Hostage

14

Friday, 9:12 P.M.

TALLEY

The sky was strange without red and green helicopter stars. Talley turned off his command radio and rolled down the windows, letting the silky air rush over him, still warm from the earth and smelling of yucca. It wasn’t his show anymore, so he didn’t need the radio. He needed to think.

Stretched out ahead and curving between the mountains, the street was bright with headlights rushing toward him. The past six hours had flicked past, one moment overtaking the next like a chain of car crashes, piling one atop the next with an intensity of experience that Talley hadn’t known in a long time; part fear, part elation. Talley found himself working through the events of the day, and realized after a time that he was enjoying himself. That he would, or could, surprised him. It was as if some dormant part of himself was waking.

The hot night air brought a memory of Jane.

They had come to the desert for their honeymoon. Not when they first married; they didn’t have enough money for that. But later, when his six-month probation was over, they had each taken two vacation days to make a long weekend, thinking they would drive to Las Vegas. The idea, the great plan, was to beat the summer heat by making the drive after sundown, but Vegas was a long way, four hours. They stopped at the halfway point for something to eat, a nothing little town at the edge of the California desert, and went no farther. The honeymoon cottage that night was a twenty-dollar motel off the highway; dinner was a cheap steak at the Sizzler, after which they explored the town. Driving now, Talley remembered the desert heat of that night; Jane had scared him, Talley the tough young SWAT cop, by climbing out the car’s window and sitting on the door as they raced along the back desert roads.

Talley hadn’t recalled those memories in years, and now felt uneasy with their absence, as if they had been lost within himself. He wondered what else might be lost within himself.

Talley turned onto the condominium grounds. He found Jane’s car parked in the first of the two spaces that were his, and pulled in beside it. He stared up the walk toward his condo, uneasy about the conversation they were about to have. She had finally called him out on their future, and now he had to deal with it. No more running, no more denial, no more excuses; he could keep her, or he could lose her. Tonight it was going to be as simple as that.

As Talley stepped from his car, he noticed that the parking lot was darker than usual; both security lights were out. Talley was locking his car as a woman stepped from the walk that led to his building.

“Chief Talley? Could I have a word with you?”

Talley thought she might be one of his neighbors. Most of the people in the complex knew he was the chief of police, often coming to him with complaints and problems.

“It’s pretty late. Could this keep until tomorrow?”

She was attractive, but not pretty, with a clean, businesslike expression, and hair that cupped her face. He did not recognize her.

“I wish it could, Chief, but we have to discuss this tonight.”

Talley heard a single footstep behind him, the shush of shoe on grit, then an arm hooked his throat from behind, lifting him backward and off his feet. Someone held a gun before his face.

“Do you see it? See the gun? Look at it.”

Talley clawed at the arm that was choking him, but only until he saw the pistol. Then he stopped struggling.

“That’s better. We’re only going to talk, that’s all, but I will kill you if I have to.”

They lowered him, gave him his feet again. Someone opened his car again as someone else felt beneath his jacket and around his waist.

“Where’s your gun?”

“I don’t carry it.”

“Bullshit. Where is it?”

The hands went to his ankles.

“I don’t carry it. I’m the Chief. I don’t have to.”

They pushed him behind the wheel. Talley saw shapes; he wasn’t sure how many; maybe three, could have been five. Someone in the backseat directly behind him smashed the ceiling light with the gun, then pushed the gun hard to his neck.

“Start the car. Back up. We’re just going to talk to you.”

“Who are you?”

Talley tried to turn, but strong hands shoved his face forward. Two men wearing black knit ski masks and gloves were in the backseat.

“The car. Back up.”

Talley did as he was told, his headlights swinging across the walk. The woman was gone. Red taillights waited at the far end of the parking lot.

“See that car? Follow it. We won’t go far.”

Talley pulled in tight on the car. It was a late-model Ford Mustang, dark green with a hard top and California plates. Talley worked at remembering the tag number, 2KLX561, then glanced in the rearview mirror as a second car tucked in tight behind his.

“Who are you?”

“Drive.”

“Is this about what’s happening?”

“Just drive. Don’t worry about it.”

The Mustang drove carefully, leading him back to the street, then out along Flanders Road to a minimall less than a mile away. All the shops were closed, the parking lot empty. Talley followed the Mustang into the alley behind the shops, where it stopped beside a Dumpster.

