Jack reached into his robe for his Taser, then stopped himself. There was a mesmerizing sincerity in the talk show host’s face that even he couldn’t deny was compelling.

“Make it snappy,” Jack finally said.

“Thank you,” Eugena said. She cleared her throat and looked directly into Jack’s eyes.

No wonder this lady was so successful, Jack thought, feeling the weight of her confidence and intensity. It was as if the two of them were together in a small, cozy room-instead of yelling at each other over guns and hostages.

“What I want to say is this,” Eugena said. “We’re all truly sorry if who we are and what our lifestyles are all about have hurt you in some way. I’ll be the first to admit that I am sometimes consumed with things instead of other people’s feelings. But, honestly, after this ordeal, I do feel different. I’m going to enjoy the simple things in life again. I’ve learned from this experience, as I’m sure all of us have, and in some strange way, I’d actually like to thank you. But please, don’t kill anybody else. Because deep down, you’re right. We’re not special. We’re just people. Like you.”

Jack stood there, just staring at the woman. He would have thought it was impossible, but he almost felt guilty for a second. This stupid broad’s somewhat eloquent plea had almost unnerved him. He didn’t even watch her stupid show.

Jack was about to announce that whatever happened, she herself would be spared, when Little John, standing beside Eugena, drew his nine millimeter. He pressed the steel barrel to the talk show host’s cheek.

“That was really emotional,” Little John said, cocking the hammer with his thumb. “I’m crying so hard, I wet my panties. But you must have missed the e-mail about nobody giving a crap. Now, you either put a sock in it, or I’ll put a bullet in it. This isn’t your talk show, lady. This is our show.”

Jack called out to his compatriot, “Little John, I couldn’t have said it any better myself.”

HOW COULD IT be Christmas Eve? I thought.

I stood on the corner of 50th Street and watched as snow began to fall, but not the soft, feathery flake variety. I flipped up my collar at the gritty bits of frozen rain that scoured at my face like sand tossed in a wind tunnel.

Over at the command center, I’d heard about a new problem for us to contend with. Along the lines of barricades, tourist crowds had gathered and were resisting being dispersed. Having been denied a peek at the Rock Center tree that had been cordoned off, they were content to stand around and gape at the unfolding spectacle.

I watched a group of teenage girls, cheerleaders from Wichita, Kansas, arrive at the northwest corner of 51st, laughing as they pumped handwritten free mercedes signs into the air. A few had siege of st. pat’s T-shirts over their sweaters.

I shook my head. You knew you were in trouble when somebody was selling T-shirts. I could see every member of my Manhattan North Homicide squad sporting them when I returned to the squad room. If I returned, that was.

I wandered over toward Lieutenant Reno and HRT chief Oakley, who were commiserating in front of the black FBI tactical bus. Oakley had a folded blueprint in his hand.

“Mike,” Oakley said, “we’re going over that first idea you had about the north spire again. Figuring out some way to go in the cathedral up there.”

I looked at the commando chief. His face was drawn and weary, but even in the cold murk, there was no mistaking the determination in his eyes. Oakley had lost one of his men, and it didn’t look like he would be slowing down until something was done about it.

“It’s probably the next best tactical option,” I said. “But after what happened in the concourse, I’m worried about getting ambushed again. And it might be a lot harder to fall back from three hundred feet in the air.”

“We’ve spoken to Will Matthews and the FBI special agent in charge,” Reno said. “The next decision to go tactical will be a full-force breach from every side. Next time they send us in, we won’t stop until every hijacker is taken out, Mike.”

I was standing there, trying to shrug off the implications of what Reno had just said, when I heard the squall of feedback coming from the north. I rubbed my eyes, trying to register what I was seeing. Here we go again.

Beyond the barricades and news trucks, a group of young black men was standing on top of a yellow school bus. A short boy tapped at the microphone stand in front of him.

“One, two,” came his amplified voice. Then there was a pause, and he started singing.

The song was “I Believe I Can Fly.” It was like a punch in the chest when the choir joined the soloist, bursting in with “Spread my wings and fly away.”

I could read the banner on the side of the bus. boys choir of harlem. Most of them were probably from one of the kidnapped reverends’ congregations.

All we needed was a Ferris wheel and cotton candy, and we could start charging admission to this freak show on Fifth Avenue.

Though I had to admit, the boys’ soaring voices brightened the gloom somehow.

Reno must have thought so, too, because he grinned as he shook his head.

“Only in New York,” he said.

A MAKESHIFT MESS HALL for the army of law enforcement had been set up right in the main lobby of Saks Fifth Avenue.

I went in through the revolving doors under the neon snowflakes to grab a quick bite to eat. The Four Seasons restaurant’s recent offer of hostage meals had been rejected by Jack, so they had given the food to us instead. Christmas Muzak blared down from garlanded ceiling speakers as I spooned duck prosciutto and turkey hash onto my daisy plate. It wasn’t the continuing surrealism of the siege situation that was alarming so much as the fact that I was starting to get used to it.

I could hear that the Boys Choir still believed they could fly as I came back out onto the street. I brought my food past the animatronic Santa in Saks’s plate-glass window and back to the trailer. I was on my second bite of tuna tartare when the crisis cell rang on my belt.

What now? I thought. What’s your pleasure, Jack? At your service, of course.

“Mike here,” I said.

“How’s it hanging, Mickey?” Jack said. “Cold enough for you? Kind of toasty in here.”

For a moment, I thought of the various strategies I could use. I could go passive or aggressive. Ask some questions to feel out his present mood. I was tired of strategies, though. Jack was the one toying with us, and I was sick of pretending it was the other way around. At this point, I was sick of talking to Jack, period. And it didn’t matter what I said, did it?

“Killing the mayor was a mistake,” I said, lowering my plastic fork. “You wanted us to believe you’re a psychopath not to be trifled with? Well, you did a good job. Only that just makes storming in there more of a foregone conclusion. Which, according to you, blows up the cathedral. Which will kill you. Which makes spending all that money kind of hard. So, you really are crazy? Help me out here. I’m having trouble keeping up.”

“So glum, Mick,” Jack said. “It’s like you’re giving up, and it’s only the third quarter. Check it out. You’ve finally started paying. That was good. Real good. Now, all you have to do is come through with the rest of the dough-re-mi. Then it will get real interesting, I promise. How do the bad guys get away with it? So, stick with me here. Reach way down deep. Oh, and by the way, before I forget. There’ll be another celebrity body at midnight.”

“Jack, listen. Don’t do it,” I said. “We can work something…”

“Shut up!” Jack yelled.

I immediately stopped talking.