like broken glass, like thin ice cracking over a black, bottomless pool.
Joe leaned heavily, bracing himself against the frame of the back door, willing himself to stay conscious, to stave off the shock that kept threatening to shut his system down. He didn’t know how bad he was hurt, but he knew the knife was jammed in his side up to its hilt and that he didn’t dare remove it for fear of bleeding to death. All he needed was a minute, maybe two, to get a clean shot.
All he needed was for Sara to hold still. Through the scope, in surreal monochromes, he watched her putting up the fight of her life, twisting and tugging and scratching at the arms that were dragging her relentlessly toward the trees at the rear of the yard. If she’d just quit struggling for a second, quit coming into the crosshairs...
“Hold still, babe,” he whispered, barely getting the words past his chattering teeth. He leaned against the door frame, steadying himself. He bit his lower lip to sharpen what was left of his concentration.
Somewhere on Westbury, blocks away, Joe heard sirens begin to wail. Good. That was good. But they wouldn’t be here soon enough.
Sara must’ve heard them, too. All of a sudden, she tilted her pretty head, lifted her chin and held still as if to listen.
Joe bit down harder on his lip and squeezed the trigger.
The Ripper toppled backward, taking Sara with him into the deep and snowy branches of a pine. Still clamped tightly in his arms, she thought he’d merely lost his balance or had dived for cover at the rifle’s earsplitting crack. She lay there a moment, prone in the snow, feeling dazed and disoriented. But then, with a jolt, she realized that not only was her attacker not attacking her any longer, he wasn’t even holding her. With a cry that was closer to a whimper, she scrambled from beneath the dead weight of his thick wool sleeves and through the heavy snow-laden boughs.
The sirens she had heard only a moment before changed their timbre as vehicle after vehicle came screeching to a halt in the drive. Lights—red and blue and hot white—pierced the darkness of the back yard and lit up the night. Doors opened and thumped closed. Suddenly men in uniforms were everywhere. A helicopter appeared over her rooftop, its blades thrashing the air and its beam streaking into every corner of the yard.
Somebody took her by the arm. “Are you all right, miss?”
She blinked at the young policeman, not knowing for a second what the correct answer was. She heard herself utter yes, even though what she meant was no. No, she wasn’t all right. Where was Joe? Her frantic gaze swept what was nearly a crowd scene behind her house. “Where’s Joe? Lieutenant Decker?”
“Decker?” The young man shrugged. “I don’t know if he’s even on duty tonight, miss.” He called to one of the men surrounding the Ripper’s fallen body. “Hamilton, you seen Joe Decker anywhere around here?”
The officer jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Up there. Looks like he’s in pretty bad shape. He took a knife in the gut.”
“No.” The word broke painfully in Sara’s throat, and then, despite her bare feet and liquid knees and shaky legs, she started toward the house. “Joe!” She tried to call to him through the chaos on the ground and the hectic swirling of the chopper blades overhead. “Joe!”
“Sara!”
His hoarse cry cut through all the chaos and commotion. Sara stumbled and dropped to her knees, but the young policeman helped her up.
“Over here,” he said. “This way, miss.” He elbowed a uniformed man out of his way. “Coming through. Watch out for the lady here.”
She saw him in one swoop of the helicopter’s bright beam. He was sitting on the back porch steps, fending off a frantic pair of hands trying to attach an oxygen mask to his face. His beautiful, beautiful, pale and pain-racked face.
“Joe!” Sara ran as best she could until she reached him, until she could put out a hand and touch his knee, his arm, his cheek.
“Hey, babe.” He drew in a breath. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” He said it again and again.
He seemed to dredge deep inside himself to bring up a smile, then tipped his head into her hand, briefly touching his trembling lips to her palm. The relief in his eyes was deep and sweet, but Sara could see the relief was battling with pain. In spite of herself, she allowed her gaze to leave his face, to drop to the place where a wooden handle of a knife protruded from his shirt just above his belt. She stared in horror, then a firm arm nudged her away.
