Friday, 6:17 P.M.
Two of Talley's night-shift duty officers, Fred Cooper and Joycelyn Frost, rolled up in their personal cars. Cooper was breathless, as if he had run from his home in Lancaster, and Frost hadn't even taken the time to change into her uniform; she had strapped her vest and Sam Browne over a sleeveless cotton top and baggy shorts that showed off legs as pale as bread dough. They joined Campbell and Anders in the street.
Talley sat motionless in his car.
When Talley rolled to a barricade-hostage situation with SWAT, his crisis team had included a tactical team, a negotiating team, a traffic control team, a communications team, and the supervisors to coordinate their actions. The negotiating team alone included a team supervisor, an intelligence officer to gather facts and conduct interviews, a primary negotiator to deal with the subject, a secondary negotiator to assist the primary by taking notes and maintaining records, and a staff psychologist to evaluate the subject's personality and recommend negotiating techniques. Now Talley had only himself and a handful of untrained officers.
He closed his eyes.
Talley knew that he was in the beginning moments of panic. He forced himself to concentrate on the basic things that he needed to do: Secure the environment, gather information, and keep Rooney cool. These three things were all he had to do until the Sheriffs took over. Talley began a mental list; it was the only way he could keep his head from exploding.
Sarah called him over his radio.
'Chief?'
'Go, Sarah.'
'Mikkelson and Dreyer got the security tape from the minimart. They said you can see these guys plain as a zit on your nose.'
'They inbound?'
'Five out. Maybe less.'
Talley felt himself relax as he thought about the tape; it was something concrete and focused. Seeing Dennis Rooney and the other subjects would make it easier to read the emotional content in Rooney's voice. Talley had never bet a hostage on his intuition, but he believed there were subtle clues to emotional weakness – or strength – that an astute negotiator could read. It was something he knew. It was familiar.
His four officers were staring at him. Waiting.
Talley climbed out of his car and walked up the street. Metzger had a look on her face, the expression saying it was about goddamned time.
They needed a house in which to view the tape. Talley set Metzger to that, then divided more tasks among the others: Someone had to find out if the Smiths had relatives in the area, and, if so, notify them; also, they had to locate Mrs. Smith in Florida. The Sheriffs would need a floor plan of the Smith house and information on any security systems that were involved; if none were available from the permit office, neighbors should sketch the layout from memory. The same neighbors would be questioned to learn if any of the Smiths required life-sustaining medications.
Talley began to grow comfortable with the familiarity of the job. It was something that he'd done before, and he had done it well until it killed him.
By the time Talley finished assigning the preliminary tasks, Mikkelson and Dreyer had arrived with the tape. He met them at a large Mediterrean home owned by a bright sturdy woman who originally hailed from Brazil. Mrs. Peña. Talley identified himself as the chief of police and thanked her for her cooperation. She led them to the television in a large family room, where she showed them how to work the VCR. Mikkelson loaded the videotape.
'We watched the tape at Kim's to make sure we had something. I left it cued up.'
'Did you pull up anything on Rooney from traffic or warrants?'
'Yes, sir.'
Dreyer opened his citation pad. Talley saw that notes had been scrawled across the face of a citation, probably while they were driving.
'Dennis James Rooney has a younger brother, Kevin Paul, age nineteen. They live together over in Agua Dulce. Dennis just pulled thirty days at the Ant Farm for misdemeanor burglary and theft, knocked down from felony three. He's got multiple offenses, including car theft, shoplifting, drug possession, possession of stolen goods, and DUI. The brother, Kevin, did juvenile time on a car theft beef. At one time or another, both were in foster care or were wards of the state. Neither graduated from high school.'
'Any history of violent crimes?'
'Nothing in the record but what I said.'
'When we're done here, I want you to talk to their landlord. Guys like this are always behind on the rent or making too much noise, so the landlord has probably had to jam them. I want to know how they reacted. Find out if they threatened him or flashed a weapon or rolled over and made nice.'
Talley knew that a subject's past behavior was a good predictor of future behavior: People who had used violence and intimidation in the past could be expected to react with violence and threats in the future. That was how they dealt with stress.
'Find out from the landlord if they have jobs. If they work, ask their employers to come talk to me.'
'Got it.'
Mikkelson stepped away from the VCR.
'We're ready, Chief.'
'Let's see it.'
The screen flickered as the tape engaged. The bright color image of a daytime Spanish-language soap opera was replaced by the soundless black-and-white security picture of Junior Kim's minimart. The camera angle revealed that the camera was mounted above and to the right of the cash register, showing Junior Kim and a small portion of the clerk's area behind the counter. The counter angled up the left side of the frame, the first aisle angled along the right. The camera gave a partial view of the rest of the store. Small white numbers filled a time-count window in the lower right of the screen.
