Hostage

16

Friday, 11:19 P.M.

TALLEY

Martin buzzed around him like an angry wasp. She had ridden up in the ambulance with an ER doctor named Klaus from Canyon Country Emergency.

“Wear a vest. Just strap it over your chest, he’ll be able to see you’re not armed.”

“The deal was that we would be stripped. I don’t want to spook him.”

Klaus was a young, thin man in black-framed glasses. He introduced himself as he shook Talley’s hand.

“I was told that we have a head trauma and possible gunshot wounds.”

“Let’s hope not, Doctor.”

Klaus smiled awkwardly, embarrassed.

“I guess they sent me because I did two years at Martin Luther King down in South Central. You see everything down there.”

One of the paramedics, an overweight man named Bigelow, volunteered to go with Talley. Here was Bigelow, walking over from the ambulance in the dim light behind the front line, wearing only striped boxers with his clunky paramedic shoes and black socks up to his knees. Bigelow’s partner, a woman named Colby, brought the stretcher.

Talley said, “You ready?”

“Yes, sir. Good to go.”

Martin seemed irritated.

“You know it’s stupid to agree to something like this. You were SWAT. You know you never expose yourself without protection. We could end up with two bodies out there.”

“I know.”

Talley didn’t mention the day-care center. He folded his Colt into his sweatshirt, left it on Maddox’s backseat with his clothes, then joined Bigelow. He wanted this thing to happen before Rooney changed his mind.

Talley called the house on his cell phone. Rooney answered on the first ring.

“Okay, Dennis. Put him outside. We’re stripped, so you can see we’re unarmed. We’ll wait in the drive. We won’t approach the house until after you’ve closed the door.”

Rooney hung up without answering.

Martin said, “I don’t like this. Tactical people should recover this man.”

Talley ignored her, and glanced at Bigelow.

“Here we go. I’ll walk in front of you going up to the door. Once we have him on the stretcher, I’ll take the rear position coming out. Okay?”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“It’ll be fine.”

Talley and Bigelow went around the car and stepped in front of the lights. It was like passing into a world of glare. Stick-figure shadows moved into the mouth of the drive, then stopped, waiting. Talley could tell that Bigelow was frightened; he was probably worried because of what Martin had said.

“It’s going to be all right.”

“Oh, sure. I know.”

“We’d look pretty silly if they put our picture in the paper.” Bigelow smiled nervously.

Talley watched the house. First, the shutters opened like a narrowed eye. That would be Rooney, looking them over for weapons. Smith’s front door opened, a crack at first, then wider. Talley sensed the difference in the line of officers behind him; their shuffling stopped, no one cleared their throat or coughed. The sound from one of the helicopters changed in pitch and a light swept to the door, offering nothing against the glare of the floodlights. It wasn’t Dennis Rooney. Kevin and Mars Krupchek waddled out with Smith between them, put him on the front entry about six feet from the door, then returned to the house

“Okay, let’s do it.”

Talley went directly to Walter Smith. Here was this middle-aged man wearing a Polo shirt, stonewashed jeans, and sneakers, and men were willing to murder Jane and Amanda for something in his house. The contusion on the side of his head was visible even from the mouth of the drive.

Bigelow said, “Let me set down by his head.”

Talley stepped away, letting the paramedic open the stretcher and lock out the frame. Talley kept his eyes averted from the shutters and did not try to look into the house. He watched Smith. He wanted to see some sign that Smith was waking, but the depth of Smith’s sleep scared him. Smith trembled from the center of his body, and Talley grew frightened that the man might be in a coma.

“How’s he look?”

Bigelow peeled back an eyelid, flashed a penlight in Smith’s eye, and grunted.

“Pretty bad concussion for sure.”

Bigelow fingered Smith’s neck, probing for a cervical injury, and seemed satisfied by what he found.

“Okay. We’re good. We don’t need a brace. I’ll support his head and shoulders. You lift beneath his hips and knees. He’s going to be heavier than you think, so be ready. On three.

Three.”

They slid Smith onto the stretcher. Bigelow started fastening a strap across Smith’s chest, but Talley stopped him.

“Don’t bother with it. Let’s get him out of here while we can.”

They moved straight down the sidewalk to the street and into the lights, where they were immediately surrounded by Hicks’s tactical team. Klaus ran up alongside the stretcher, snapping at Bigelow.