“We need room here, hon. You’ll have to move back.” The woman who spoke had tight, dark curls and coffee-colored skin. She wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Joe’s arm and, while she pumped it up, she turned her head to Sara. “You’re the Sara that the lieutenant keeps going on about?”
Sara nodded. “How...how is he?”
The paramedic was quiet for a moment, listening for Joe’s pulse with her stethoscope. Other than a thinning of her lips, her expression gave nothing away.
“The knife,” Sara whispered. “Can’t you take it out?”
“We’ll let them take care of that in the ER,” she answered calmly. “We’re going to move you onto the stretcher now, Lieutenant. Okay?”
Joe barely nodded in response. “Sara. Where’s Sara?”
“Right here, Joe.” Sara leaned as close as she could. “I’m right here with you. You’re going to be fine.”
A ghost of a grin played at the edges of his mouth, but his lips barely moved when he said, “This knife. I feel like a piece of steak.”
“And now you’re about to feel like a pincushion, Lieutenant, ’cause I’ve gotta start a line now,” the paramedic said as she took his hand and deftly inserted a needle into a vein, then taped it down.
He closed his eyes a moment as if gathering strength to speak. “You’re all right, Sara? Did Cobble hurt you?”
“No, he didn’t hurt me. I’m fine except for a few broken nails. I can’t say the same for Junior, though.”
“Not Junior, honey. It was Frank Senior.”
Sara’s mouth fell open.
Joe swore softly, weakly. “He suckered me in real good, the son of a bitch. I’m sorry, babe.” His eyes, already glassy, flooded with tears. “Jesus. I thought I was going to lose you.”
A lump lodged in her throat, but somehow she managed to let out a little laugh. “Lose me! I don’t think so, Decker. Weren’t you the guy who said he liked my agoraphobia because it makes me easy to find?”
He blinked a slow, wet and maybe even grateful yes.
“So you’re never going to lose me,” Sara continued. “I’ll always be right here.”
“Lock your doors, Campbell, till...till I get back.” He tried to grin and failed miserably.
Tears blurred Sara’s eyes, but before she could respond, a firm hand gripped her elbow and pulled her up and aside. “No more talking now, hon,” the paramedic said. “We gotta hustle. You can see him at Saint Cat’s.”
Joe was feeling better, probably because of whatever was dripping into him from the bag overhead while he waited for a CAT scan. At least he was feeling strong enough to countermand the doc’s prohibition against visitors in his little curtained-off corner of the dingy ER at Saint Cat’s. The only problem was that those visitors—Sig Tully, a detective from the fourth precinct, and Bob Tober of Internal Affairs—were having a hard time questioning him and at the same time keeping their eyes off the knife that was still sticking in Joe’s gut. In fact, if Joe felt just a tad better, he really would have enjoyed Tober’s pale, practically luminous shade of green.
No. That wasn’t true. If he felt better, he’d be out somewhere tossing back one after another neat Scotches trying to forget that Maggie was dead and that Frank Cobble Had murdered her. If Joe had been smarter, sharper, quicker, less gullible, more cautious, his partner might still be alive. And Sara. Dear God, he hardly dared think about her right now. He’d come
so close to losing her. A matter of seconds. Mere inches.
“So, you’re pretty sure Cobble’s our guy for the other eight victims?” Tully asked him, breaking into his thoughts.
“Makes sense,” Joe said.
The detective quirked an eyebrow. “And a motive? You got any ideas?”
“Hey, I’m not a shrink, Tully.” He started to shrug, but after his shoulders had lifted less than half an inch, the knife protested by sending a white hot comet of pain across his abdomen. He cursed and clenched his teeth.
Tully and Tober exchanged looks.
“Well.” Tober snapped his notebook closed. “We can go over this later. We’ll let you get some rest now, Decker.”
Before they could make a quick escape through the curtains, Joe asked, “Are you guys going back to question Sara Campbell now?”
“No,” Tully said, turning back. “We did a preliminary on the way over here. That’s enough for tonight. She’s pretty shook up.”