“Pull up closer. Closer. Bumper to bumper.”

He bumped the Mustang.

“Turn off the ignition. Give me the key.”

Talley had known a kind of fear when he had worked the tactical teams on SWAT before he was a negotiator; but that was an impersonal fear, a going-into-combat fear leavened by the armor you wore, the weapon you carried, and the support of your teammates. This was different, up close and personal. Men were assassinated like this, their bodies left in Dumpsters.

He turned off the ignition, but didn’t take out the key. The second car came up so close that it was inches from his own, blocking him in. Talley told himself this was a good sign; they didn’t want him to try to run. They wouldn’t worry about it if they simply wanted to shoot him.

“Give me the damned key.”

He held it up; the hand snatched it away.

The passenger door opened. A third man slipped inside, also wearing a mask and gloves. He was wearing a black sport coat over a gray T-shirt and jeans. When his left sleeve hiked up, a gold Rolex flashed. He wasn’t large, about Talley’s size, maybe one-eighty, trim. The skin around his mouth and eyes was tan. He held a cell phone.

“Okay, Chief, I know you’re scared, but trust me, unless you do something stupid, we’re not here to hurt you. So you control that, okay? Do you understand?”

Talley tried to recall the Mustang’s tag number. Was it KLX or KLS?

“Don’t just stare at me, Chief. We’ve got to make some headway here.”

“What do you want?”

The third man gestured to the backseat with the phone, giving Talley another glimpse of the watch. Talley thought of the third man as the Watchman.

“The man behind you is going to reach around and get hold of you. Don’t freak out. That’s for your own good. Okay? He’s just going to hold you.”

The arm looped around his neck again; a hand took his left wrist, twisted it behind his back; another took his right; the second man in the back was helping. Talley could barely breathe.

“What is this?”

“Listen.”

The Watchman put the phone to Talley’s ear.

“Say hello.”

Talley couldn’t imagine what they wanted or who they were. His mouth felt stuffed with cotton batting. The phone was cold against his ear.

“Who is this?”

Jane’s voice, shaky and frightened.

“Jeff? Is that you?”

Talley tried to buck away from the arm crossing his throat; he strained to pull his arms free, but couldn’t. Seconds passed before Talley realized the Watchman was talking to him.

“Take it easy, Chief; I know, I know. But just listen, okay? She’s all right. Your kid, she’s all right, too. Now just relax, breathe deep, listen. You ready to listen? Remember: Right now, from this point on, you’re in control. You. You control what happens to them. You want to hear her again? You want to talk to her, see that she’s okay?”

Talley nodded against the pressure of the arm, finally managed to croak.

“You sonofabitch.”

“Bad start, Chief, but I understand. I’m married myself. Me, I wish somebody would take my old lady, but that’s just me. Anyway, here.”

The Watchman held the phone to Talley’s ear again.

“Jane?”

“What’s going on, Jeff? Who are these people?”

“I don’t know. Are you all right? Is Mandy?”

“Jeff, I’m scared.”

Jane was crying.

The Watchman took back the phone.

“That’s enough.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Can we let you go? You past your shock and all that, we can turn you loose and you won’t do something stupid?”

“You can let go.”

The Watchman glanced at the backseat, and Talley was released. The Watchman leaned toward Talley, going eye to eye and doing it with purpose.

“Walter Smith has two computer disks in his house that belong to us. Don’t worry about why we want those disks. More important, don’t care. But we want them, and you’re going to see that we get them.”

Talley didn’t know what the Watchman was talking about; he shook his head.

“What does that mean? What?”

“You’re going to control the scene.”

“The Sheriffs control the scene.”

“Not anymore. It’s your scene. You’ll take it back or whatever it is you have to do, because no one-let me repeat that-no one is going into that house until my people go in that house.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I can’t control that.”

The Watchman raised his finger, as if he was offering a lesson.

“I know exactly what I’m talking about. You have a coordinated mixed scene now with your people-the Bristo Police Department-and the Sheriffs. In a couple of hours, a group of my people are going to arrive at York Estates. You will tell everyone involved that they are an FBI tactical team. They’ll look the part, and they know how to act the part. You see where I’m going with this?”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. I can’t control any of this. I can’t control what happens in that house.”