“Why isn’t this man’s neck braced?”

“I didn’t see any sign of cervical injury.”

“Goddamnit, he should’ve been braced anyway.”

Colby took over from Talley to help Bigelow. Ellison brought over Talley’s clothes, and Talley pulled on his pants while they loaded Smith into the ambulance. Talley followed Klaus inside.

“I have to talk to him.”

“Hang on.”

If Klaus was shy and awkward before, now he was focused and intense. He peeled back Smith’s eyelid and flashed a penlight in his eye just as Bigelow had done. Then he did the same with the other eye.

“We’ve got unequal pupilation. At best it’s a severe concussion, but it could mean brain damage. We’ll have to do plates and a CT scan at the hospital to know for sure.”

“Wake him. I need to talk to him.”

Klaus kept working. He checked Smith’s pulse.

“I’m not going to wake this man.”

“I just need him for a few minutes. That’s why I got him.”

Klaus pressed his stethoscope to Smith’s neck.

“He’s going to the hospital. He could have an intracranial hematoma or a fracture, or both. You get a pressure buildup in the brain, it can be bad.”

Talley leaned past Klaus. He took Smith by the face and shook him.

“Smith! Wake up!”

Klaus grabbed Talley’s hand, trying to pull it away.

“What the fuck are you doing? Get away from him!”

Talley shook Smith harder

“Wake up, goddamnit!”

Smith’s eyes fluttered, one opened more than the other. He didn’t seem to be looking at Talley, so Talley leaned closer. The eyes seemed to focus.

Talley said, “Who are you?”

Klaus pushed at him now.

“Let go of him. I’ll have you brought up on charges, you sonofabitch.”

Smith’s eyes lost their focus and closed. Talley took Klaus by the arm, trying to make him see.

“Use smelling salts, give him a shot, whatever. I just need a minute.”

Colby cranked the engine, and Talley slapped at the wall, shouting.

“Don’t move this van!”

Klaus and Bigelow both stared at him. Klaus slowly looked at Talley’s hand gripping his arm.

“I’m not going to wake him. I don’t even know that I can. Now let go of me.”

“We’re talking about lives here. Innocent lives. I just need to ask him a few questions.”

“Let go of me.”

Talley stared into the hard, angry eyes. Tension knotted his face and neck. He held tight to Klaus’s arm and thought about the Colt folded in his sweatshirt.

“Just one question. Please.”

The hard little eyes showed no mercy.

“He can’t answer you.”

Talley stared at Smith’s still form. So close. So close. Klaus looked down at his arm again, Talley still squeezing tight.

“Let go of me, goddamnit. We’re taking this man to the hospital.”

Martin was watching him from the door, Ellison and Metzger behind her. Talley released the doctor’s arm.

“When is he going to wake up?”

“I don’t know if he’ll ever wake up. You get bleeding between the skull and brain, the pressure can build to such a degree that brain death can result. I don’t know. Now stay in or get out, but just let us go.”

Talley looked at Smith again, feeling helpless. He climbed out of the ambulance and pulled Metzger aside.

“Who’s still here? Which of our guys is still here?”

“Jorgy. I think Campbell is still-”

“Then Jorgenson stays here. I want you waiting in this guy’s lap. I want to know the second, and I mean the second, that he wakes up.”

Metzger turned away, keying her shoulder mike for Jorgenson.

Talley walked back to Maddox’s car for the rest of his gear. His chest heaved. He felt angry and closed. He had put everyone at risk, and Smith was beyond him. Smith couldn’t talk. He stared at the house, wanting to do something, but there was nothing to do.

Talley felt himself hating Dennis Rooney, and wanted to kill him.

He turned away and saw Martin watching him. He didn’t care.

DENNIS

None of it looked real: Talley and the other guy in their underwear, carrying Smith away; Smith being loaded into the ambulance; the searchlights from the helicopters crisscrossing each other over the ground like light sabers. The pools of light were so bright that all the color was washed from the picture; the cops were gray shadows, the ambulance pink, the street blue. Dennis watched the ambulance work its way from the cul-de-sac, thinking only then that the ambulance could have been his ride out, that he could have made it a part of the deal, grab the suitcase with the money, tape his hand to a gun and the gun to Smith, then take over the ambulance and make them drive him south to the border. Why did all the best ideas come when it was too late?

