Bone Thief jd-1
Page 25
Below the surface of the water, Pierce latched onto Driscoll’s leg. The cold steel of a finely honed blade sliced into the Lieutenant’s calf. But, by jackknifing his body, Driscoll was able to break free from Pierce’s hold.
The two men surfaced. Scalpel in hand, Pierce lunged for Driscoll, who deflected the thrust by grabbing hold of the assailant’s wrist. The sound of a gunshot rang out.
“Fire again!” hollered Driscoll, spotting Margaret braced against the boat’s wraparound railing, her weapon once again in hand.
Another shot followed.
This time the bullet hit its mark. Pierce’s arms flailed wildly, then ceased all movement. The scalpel disappeared into the water, and as Driscoll and Margaret watched, a wide-eyed Pierce sank slowly into the murk.
Driscoll climbed back onboard and took Margaret in his arms. “My God! If I lost you too, I don’t know what I’d do.” Thoughts swirled inside Driscoll’s head. It appeared the madman had been slain, and the women in Driscoll’s world were safe. He thought of his wife. She would have been proud of him. Moira, who had fallen into harm’s way because of him, had now been avenged. She would be smiling, too. And Margaret. He could now start a real relationship with Margaret. For that he was grateful.
The drama of the day ended for Driscoll as police helicopters arrived, accompanied by the blaring sound of a Coast Guard cutter’s siren. Spotlights searched the cloudy waters surrounding the boat for any sign of Pierce.
There was none to be found.
Chapter 90
“You and Margaret will meet with the Mayor this afternoon as planned. The medal presentation will be televised,” Police Commissioner Brandon directed as he grabbed a cigar from an ivory humidor.
“I’d like you to hold off on that,” said Driscoll.
“The Long Island Sound’s not about to give up the body. It’s in Nova Scotia by now. You know the currents up there.”
“That’s my point. The Long Island Sound deserves the medal.”
“But Margaret shot the bastard. Should she be deprived of hers?”
“Give her mine while you’re at it.”
“What is this? Professional scruples?”
“Commissioner, it was far from a clean kill. The guy takes a winch to the head, he bleeds like a slaughtered pig, we wrestle in and out of the water, and Margaret shoots him. The next thing I know he slips loose from under me and I lose him to the sea. That’s not exactly the proper apprehension of a suspected killer.”
“The way I see it, the guy was bleeding from a head wound you inflicted, and then Margaret shot him. The current got hold of him, and he was history. Case closed.”
“I still would like to hold off on the fanfare.”
“Don’t be difficult, John. This city is in the mood to celebrate, and I’m not gonna be a stick-in-the-mud. You’ve earned the medal. Wear it! Say cheese for the cameras and let the women of this city sleep through the night. Now let’s get a move on!”
Chapter 91
Driscoll sat in his cruiser alongside a row of rhododendrons that lined the curb outside of Mary Star of the Sea Nursing Home. He felt hollow. It was as though someone had taken a blade and carved out his vital organs. Colette, the love of his life, now lay comatose inside the century-old brownstone. Placing his wife into the care of the home’s hospice personnel was a heart-wrenching decision, but he knew it was a decision that needed to be made. He had just left her bedside and was now offering a silent prayer. A prayer of hope. A prayer of love. And a prayer of resolution. It was his intention to visit often and remain loyal to her in a way that she would understand. As he turned the key in the ignition and slowly pulled away from the facility, tears blossomed and streaked his cheeks. He gazed in the Chevy’s rearview mirror and watched as the nursing home’s facade slowly faded from view.
Sullivan’s Tavern was bustling. The bar was six deep, and every table in the dining room was occupied. The mood was festive throughout. And why not? The madman that had declared war on the city of New York had been eliminated.
Driscoll and Margaret were seated at Driscoll’s favorite table, which offered a panoramic view of Manhattan. They had completed their meal and were both savoring an after-dinner cocktail. A gentleman approached. He was holding a copy of the Daily News. Its headline boasted: SERIAL KILLER ANNIHILATED BY NEW YORK’S FINEST.
“You’re Lieutenant Driscoll,” the patron said, holding forth the tabloid. “Would you mind autographing my newspaper?”
Driscoll grinned. “My lady friend here deserves the credit. It was she who fired the shot that ended it all.”
“Wow! A double-header! Would you sign my paper too?” he asked.
Driscoll and Margaret obliged the man, affixing their signatures across the headline.
“You know,” said the grateful supporter, “it’s because of professionals like you that the citizens of New York can rest easy tonight.”
As the man disappeared, Driscoll’s cell phone rang. His eyes narrowed. He listened intently to Thomlinson’s message.
“Time to go,” he said to Margaret as he folded his napkin and shimmied out of his chair. “An hour ago they found two dead bodies in Brooklyn. Looks like we have another crazy on our hands.”
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