“You better get up to speed fast, then. Your wife and kid are counting on you.”

Talley didn’t know what to say. He worked his fingers under his thighs, trying to think.

“What do you want me to do?”

“You get my people set up, then you stand by and wait to hear from me.”

The Watchman handed Talley the cell phone.

“When this phone rings, you answer. It’ll be me. I’ll tell you what to do.”

Talley stared at the phone.

“When it comes time to go in the house, my people will be the first in. Nothing, and I mean nothing, will be removed from that house except by my people. Do you get that?”

“I can’t control what those kids do. They could be giving up right now. They could start shooting. The Sheriffs might be going inside right now.”

The Watchman slapped him, a hard straight push hitting him square in the forehead with his open palm. Talley’s head rocked back.

“Don’t panic, Talley. You should know. SWAT guys know. Panic kills.” Talley gripped the phone with both hands.

“Okay. All right.”

“You’re going to be thinking, What can I do? Here you are, a policeman, you’re going to think about calling the FBI or bringing the Sheriffs in, about getting me before something happens to your wife and child, but, Chief, think about this: I have people right there in York Estates, right under your nose, reporting everything that happens. If you bring anyone in, if you do anything other than what I am telling you to do, you’ll get your wife and kid back in the mail. Are we clear on that?”

“Yes.”

“When I have what I want, your wife and daughter will be released. We’re cool with that. They don’t know who has them just like you don’t know who we are. Ignorance is bliss.”

“What is it you want? Disks? Like computer disks? Where are they, where in the house?”

“Two disks, bigger than normal disks. They’re called Zip disks, labeled Disk One and Disk Two. We won’t know where they are until we find them, but Smith will know.”

The Watchman opened the door, paused before leaving, his glance flicking to the phone.

“Answer when it rings, Chief.”

The keys were dropped into Talley’s lap. Doors opened, closed, and Talley was alone there in the alley behind the minimall in the middle of nowhere. The Mustang pulled away. The second car roared away, backward. Talley sat behind the wheel, breathing, unable to move, feeling apart from his own body as if this had just happened to someone else.

He clawed for the keys, started his car, and spun the wheel hard, flooring it, fishtailing gravel. He hit his lights and siren, rolling code three, blasting straight back to his condo, never bothered to pull into a spot, just left the car like that in the parking lot, lights popping, and ran inside, almost as if they might be sitting there, all of this some hallucination.

The condo was empty, the silence of it outrageously loud. He called for them anyway, not knowing what else to do.

“Jane! Amanda!”

Their only sign was the keys to Jane’s car, sitting plainly on the dining room table, small and hard, left there as a threat.

Talley put Jane’s keys in his pocket. He went upstairs to the little desk in his bedroom where he stared at the photographs. Jane and Amanda, much younger then, stared back in a picture taken at Disneyland, Jane sitting at one of those outdoor restaurants in Adventureland, her arms wrapped around Amanda, both of them showing more white teeth than a piano. They had eaten tostadas or tacos, one, with some salsa that was so mild that they’d laughed about it, the three native Angelenos, salsa with all the kick of Campbell’s tomato soup, something that only people from Minnesota or Wisconsin would find spicy. Talley choked a sob in his chest. He took the picture from the frame, put it in his pocket with the keys. He went to his closet for the blue nylon gym bag on the top shelf, and brought the bag to his bed. He took out the pistol that he had carried during his SWAT days, a Colt .45 Model 1911 that had been tuned by the SWAT armorer for accuracy and reliability. It was big, ugly, and supremely dangerous. It held only seven bullets, but SWAT used the .45 as their combat pistol because just one of those big heavy bullets could knock a large man off his feet. A .38 or a 9mm couldn’t promise that, but the .45 could. It was a killer.

Talley ejected the empty magazine, filled it with seven bullets, then reseated it. He dug through the gym bag for the black ballistic nylon holster. He took off his uniform, then put on blue jeans and tennis shoes. He fitted the holster onto his belt at his side, then covered it with a black sweatshirt. He clipped his badge to his belt.

The cell phone that the Watchman gave him was sitting on his desk. Talley stared at it. What if it rang? What if the Watchman ordered him into Walter Smith’s house right now and the people inside that house were killed? What if he answered that phone to hear Jane and Amanda screaming as they were murdered?

