Bone Thief (27 page)

It was a cloudless, star-studded night. The telltales were flush against the mainsail, gorged by the southwestern wind. The ocean buoys clamored, heralding incoming swells, as ridges of salt water crashed against the massive hull of
The Ark
, a thirty-eight-foot Catalina sailboat, its bow dipping deeply into the cascading tide. Liquid notes from Debussy's
La Mer
ricocheted inside the aft cabin. Pierce was at his leisure, and Margaret was still keeping tabs on their number-one suspect. The way Margaret saw it, Pierce may have used the Internet to lure some boating enthusiast first lover out onto the Long Island Sound. As long as she was aboard, she figured she'd thwart that possibility. But she was no fool. The safety was released on her service revolver, and she was ready.

Her telephone purred. “My cellular,” she said.

“Go away, world,” said Pierce.

“I must,” she stated, as she reached for the phone.

“Yes?” Margaret gasped. “I'm not getting you, there's a lot of static…what? Did you say a nest? A cellar? What? What about a cellar? Damn it, I've lost him!”

They had found his collection. Pierce was certain of it. “You're out of cell range, and the water doesn't help,” he muttered.

“Can you get me to port? I've gotta make a call!”

“What's the hurry?”

“It's my boss. He's found something. I don't know what it is. It sounded important.”

A chill entered the cabin, as if arctic air had seeped into the little room. Debussy's melody faded, replaced by the slapping sound of sea waves crashing against the hull. Pierce's gaze became icy, searching for what was concealed in Margaret's eyes.

“I really have to go!” she pleaded, sensing imminent danger.

“You look like you're about to throw up,” Pierce said, his face now starched with contempt.

“The rocking is making me seasick.”

Pierce forced a smile and headed topside. “It's time to get you back to shore then. There's some Emetrol in the medicine cabinet. Why don't you help yourself while I turn the boat around?”

Driscoll was certain the distant bells echoing in his cellular's earphone were the sounds of buoys on a rough sea. There was no doubt about it. Palming the cell phone, he punched in Thomlinson's number, forced the Chevy into gear, and pulled away from the estate.

“Cedric, check your dossier on Pierce. Does the guy own a boat?”

“Hold on a sec…Yeah. Here it is…A thirty-eight-foot Catalina sailboat…
The Ark
. Custom-built in Southwest Harbor, Maine. He keeps it moored at Judson's Marina in Port Washington.”

“Hold the fort. I'll call you from the marina.”

Driscoll arrived at Judson's Marina just past 11:00
P.M
. The place looked deserted except for a blond youth lounging atop the teak deck of a Criss-Craft cabin cruiser.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“
The Ark
…it docked here?” said Driscoll.

“You mean Doctor Pierce's boat?”

“That'd be the one.”

“Gone since early evening.”

“He go alone?”

“Nope. He had a dark-haired chick with him.”

Jesus,
he thought.
If you're listening, God, keep her out of danger. That madman is capable of anything, and if something happens to Margaret
…He thought immediately of Moira, and with the thought came an adrenaline-fueled rush of guilt.

“Know where they were heading?”

“Probably to his winery.”

“Where'd that be?”

“North Fork. It's the only place on the island they grow grapes.”

Driscoll tried the cellular again, but Margaret was now well out of range. He called Thomlinson, who answered on the first ring. “Cedric, get me a helicopter. Have it at Judson's Marina in five minutes! Alert the Coast Guard and Suffolk County's Harbor Patrol. Pierce is our man. He's heading for the North Fork, and he's got Margaret with him.”

The Lieutenant was closing in. Pierce was sure of it. He had underestimated the man, and now he felt like a tracked fish being steered toward the net, ripe for the fisherman's grappling hook. This was not the ending he had in mind. One cop below deck, and one in close pursuit. How the hell could he have let this happen? Fate had always been generous. Why not now, goddamn it? Why not now? He felt like screaming, but that would interfere with his plans for Margaret. It would be she that would have to pay for her boss's doggedness. He wished the Lieutenant had learned his lesson with Moira.

Pierce descended to the bilge, crouching in the crawl space that housed the engine. He yanked free the gas line, spilling marine fuel into the cramped compartment. It was time to scuttle the boat and escape. Mindful that he had some unfinished business to attend to, he re-entered the cabin and took from his physician's bag a Bard-Parker scalpel.

Margaret was in the lavatory. The water was running.

“Don ghrian agus don ghealach agus do na realtoga,”
he chanted, as he opened the door and struck.

Pierce then heard a roar. Giant wings were cutting through the air. He hurried topside. It was a helicopter approaching the sailboat, its floodlight illuminating
The Ark
as though it were day. Despite the din of the whirling blades, he heard a thud. Someone had landed on deck. He turned. It was Driscoll.

The jolt of leaping from the helicopter jarred loose Driscoll's 9-mm Glock, which bounced off the deck and tumbled into the sea. He grabbed the boat's winch handle and lunged at Pierce, slamming the stainless-steel tool against the side of Pierce's head. Pierce dropped the scalpel and brought both hands to the wound, stumbling toward the steps to the cabin. But Driscoll was on him like a slaughterhouse worker finishing off a calf. A roundhouse kick crushed Pierce's rib cage. He gasped for breath but managed a left hook against Driscoll's jaw.

Pierce lumbered toward the sailboat's cockpit, where he yanked the tiller free from its coupling. The Lieutenant tackled him by the ankle and brought him down, his face smashing hard against the fiberglass surface of the deck. The tiller went toppling into the water, and Driscoll renewed his assault with a flurry of punches.

Just then, with blood trickling from a neck wound, an unsteady Margaret appeared, leveling her firearm on the wrestling pair.

“It's over!” she yelled, getting off a round, missing Pierce's head by an inch. “Give it up,” she hollered as she leveled her weapon to fire again.

“Like hell!” Pierce shouted. His left foot caught Margaret in her right shin. The blow upended her, knocking the weapon from her hand, and caused her to tumble over the boat's starboard railing.

“John!” she screamed as her body plunged into the choppy sea.

Driscoll turned his head and was about to follow her when Pierce's teeth sunk into the Lieutenant's right shoulder. The pain was excruciating, but a strategically placed right hook hit Pierce in the temple, opening a wide gash. Pierce then tried to ensnare Driscoll's neck with some rigging, but Driscoll blocked his opponent's thrust with his elbow. Pierce settled for the Lieutenant's arm and quickly knotted a clove hitch around it. With his other hand, Pierce released the line from its clamp, unfurling the sailboat's spinnaker and towing with it Driscoll's body, which was still shackled to its rigging.

A bullet ricocheted off the aluminum mast. Only the rocking motion of the sailboat saved Pierce from the helicopter's sniper. Pierce dove for the cockpit's accessory box, loaded a flare gun, and fired it at the helicopter' s beacon. The recoil knocked Pierce against the dashboard, but the chopper's floodlight exploded in a burst of blue sparks. The pilot gained altitude and skittered away.

Pierce fisted another scalpel and lowered himself into the water in search of Margaret while Driscoll remained intertwined in the sailboat's rigging. The more the Lieutenant tugged at the lines, the more entangled he became. He looked up at the mast. A line had jammed in a pulley a few feet above his head. He stretched out his arm, grimacing in pain from his shoulder wound, and manipulated the rope with his fingers until the line became free. Down he crashed, still caught in the rigging, but no longer its prisoner. He dove into the water in search of Margaret.

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.

“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!”

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.”

Don't miss Thomas O'Callaghan's next shocking thriller
starring NYPD Homicide Lieutenant John Driscoll…

…coming from Pinnacle in 2007!