Hostage

18

Friday, 11:40 P.M.

Santa Clarita, California

GLEN HOWELL

Howell took three rooms in the Comfort Inn, all at the rear of the motel with outside entrances. Marion Clewes had the woman and the girl bound hand and foot in one room, tape over their eyes and mouths. Howell had checked to make sure they were secure, then went back to his own room even though the place smelled of cleaning products and new carpets. He didn’t like being around Clewes.

Howell was sitting on his bed when he received the call from Ken Seymore, his heart trying to jump out of his nose as he heard that Walter Smith had been removed from the house.

“Did the cops go in? What the fuck is happenin’ out there?”

“No one went in, it was just Smith coming out.”

“He just walked out?”

“They carried him. He’s fucked up. One of the pricks in there must’ve beaten him. They took him out in an ambulance.”

Howell sat silent for a moment, thinking. Smith out while his kids were still inside was a problem. Smith in the hospital where they’d pop him full of dope, get him high, that was a problem, too.

“Did anything else come out of that house?”

“Nothing they’re telling the news pool.”

Howell hung up and immediately phoned information for the Canyon Country Hospital’s phone number and address, then called the hospital for directions off the freeway. He found the location in his Thomas Guide to double-check the directions, then he used his cell phone to call Palm Springs.

Phil Tuzee answered. Howell filled him in, then waited as Tuzee talked it over with the others. It was Sonny Benza who came back on the line.

“This is fuckin’ bad, Glen.”

“I know.”

“He have the disks on him?”

“I don’t know, Sonny. I just heard about this two minutes ago. It just happened. I’m going to send someone over.”

“Find out if he has the disks and see if he’s been talking to anyone. That won’t be good if he’s talking. His kids are still in that house?”

“Yeah.”

“Sonofabitch.”

Howell knew they were all thinking the same thing; a man desperate to save his kids might say anything. Howell tried to sound hopeful.

“They say he’s fucked up pretty bad. I don’t know that for sure, Sonny, but if he’s unconscious he can’t be talking. The press pool out there is talking a concussion with possible brain injury. They make it sound like the guy’s in a coma.”

“Listen, don’t tell me anything you don’t know for sure. I wipe my ass with rumors. You just hold your shit tight out there and take care of this.”

“It’s tight.”

“That’s why those pricks let him out, he’s hurt? Maybe we’ll get lucky and the fucker will die.”

“Talley talked them into letting him out.”

“You know something, Glen? That doesn’t sound like your shit is tight. That sounds like the fuckin’ wheels are comin’ off. Do I have to come out there myself?”

“No way, Sonny. I got it.”

“I want those goddamned disks.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t want Smith talking, not to anyone, you understand?”

“I understand.”

“You know what I’m saying?”

“I know.”

“Okay.”

Benza hung up. It was their call; they had made it. Howell picked up the hotel phone and called two rooms down.

“Come over here. I got something for you to do.”