Talley sat on the edge of the bed thinking that he was a fool. He should go directly to both the Sheriff’s Detective Bureau and the FBI; even the Watchman knew it. That would be the smart way to play this mess, and that was what he would have done except that he believed that the Watchman was telling the truth about having someone at York Estates, and would kill his family. Talley was scared; it’s easy to say what someone should do when they’re not you; when it’s you, it’s a nightmare. He told himself to be careful. The Watchman was right about something else, too: Panic kills. That same message had hung on the wall at the Special Weapons and Tactics School: Panic kills. The instructors had hammered it into them. It didn’t matter how urgent the situation, you had to think; act quickly but efficiently. A mind is a terrible thing to waste, and nothing wastes your mind faster than getting your ass shot off.

Think.

Talley put the Watchman’s phone in his pocket and drove to his office.

The Bristo Camino Police Department was a two-story space in the mall that used to be a toy store. Talley’s officers jokingly called it “the crib.” This time of night, the mall parking lot was empty; only one radio car was out front, along with the personal cars belonging to his officers. Talley left his car at the curb. The second floor contained a single holding cell, a ready room for briefings, a bathroom, and a locker room. The most serious criminals it had held were two sixteen-year-old car thieves who had driven a stolen Porsche up from Santa Monica only to wrap it around a palm tree; mostly, the cell was used to let drunk drivers sleep off their buzz. Office space for Sarah filled most of the ground floor, with the front desk being designated for the duty officer of the watch, though Sarah, herself not a sworn officer, served that post whenever she wasn’t ensconced in the communications bay. Talley’s office sat in the rear, but his own computer wasn’t tied into the National Law Enforcement Telecommunication System; only one computer in the office could access the NLETS, and that was up front by Sarah.

Kenner, sitting at the front desk, raised his eyebrows in surprise when Talley entered.

“Hey, Chief. I thought you went seven.”

Seven was the code for taking a meal break, but it was also slang for going off duty. Talley let himself through the gate that separated the public space from the desks without making eye contact. He didn’t want conversation.

“I’ve got more to do.”

“What’s happening out at the house?”

“The Sheriffs have it.”

Sarah waved from the communications bay. She was a retired public school teacher with bright red hair who worked the job because she enjoyed it. Talley nodded at her, but didn’t stop to chat the way he ordinarily would. He went straight to the NLETS computer.

Sarah called, “I thought you went home?”

“More to do.”

“Isn’t that sad about that little boy? What happened with that?”

“I just stopped by to look up something. I’ve got to get back to the house.”

He made his manner brusque to discourage her.

Talley typed in the Mustang’s license number, 2KLX561, and requested a California Department of Motor Vehicles search.

“Ah, Chief, I’d like to get some time out there. You know, at the house.”

Kenner had come up behind him, looking hopeful. Talley leaned forward to block the computer’s screen.

“Call Anders. Tell him I said to rotate you out there at the shift change.”

Talley turned back to the computer.

“Ah, Chief? You think I could work the perimeter?”

Talley blocked the screen again, letting his annoyance show.

“You want some trigger time? That it, Kenner?”

Kenner shrugged.

“Well, yes, sir.”

“See Anders.”

Talley stared at Kenner until he returned to the front desk. The DMV search came back, showing that license plate 2KLX561 was currently an unregistered listing. Next, he typed in the name Walter Smith and ran it through the National Crime Information Center, limiting the search to white males in the Southwest within a ten-year time frame. The NCIC search kicked back one hundred twenty-eight hits. That was too many. Talley could have limited the search if he had Smith’s middle name, but he didn’t. He cut the frame to five years, tried again, and this time got thirty-one hits. He skimmed the results. Twenty-one of the thirty-two arrestees were currently incarcerated, and the remaining ten were too young. As far as the law enforcement computer network knew, the Walter Smith who lived in York Estates was just another upstanding American with something in his house that men were willing to kill for.

Talley deleted the screen, then tried to recall as many details as possible about the three men and the woman who kidnapped him. The woman: short dark hair that cupped her face, five-five, slender, light-colored blouse and skirt; it had been too dark to see any more. The three men had worn nicely tailored sport coats, gloves, and masks; he had noticed no identifying characteristics. He tried to remember background noise from when he spoke with Jane, some telling sound that could identify her location, but there had been none.