Mars stepped up beside him with the same look he had for the Mexicans at work: I can see inside you; I know what you’re thinking; you have no secrets from me.

“They would have killed you as soon as you got into the ambulance. Better to stay in here.”

Dennis glanced at Mars, then walked away, pissed that Mars found him so obvious. Mars was getting to be a pain in the ass. Dennis sat at Smith’s desk and put up his feet.

“Staying here sucks, Mars. You might like it, but I want to get the hell out. I bought us some time, now we’ve got to figure this out. Any ideas?”

He looked from Mars to Kevin, but neither of them answered.

“Great. That’s just fucking great. If anyone decides to help, just speak up.”

Dennis turned to the girl and spread his hands.

“All right. Your old man’s out. You happy now?”

“Thank you.”

“I’m fuckin’ starving. Go back in the kitchen and fix something else. This time don’t throw it on the floor. And make some coffee. Make it strong. We’re gonna be up all night.”

Mars took the girl back to the kitchen.

When they were gone, Dennis noticed that Kevin was staring at him.

“What?”

“We’re not going to get out of here.”

“For chrissake! Please!”

“Mars and I don’t care about the money. You won’t let go of it and that’s why we’re still here. There’s no way to get away with it, Dennis. We’re surrounded. We’re on fucking television. We’re fucked.”

Dennis pushed out of the chair so quickly that Kevin jumped back. He was sick of dealing with their negativity.

“We’re fucked until we think of a way out, asshole. Then we’re not fucked, we’re rich.”

Dennis stalked around the desk and went to the den. The smell of gasoline was strong there, drifting in from the hall, but he wanted a drink, and he wanted to be in the den. The den was his favorite room. The dark wood paneling and plush leather furniture made Dennis feel rich, like he was in the lobby of a fine hotel. And the bar itself was beautiful: beaten copper that looked bright and shiny and a thousand years old, bar cabinets inlaid with frosted glass, and stainless steel fixtures gleaming with the overhead light. Dennis selected a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka, then found ice in a small refrigerator and glasses on a smoked glass shelf. He poured a short one, then went back around the bar to sit on a stool. Dennis peeled a hundred-dollar bill from the roll in his pocket and tossed it on the bar.

“Keep the change, m’man.”

Dennis drank most of the vodka, loving the way it raked his throat, a stiff belt that pushed its way into his head. He refilled his glass. The clean cold vodka burned his nose and made his eyes water. He rubbed his eyes, but couldn’t make the water stop.

They lived in a one-bedroom apartment above an Exxon station, Dennis, age eleven, Kevin, two years younger, and their mother, Flo Rooney. Dennis didn’t know her age then or now; their father was long gone, a pothead named Frank Rooney who fixed transmissions and didn’t pay child support. Well, fuckit, they weren’t married anyway; common-law.

Dennis shoved Kevin toward the bedroom, Kevin with big bug eyes like they were gonna pop from his head, scrambling backwards because he was scared. They were supposed to be sleeping; the world was dark.

“They’re doing it.”

“Nuh-uh. Stop saying that.”

“Can’t ya hear’m? They’re doin’ the nasty. Let’s go see.”

They had lived in more apartments than Dennis could remember, some for just a week or two, once for almost a year; dingy places with stained ceilings and toilets that ran. Flo Rooney usually worked a job, once she worked two, and more than once she had none. There was never enough money. Flo was a short woman with a body like a bowling ball, Q-Tip legs, and bad skin. She liked her gin and smelled of Noxzema. When she got in her mopes and had too much gin, she would bitch to the boys that she didn’t have enough money to keepthem, that she would have to put them in a home. Kevin would cry, but Dennis would pray: Please, please, put me in the fuckin’ home. It was always about money.

Dennis shoved Kevin toward their mother’s bedroom door. Both boys were trying to be quiet because she was with a man she had brought home from the bar. This month she was working as a barmaid, next month it would be something else, but there was always a man. She called them her “little pleasures.” Dennis called them drunks.

“Don’t ya want to see’m doin’ it?”

“No!”

“You said you did! Listen to what he’s doin’ to her!”

“Dennis, stop! I’m scared!”

The scent of sweat and sex hung sharp in the air, and Dennis hated her for it. He was jealous of the time she gave them, and humiliated by what she let them do, and by what she did to them. He was ashamed, but at the same time excited. Her gasping, grunting curses drew him.

He pushed Kevin again, this time more gently.