“Over here?” Joe thought he had misunderstood. He’d been about to ask the detective to make sure Sara’s sanctuary on Westbury was secure after the events of the evening. “What do you mean?”
“I mean we questioned her when we were driving her over here.”
Joe blinked. “Here? You mean Saint Cat’s?”
“Yeah, Decker. Saint Cat’s. She’s out in the waiting room with your family.”
The fact that his family was already here, probably packing the waiting room wall to wall, was no surprise. But Sara? Tully had said she was shook up, but the detective didn’t know the half of it.
“See if you can sneak her back here, will you?” Joe asked him.
Tully gave him a thumbs-up, then disappeared. While he waited, Joe attempted to arrange the sheet that covered his legs so it partly concealed the knife handle. He was used to it now. The damn thing almost seemed like a natural part of him. But he didn’t want to upset Sara more than she already was. He’d do his best to smooth her anxieties, then he’d ask his mother or one of his sisters to take her home and stay with her a while.
He saw her hand first with its broken fingernails as she slipped the curtain back. His heart twisted, then promptly tied itself into a bow when her pretty face came into view.
“Hi,” she said softly, approaching the table where he was propped up and sliding her hand into his. “I thought you were upstairs getting a CAT scan.”
“I would be if this were Central Methodist or University Hospital. I think they decided the cardiac arrest down the hall takes precedence.” He squeezed her hand. “I’m going to have somebody take you home.”
Her green eyes got a little larger, and her mouth took a stubborn turn. “You are not. I’m not leaving until you leave, bub.”
It was only then that he realized the hand curved in his wasn’t clammy or trembling, but cool and calm and dry. “You’re doing okay?” he asked. “I mean, really okay?” He tapped his chest with his other hand. “No pitty pats or anything? No hyperventilating? All that stuff?”
She didn’t answer, but simply stared at him for a minute as if she hadn’t quite understood what he’d said. Then, barely above a whisper, she said, “No. None of that.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not in Kansas, you know, Dorothy. You’re out in the big bad world.” He gestured around the dismal little space. “And this is about as bad as it gets.”
A tiny smile flickered across her mouth, and then he watched as her expression underwent a succession of mutations in an instant. Bewilderment. Amazement. Pleasure. Pride.
“I really am okay,” she said, as if she had to voice it to fully believe it.
“You’re more than okay, Campbell,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips, kissing each ragged fingertip. “You’re beautiful and you’re brave and, lucky for me, you’re all mine.”
Epilogue
The Deckers postponed Thanksgiving until Joe was released from the hospital and able to walk without grinding out oaths every few steps. He wasn’t just lucky to have Sara. He was lucky the knife blade had skidded along a rib and hadn’t turned toward his lung before it lodged in subcutaneous fat, even though he protested loudly that there wasn’t an ounce of fat, subcutaneous or otherwise, on his body. He was healing fast, and Sara was looking forward to the day when his scar began to fade along with the horrible memories of the Ripper.
She was also looking forward to the Thanksgiving gathering of the clan at Rose and Mike Decker’s house on Pearl Avenue. But she and Joe were running late because Sara had insisted on stopping at a convenience store along the way for enough eggnog to supply a small army.
Because of the holiday the little store was mobbed, and when Joe saw the long checkout line through the window, he immediately offered to be the designated shopper.
“Not on your life, pal,” Sara said. “I do lines now. Remember?”
And she had, without a palpitation or a single bead of cold sweat. She couldn’t have explained why she was suddenly free of panic. Maybe it was because she’d experienced enough panic and anxiety to last a lifetime on that terrible night when Joe was stabbed. Or maybe it was because she was so in love with him that there wasn’t room in her for any other emotion. Probably it was because, for the first time in her life, she felt truly loved and protected.
The little house on Pearl Avenue radiated welcome and good cheer behind its facade of Christmas lights. Mike, the oldest brother, met them at the door. He relieved her of her bags of eggnog, passed them to what appeared to be a bucket brigade that went all the way to the kitchen. Then he gave Sara a great bear hug, after which he embraced Joe almost delicately.