Talley took out the Watchman’s phone, wondering if a print could be lifted. It was a new black Nokia. The phone’s battery indicator showed a full charge. Talley felt a sudden fear that the battery would fail, and he would never hear from Jane and Amanda again. He trembled as the panic grew, then forced those thoughts down. Think. The cell phone was his link to the people who had Jane and Amanda, a link that might lead back to them. If the Watchman had called Jane’s location, that number would be in the memory. Talley’s heart pounded. He pressed redial. No number came up. Talley checked the phone’s stored memory, but no numbers were listed. Think!!! If the people holding Jane had phoned the Watchman, Talley might be able to reverse-dial the number with the star 69 feature. He pressed star 69. Nothing happened. Talley’s heart pounded harder; he wanted to smash the fucking phone. He wanted to throw it against the wall, then stomp it to splinters. Goddamnit, THINK!!! Someone had paid for the phone and was paying for its service. Talley turned off the phone, then turned it back on. As the view screen lit, the phone’s number appeared. 555-1367. Talley wanted to jump up and pump his fist. He copied the number, his only lead.

Then Talley realized he had another lead: Walter Smith. Smith could identify these people, Smith had what they wanted, and Smith might even be able to tell him where they had taken Jane and Amanda. Smith had answers. All Talley had to do was reach him.

And get him out of that house.

Talley called Larry Anders when he was five minutes from the development, saying to meet him inside the south entrance, and to wait there alone. The traffic passing the development was less than it had been earlier, but a long line of gawkers still made the going slow once Talley turned off Flanders Road. He burped his siren to make them pull to the side, then waved himself through the blockade.

Anders was parked on the side of the road. Talley pulled up behind him and flicked his lights. Anders walked back to Talley’s window, looking nervous.

“What’s up, Chief?”

“Where’s Metzger?”

“Up with the Sheriffs in case they need something. Did I do something?”

“Get in.”

Talley waited as Anders walked around the front of the car and climbed in. Anders wasn’t the oldest person on his department, but he was the senior officer in years served, and Talley respected him. He thought again that the man in the ski mask had someone here, and wondered if that person was Larry Anders. Talley recalled a photograph that had appeared in the Los Angeles Times, one taken at the day-care center that showed Spencer Morgan, the man who had held the children hostage, holding a gun to Talley’s head. Talley thought of the trust it had taken for him to stand there while his friend Neal Craimont lined up the crosshairs.

Anders squirmed.

“Jesus, Chief, why are you staring at me like that?”

“I have something for you to do. You’re not to tell anyone else what you’re doing, not Metzger, not the other guys, not the Sheriffs, no one; just tell them that I want you to run down some background info, but don’t tell them what. You understand me, Larry?”

Anders replied slowly.

“I guess so.”

“I can’t have you guessing. Either you can keep your mouth shut or you can’t. This is important.”

“This isn’t something illegal, is it, Chief? I really like being a cop. I couldn’t do something illegal.”

“It’s police work, the real thing. I want you to find out as much as you can about Walter Smith.”

“The guy in the house?”

“I believe he’s involved in illegal activity or associates with people who are. I need to find out what that is. Talk to the neighbors, but don’t be obvious about it. Don’t tell anyone what you’re doing or what you suspect. Try to find out whatever you can about him, where he’s from, stuff like that; his business, his clients, anything that will give us a handle on him. It will help if you can learn his middle name. When you’ve finished here, go back to the office and run him through the FBI and the NLETS database. I went back five years, but you go back twenty.”

Anders cleared his throat. He was uncomfortable with all this.

“What’s the problem with telling our guys? I mean, why not?”

“Because that’s the way I want it, Larry. I have a good reason, I just can’t tell you right now, but I’m trusting that you’ll keep your word.”

“I will, Chief. Yes, sir, I will.”

Talley gave him the Nokia’s cell phone number.

“Before you do any of that, I want you to trace this cell phone number. You can do this by phone from here. Find out who it’s billed to. If you need a court order, call the Palmdale District Court. They have a judge on page for night work. Sarah has the number.”

Anders looked at the slip of paper.

“The judge, he’ll want to know why, won’t he?”

“Tell him we believe this number will provide life-or-death information about one of the men in the house.”