Mikkelson said, 'Okay. Here they come. The guy we think is Rooney entered a few minutes ago, then left. Here where the tape picks up, it's maybe five minutes later.'
'Okay.'
A sharp-featured white male matching Dennis Rooney's description opened the door and walked directly to Junior Kim. A larger white male with a broad face and wide body entered with him. The second man's hair was shaved down to his scalp in a buzz cut.
'Is that Rooney's brother?'
'The third guy is about to come in. The third guy looks like Rooney.'
A third white male stepped inside before Mikkelson finished. Talley knew the third man was Rooney's brother from the resemblance, though Kevin was shorter, thinner, and wearing a Lemonheads T-shirt. Kevin waited by the door.
Talley studied their expressions and the way they carried themselves. Rooney was a good-looking kid, with eyes that were hard but uncertain. He walked with an arrogant, rolling gait. Talley guessed that he was posturing, but couldn't yet tell if Rooney was posturing for others or himself. Kevin Rooney shuffled from foot to foot, his eyes flicking from Dennis to the gas islands outside the store. He was clearly terrified. The larger man had a wide flat face and expressionless eyes.
'We have an ID on the big guy?'
'No, sir.'
'Was the camera hidden?'
'Hanging off the ceiling big as a wart on a hog's ass, and these guys didn't even bother to wear masks.'
Talley watched the video without a feeling of connection. During his time on LAPD he had seen three or four hundred such videos, all showing robberies gone bad just the way this one was about to go bad, and only one out of twenty perpetrators had bothered to don a mask. Mostly, they didn't care; mostly, they didn't think about it; geniuses didn't go into crime. Only the first tape had shocked him. He was still a probationary officer, twenty-two years old and fresh from the academy. He had watched a thirteen-year-old Vietnamese girl walk into a convenience store just like this one, shoot the elderly African-American clerk in the face at point-blank range, then turn her gun on the only other person in the store, a pregnant Latina named Muriel Gonzales who was standing next to her. The pregnant woman had fallen to her knees, thrusting her hands up as she begged for her life. The Vietnamese shooter touched the gun to Muriel Gonzales's forehead and let off a shot without hesitation, then calmly walked around behind the counter and cleaned out the cash register before walking out of the store. When she reached the door, she hesitated, then returned to the counter, where she stole a box of Altoids. After that she stepped over Muriel Gonzales and left.
Seeing those murders had left Talley so shaken that he had spent the next two months thinking about resigning.
The events in Kim's Minimart happened as quickly: Rooney lifted his shirt to expose a gun, then vaulted over the counter. Kim stood with a gun of his own. Talley was relieved that Rooney had told the truth about Kim having a gun. It wouldn't help Rooney in court, but Talley could use what he was seeing to play on Rooney's sense of being the victim of bad luck. That was all Talley cared about right now, finding things he could use to manipulate Dennis Rooney.
The struggle between Rooney and Junior Kim lasted only seconds, then Kim staggered backward, dropped his pistol, and slumped against the Slurpee machine. Rooney was clearly surprised that Kim had been shot. He jumped back over the counter and ran to the door. The larger man didn't move. Talley found that odd. Kim had just been shot and Rooney was running, but the third man just stood there. Junior Kim's pistol had landed on the counter. The third man tucked it into his waist, then leaned over the counter, resting his weight on his left hand.
Mikkelson said, 'What's he doing?'
'He's watching Kim die.'
The big man's pasty Pillsbury Doughboy face creased.
Mikkelson said, 'Jesus, he's smiling.'
Talley's back and chest prickled. He stopped the tape, then rewound it until the unknown subject leaned forward on his hand.
'We need to confirm that the younger guy is Kevin Rooney, and we need to ID the third subject. Make hard-copy prints from the tape. Show them to Rooney's landlord, his neighbors, and the people at his job. We might get a fast ID on the third guy that way.'
Mikkelson glanced at Dreyer uncertainly.
'Ah, Chief, how do we make prints from the tape?'
Talley cursed under his breath. In Los Angeles, an officer would take the tape to the Scientific Investigations Division in Glendale, then return an hour later with however many prints were needed. Talley thought that the Palmdale PD probably had the necessary equipment to do that job, but Palmdale was a long drive in Friday-night traffic.
'You know the computer store in the mall?'
'Sure. They sell PlayStations.'