“How’s my little bro?” he asked, his eyes moist and full of concern.
“Better every day,” Joe told him. “Plus, I’ve got a scar to put your little motorcycle scratch to shame, big brother.”
“No way,” Mike said.
“Five bucks says mine’s better.” Joe waggled his brows. “Longer, too.”
Sara rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.”
“Longer, huh?” Mike grinned one of those killer grins that apparently ran in the family. “You’re on. Let’s go.”
They disappeared, along with several more brothers, in a flurry of shirttails and unbuckling belts into a back bedroom just as Melissa came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“I’m so glad you came.” Joe’s sister frowned as she gazed around the little entryway, then into the living room. “Where’s Joe?”
Sara cocked her head in the direction the brothers had gone. “There,” she said. “He’s comparing scars with Mike and Danny and, um, I think it was Matt.”
“I’m sure it was Matt.” Melissa laughed. “He usually wins, too, with his appendectomy scar. Nobody’s topped that one yet.”
“And let’s hope nobody ever does,” Sara said.
Joe’s sister hugged her hard and whispered, “Amen to that.”
The Deckers’ dining room table was nearly as big as the dining room. In fact, it was two tables pushed together in order to accommodate Rose and Mike and their nine children, plus spouses and significant others. There were twenty around the table. Sara counted seven pairs of eyes the exact same shade as Joe’s and nine to-die-for grins.
No. Make that ten. Joe’s father was using one just then at the head of the table where he was carving the first turkey.
Sara couldn’t even remember the last time she and her parents had shared a holiday meal like this. They tended to travel over holidays. Last year on Thanksgiving Sara had ordered cashew chicken from King Ching, figuring it was as close to turkey as she was going to get.
She was wedged in beside Joe at a table groaning under two turkeys, a ham, mashed potatoes, three kinds of sweet potatoes, a pitcher of gravy and more vegetables than she had ever seen in a single meal. Just the passing of bowls turned into a happy challenge.
Joe reached for her hand under the table and whispered, “How’re you doing, Campbell? We don’t have to stay too lo
ng if you’re—”
“Hush. I’m fine. This is the best Thanksgiving I’ve ever had.”
“Me, too.”
Then came the pies. Pumpkin, mincemeat, cinnamon apple and a lemon meringue that Rose had baked especially for Joe. When he finished the huge slice, he gave a little moan and leaned back in his chair. “I sure hope I don’t get busted to patrolman, because I’d never fit in my uniform after this.”
The whole table fell oddly silent for a moment, and Sara knew it was because they had come so close to losing him only a few weeks ago. Joe’s father cleared his throat as if a painful little lump had lodged in it.
“So, when do you think you’ll be going back to work, son?”
“Right after New Year’s, Dad. I’ve got one more week of medical leave and then—” he slid his arm around Sara’s shoulders “—I thought I’d take a little more vacation time so Sara and I could have a honeymoon.”
She nearly choked on her last bite of pumpkin pie. They had talked about marriage and kids and a big old Victorian house, but those had been just dreamy discussions. Nothing official. No down-on-the-knees, ring-in-a-velvet-box proposal.
“A honeymoon! Oh, that’s wonderful!” The words went around the table along with smiles and lifted wineglasses and thumbs-up.
“I thought we could fly down to a quiet little island in the Caribbean,” he said, looking into her eyes. “What do you think, babe? Or fly to Hawaii.”
Not only Joe’s gray eyes were on her, but eighteen others, as well. “Is...is this a proposal?” she asked.
“It appears to be one.” He did that grin. “What do you say? Want to take the Concorde to Paris or fly to Rio?”
“Oh, Joe.” Sara started to laugh. The giggle worked its way up from her stomach, filled the back of her throat, then exploded in a burst of laughter she was helpless to control. The more bewildered Joe looked, the more she giggled—well, guffawed, actually—until tears started streaming down her face.