Anders nodded dully, knowing it was a lie.

“All right.”

Talley thought, trying to remember if there was something else, something that might give him a line to find out who he was dealing with.

“When you get back to the office, run a DMV stolen-vehicle search for a green Mustang, this year’s model. It would be a recent theft, maybe even today.”

Anders took out his pad to make notes.

“Ah, you got a tag?”

“It’s running a dead plate. If you get a hit, note where it was stolen. Who was checking into the building permits?”

“Ah, that was Cooper.”

“I want you to stay on that.”

“It’s midnight.”

“If you have to get the city supervisors out of bed, do it. Tell them the Sheriffs are desperate for the house plans, it’s life or death, whatever you have to say, but find out who built that house.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re going to have to work all night, Larry. It’s important.”

“That’s okay.”

“Update me with everything you find out, whatever time it is. Don’t use the radio. Call my cell. You got the number?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get to it.”

Talley watched Anders drive away. He told himself that Anders could be trusted; he had just placed the lives of his family in Larry Anders’s hands.

Talley parked outside Mrs. Pena’s house and went to the Sheriff’s command van. The back gate was open, glowing crimson from the soft red lights within. Martin, Hicks, and the I.O. supervisor were clumped around the coffee machine.

Talley rapped on the side of the van as he climbed inside. When Martin glanced over, she smiled with a warmth that surprised him.

“I thought you left.”

“I’m taking back command of the scene.”

It took a moment for his statement to register, then Martin’s brow furrowed. The warmth was gone.

“I don’t understand. You requested our help. You couldn’t wait to hand off to me.”

Talley had readied the lie.

“I know I did, Captain, but it’s a liability issue. The city supervisors want a representative of Bristo to be in charge. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it has to be. As of now, I’m resuming command of the scene.”

Hicks put his fists on his hips.

“What kind of half-assed hicktown crap is this?”

Talley pointedly looked at Hicks.

“No tactical action is to be taken without my approval. Is that clear?”

Martin stalked across the van, stopping only inches away. She was almost as tall as Talley.

“Outside. I want to talk about this.”

Talley didn’t move. He knew that the Sheriffs regularly worked under local restraints when they functioned in advisory and support roles; Martin would still be in direct control of her people, though Talley would command the operation. Martin would go along.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Captain. I’m not going to tell you how to do your job; I need you, and I appreciate your being here. But I have to sign off on any action we take, and right now I’m saying that there will be no tactical action.”

Martin started to say something, then stopped. She seemed to search his eyes. Talley met her gaze and did not look away, though he felt embarrassed and frightened. He wondered if she could see that he was lying.

“What if those assholes lose it in there, Chief? You want me to track you down and waste time asking your permission to save those kids?”

Talley could barely answer.

“It won’t come to that.”

“You don’t know that. That house could go to hell in a second.”

Talley stepped back. He wanted to get out of the van.

“I want to talk to Maddox. Is he still at the house?”

Martin continued to search his eyes, and now she lowered her voice.

“What’s wrong, Chief? You look like something’s bothering you.”

Talley looked away.

“It has to be this way, that’s all. I have this city council.”

Martin considered him again, then lowered her voice still more as if she didn’t want Hicks and the Intelligence Officer to hear.

“Maddox told me a little about you. You were pretty hot stuff down there in Los Angeles.”

“That was a long time ago.”

Martin shrugged, then smiled, though not so warmly as before.

“Not so long.”

“I want to see Maddox.”

“He’s in the cul-de-sac. I’ll tell him you’re on the way.”

“Thanks, Martin. For not making this worse.” She stared at him, but turned away without answering. Talley found Maddox and Ellison waiting at their car in the mouth of the cul-de-sac. Ellison looked curious.

“Can’t get too much of a good thing, huh, Chief?”

“Guess not. Has he made any more demands?” Maddox shook his head.

“Nothing. We’ve been phoning every fifteen or twenty minutes to keep him awake, but other than that, there’s nothing.”

“All right. I want to move up by the house.”

Maddox opened his driver’s-side door.

“You taking back the phone?”

“That’s it. Let’s go.”

Talley checked the Watchman’s cell phone, making sure it was on. They eased the car into the cul-de-sac and returned to the house.