“Go on. Then you’ll know.”

This time Kevin went, creeping to the door. Dennis stayed on their sleeper couch, watching. He wasn’t sure why he was pushing Kevin so hard to see; maybe he wanted Kevin to hate her as much as he did. With their father on the bum and Flo working, Dennis usually had to see after his younger brother, making their breakfast and getting them to school, seeing that Kevin got home okay and making dinner. If Dennis had to be Kevin’s father and mother, there wasn’t room for another. Maybe that was it, or maybe he just wanted to punish her.

Kevin reached the door and peeked inside. Dennis knew that something nasty was going on because he could hear the man telling her what to do. She hadn’t even bothered to close the door.

Kevin watched for the longest time, and then he stepped into the door, right out in the open where their mother could see.

Dennis whispered loudly

“Kev!”

Kevin sobbed, then began to cry.

Inside the room, the man yelled, “Sonofabitch! Get the hell outta here!”

Kevin stumbled backward as the man came lurching through the door, naked except for a huge glistening erection. He was carrying his jeans.

“I’ll teach you to watch, you little shit!”

He was a big man, his body white and arms dark, coarse and hairy with tattoos on his shoulders and a loose flabby gut. His eyes glowed bright red from booze and pot. He stripped a thick leather belt from the jeans, then chased after Kevin, swinging the belt. Its buckle was a great brass oval inlaid with turquoise. The belt came down, cracking across Kevin’s back, and Kevin screamed.

Dennis drove into the man as hard as he could, flinging punches that had no effect, and now the belt was his, snapping across him over and over and over until all his tears were gone.

She never came out, and after a while the man went back into the room. Her little pleasure.

“Dennis?”

Dennis cleared his eyes, then slid off the bar stool.

“Be quiet, Kevin. I’m not leaving here until I can take that cash.”

Dennis went back to the office and unplugged the phone. There was no point in talking to the cops until he knew what to say. He wanted the money.

KEN SEYMORE

The Channel Eight news van was parked at the edge of the empty lot. The reporter was a pretty boy, couldn’t have been twenty-five, twenty-six, something like that, who got off telling everyone he went to USC. Trojan this, Trojan that, God’s a Trojan. A Trojan was a fuckin’ rubber, but Seymore didn’t say that. The reporter pool complained all evening because there were no toilets; the local cops promised that a honey-wagon was coming out, but so far, zip.

Seymore asked the guy if it would be all right to step behind their van, take the lizard for a walk.

The pretty boy laughed, sure, but watch where you step, they got a regular lizard trail back there. Dick. Seymore thought he was the kind of guy who ordered chocolate martinis.

Seymore stepped behind the van where no one could see him and did two spoons of crank. It hit the top of his head like a blast of cold air and made his eyes burn, but it kept him awake. It was after two and all of them were fighting the hours. Seymore noted that the Asian chick with the hot ass kept ducking into her SUV and had a fine set of the sniffles to show for it. A regular one-woman Hoover convention.

Coming out from behind the van, Seymore saw the Channel Eight reporter conferring with his producer and cameraperson, a man with hugely muscled arms. They looked excited.

Seymore said, “Thanks, buddy.”

“No problem. You hear? They’re getting one out of the house.”

Seymore stopped.

“They are?”

“I think it’s the father. He’s hurt.”

A siren spooled up, and they all knew it was the ambulance. Every camera crew in the lot hustled to the street in hopes of a shot, but the ambulance left from a different exit; the siren grew louder, peaked, then faded.

Seymore’s phone rang as the siren dopplered away. He answered as he walked away, lowering his voice but unable to hide his irritation. He knew who it was; he started right in.

“Why the fuck I gotta hear this from a reporter? Fuckin’ Smith comes out, forchrissake, and I gotta learn about it last?”

“Do you think I can get to a phone any time I want? I’m right out front in this; I have to be careful.”

“All right, all right. So tell me, was he talking? The guy here says he was hurt.”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t get close enough.”

“Did he have the disks? Maybe he had the disks.”

“I don’t know.”

Seymore felt himself losing it. Fuckups like this could cost him his ass.

“If anyone should know, it’s you, goddamnit. What the fuck are we paying you for?”

“They’re taking him to Canyon Country Hospital. Go fuck yourself.”

The line went dead.

Seymore didn’t have time to get pissed about it. He called Glen Howell.