'Call first. Tell them we have a VHS videotape and ask if they know how to grab and print a frame. If they can, take it there. If they can't, call the camera store in Santa Clarita. If they can't help, call Palmdale.'
Talley pointed out the unknown subject's hand resting on the counter. He turned to Cooper and Frost.
'See here where he put his hand? I want you two to meet the Sheriff's homicide team at Kim's, and tell them about this. They'll be able to lift a good set of prints.'
'Yes, sir.'
Talley told them to get to it, then headed back out to the street and climbed into his car. He considered his impressions of Rooney from the videotape and from their conversation. Rooney wanted to be 'understood,' but he also wanted to be seen in exaggerated heroic terms: Tough, manly, and dominant. Talley decided that Rooney was a low-self-esteem personality who craved the approval of others while seeking to control his environment. He was probably a coward who covered his lack of courage with aggressive behavior. Talley decided that he could use Rooney's needs to his advantage. He checked his watch. It was time.
Talley opened his phone and punched the redial button. The phone in Smith's house rang. And rang. On the tenth ring, Rooney still hadn't answered. Talley grew worried, imagining a mass murder though he knew it was more likely that Rooney was just being a dick. He radioed Jorgenson.
'Jorgy, anything happening at the house?'
Jorgenson was still hunkered behind his car in the body of the cul-de-sac.
'Nada. It's quiet so far. I would've called you if I heard anything.'
'Okay. Stand by.'
Talley pressed the redial button again. This time he let the phone ring an even dozen times before he closed the phone. He went back on the radio.
'You hear anything from the house?'
'I thought I heard the phone ringing.'
'See any movement?'
'No, sir. It's quiet as a clam.'
Talley wondered why Rooney was refusing to answer the phone. He had seemed agreeable enough during their first contact. Talley keyed his radio again.
'Who's on with the CHiPs?'
The California Highway Patrol officers had been used to supplement his own people on the perimeter of the house. They worked off their own communication frequency, distinct from the Bristo freq.
'I am.'
'Tell them to advance to the property lines. I don't want them exposed to fire, but I want Rooney to see them. Put them at the east and west walls, and at the back wall.'
'Rog. I'll take care of it.'
If Rooney wouldn't answer the phone, Talley would force Rooney to call him.
The money changed things. Dennis couldn't stop thinking about the money. It no longer was enough to escape; he was frantic to take the money with him. Dennis brought Mars to the closet, letting him see the boxes of cash that crowded the closet floor. Dennis laid his hands on the cash to savor the velvety feel. He lifted a pack of hundred-dollar bills to his nose and riffled the bills, smelling the paper and ink and the sweet human smell of cash. He tried to guess the number of bills in the pack. Fifty, at least; maybe a hundred. Five thousand dollars. Maybe ten thousand. Dennis couldn't stop touching the money, feeling it; softer than any breast, silkier than a woman's thigh, sexier than the finest ass.
He grinned up at Mars so wide that his cheeks cramped.
'There's gotta be a million dollars here. Maybe more. Look at it, Mars! This place is a bank!'
Mars barely glanced at the money. He went to the back of the little room, looking at the ceiling and the floor, tapping the walls, then studied the monitors. He pushed the boxes aside with his feet.
'It's a safety room. Steel door, reinforced walls, all the security; it's like a bunker. If anyone breaks into your house, you can hide. I wonder if they have sex in here?'
Dennis was irritated that Mars showed so little interest in the cash. Dennis wanted to dump the cash into a huge pile and dive in naked.
'Who gives a shit, Mars? Check out this cash. We're rich.'
'We're trapped in a house.'
Dennis was getting pissed off. This was the life-altering event that Dennis had always known was waiting for him: This house, this money, here and now – this was his destiny and his fate; the moment that had drawn him all the years of his life, plucked at him to take chances and commit outrageous acts, made him the star in the movie of his own life – all along it had been pulling him forward to the here and now, and Mars was harshing his mellow. He shoved a pack of cash into his pocket and stood.
'Mars, listen, we're going to take this with us. We'll put it in something. They must have suitcases or plastic bags.'
'You can't run with a suitcase.'
'We'll figure it out.'
'It's going to be heavy.'
Dennis was getting more pissed off. He slapped Mars in the chest. It was like slapping a wall, but Mars averted his eyes. Dennis had learned that Mars would go along if you knocked the shit out of him.
'We can carry it, we can even stuff it up our asses, but we're not leaving here without it.'
Mars nodded, rolling over just as Dennis knew he would.
'I'm glad you found the money, Dennis. You can have my share.'
Mars was depressing him. Dennis told Mars to go back to the office to make sure Kevin wasn't fucking up. When Mars left, Dennis felt relieved; Mars was fucking weird and getting weirder. If he didn't want the money, Dennis would keep it all for himself.