JENNIFER

Jennifer nodded in and out of a light drowse, never quite sleeping, listening to the helicopters and the squawk of police voices that she could not understand. She thought they might be dreams. Jennifer couldn’t get comfortable with her wrists taped, lying in her bed, on top of the covers, the room so hot it left her sweaty and gross. Every time she felt herself falling asleep, the phone rang, distant from downstairs, and left her head filled with thoughts she could not stop: her father; her brother, thinking that he might be creeping through the walls to do something stupid.

Jennifer jerked upright when the door opened. She saw Mars framed in dim light. Her skin crawled, being on the bed with him there, him and his toad eyes. She scrambled to her feet.

Mars said, “We can’t make the microwave work.”

“What?”

“We’re hungry. You’re going to cook.”

“I’m not going to cook for you. You’re out of your mind.”

“You’ll cook.”

“Fuck yourself!”

The words came before she could stop them.

Mars stepped close, then searched her eyes the way he had when she was tied to the chair, first one eye, then the other. She tried to step back, but he laced his fingers in her hair, holding her close. He spoke so softly that she could barely hear.

“I told you, that’s a bad thing.”

“Leave go of me.”

He bunched his fist, pulling her hair.

“Stop.”

He twisted his fist, pulling tighter. His face held no expression except for a mild curiosity. The pain was enormous. Jennifer’s entire body was rigid and clammy.

“I can do anything I want to you, bad girl. Remember that. Think about it.”

Mars pushed her through the door, then roughly along the hall and down the stairs. The kitchen lights were on, bright and blinding after so long in the black of her room. Mars cut the tape at her wrists, then peeled it away. She had not seen his knife before. It was curved and wicked. When he turned to the refrigerator, she glanced at the French doors, and fought the urge to run even though Thomas had given her that chance. Two frozen pizzas were sitting on the counter and the microwave oven was open.

“Heat the pizza.”

Mars turned away from her and went to the refrigerator, his back wide and threatening. Jennifer remembered the paring knife, pushed behind the food processor when they first invaded her home. She glanced toward the food processor, looking for it. When she looked back at Mars, he was watching her, holding a carton of eggs. It was like he could see inside her.

“I want scrambled eggs and hot dogs on mine.”

“On the pizza?”

“I like it with hot sauce and butter.”

As Jennifer got a frying pan and a bowl and the other things she would need, Dennis appeared from the entry. His eyes were dark and hollow.

“Is she cooking?”

“She’s making eggs.”

Dennis grunted listlessly, then turned away without another word. She found herself wishing that he would die.

“When are you going to let us go?”

“Shut up. All you have to do is make the pizza.”

She broke all nine eggs into a glass bowl, then put the frying pan on to heat. She didn’t bother with salt and pepper. She wanted the eggs to taste nasty.

Mars stood in the family room, staring at her.

“Stop watching me. I’m going to burn the eggs.”

Mars went to the French doors.

Him walking away was like a weight being lifted. She could breathe again. Jennifer beat the eggs, sprayed the pan with PAM, then poured in the eggs. She got hot sauce from the refrigerator, then glanced at Mars. He was standing by the French doors, staring at nothing, with his right hand on the glass. She shook hot sauce into the eggs until the eggs were orange, hoping it would poison them, then she thought that she might be able to poison them for real. Her mother had sleeping pills, there was probably rat poison or weed killer in the garage, there was Drano. She thought that Thomas might be able to get the sleeping pills. Then, if they made her cook again, she could put it in the food.

She glanced over at Mars again, expecting that he had read her mind again and would be watching her, but he had moved deeper into the family room. She looked at the paring knife. The handle was sticking out from behind the food processor, directly beneath the cabinet with the plates. She glanced at Mars again. She couldn’t see his face, only the shadow of his bulk. He might have been looking at her, but she couldn’t tell. She walked directly to the cabinets, took down some plates, and picked up the knife. She fought the urge to glance at Mars, knowing that if their eyes locked he would know, he could tell. She pushed the knife under her shirt into the waist of her shorts and into the bottom of her bathing suit, horizontally so that it lay against the flat of her belly.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting plates.”

“You’re burning the eggs. I can smell’m.”

She brought the plates to the stove, feeling the hard shape of the knife low on her belly, thinking that now if they turned their backs, she could kill them.

Across the house in the office, the telephone rang.