He searched through the other closets in the bedroom until he found a black Tumi suitcase, the kind with a handle and wheels. Dennis filled it with packs of hundreds; worn bills that had seen a lot of use, not a crisp new note among them. When the suitcase was full, Dennis wheeled it into the bedroom and parked it on the bed. Mars was right: He didn't know how he was going to get out of here lugging that big-ass case. He wouldn't be able to sneak out a window and run through backyards, but they had two cars and three hostages. Dennis refused to believe that he had come this close to his destiny to let it slip away.
Dennis returned to the office and found Mars watching the television. Mars turned up the volume.
'It's on every channel, dude. You're a star.'
Dennis saw himself on television. The newspeople had cut one of Dennis's old booking photos into the upper right corner of the screen. It was a shot that made him look like Charles Manson.
The picture changed to an aerial view of the house they were in. Dennis saw police cars parked in the street and two cops hunkered behind the wheels. A hot newschick was saying how Dennis had recently been released from the Ant Farm. Dennis found himself grinning again. Something smoky rushed through Dennis's veins just as it did when he got away with stealing a car: Part anger and rage, part rush, part a groovy feeling like the whole fucking world was giving him high fives. Here he was with a million bucks for the taking, here he was on television. It was the big FUCK YOU to his parents, to his teachers, to the cops, to all the shitbirds who had kept him down. FUCK! YOU! He had arrived. He felt real. It was better than sex.
'Yeah! Fuckin' YEAH!'
He went to the door.
'Kevin! Come see this!'
The phone rang, spoiling the magic of the television. That would be Talley. Dennis ignored it, and returned to the television. The helicopters, the cops, the reporters – everyone was here because of him. It was The Dennis Rooney Show, and he had just figured out the ending: They would use the kids as hostages and boogie to the border in that big flashy Jaguar with the helicopters broadcasting every moment of the trip on live TV.
Dennis slapped Mars on the arm.
'I got it, dude. We'll use the Jaguar. We'll take the cash and the two kids, and leave their father here. The cops won't mess with us if we have those kids. We can boogie straight down to TJ.'
Mars shrugged blandly, his voice as quiet as a whisper.
'That won't work, Dennis.'
Dennis grew irritated again.
'Why not?'
'They'll shoot out the tires, and then a police sniper will put a bullet in your head from a hundred yards away.'
'Bullshit, Mars. O. J. Simpson drove around for hours.'
'O. J. Simpson didn't have hostages. They won't let us leave with these children. They'll kill us, and we won't even see it coming.'
The picture shifted again to an aerial view of the minimart surrounded by Highway Patrol cars. The view slowly orbited the cars. The movement made Dennis feel sick, like riding in the backseat of a car. He watched the cops crouched behind their cars, and worried that Mars was right about the snipers. That was just the kind of chickenshit double cross the cops would pull.
Dennis was still thinking about it when Kevin screamed from his position by the French doors.
'Dennis! There's cops all over the place out here! They're coming!'
Dennis forgot the snipers and ran to his brother.
Talley was in the cul-de-sac, waiting behind his car, when Dennis began shouting from the house. Talley let him rant, then opened his phone and called.
Dennis answered on the first ring.
'You fuck! You tell those fuckin' cops to move back! I don't like'm this close!'
'Take it easy, Dennis. Are you saying that you don't like seeing the officers on the perimeter?'
'Stop saying whatever I say back to me! You know what I mean!'
'I do that to make sure I understand you. We can't afford to misunderstand each other.'
'If these bastards try to come in here, people are gonna' die! Everybody's gonna die!'
'No one is going to hurt you, Dennis. I told you that before. Now give me a minute to see what's going on out here, okay?'
Talley hit the mute button on his phone.
'Jorgy, are you on with the perimeter?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Are they on the walls where we placed them?'
'Yes, sir. We've got two north on Flanders, and two more in each of the rear yards on either side. They're on the wall.'
Talley turned off the mute.
'Dennis, I'm checking into it, okay? Tell me what you see.'
'I see fuckin' cops! I'm looking right at'm. They're too close!'
'I can't see them from out here behind my car. Help me, okay? Where are they?'
Talley heard muffling sounds, as if Rooney was moving with the phone. Talley wondered if it was a cordless. Like all hostage negotiators, he hated cordless and cell phones because they didn't anchor the subject. You could fix a hardwired phone's location. Then you knew the subject's location whenever you had him on the line. If you launched a tactical breach, knowing the subject's location could save lives.
Rooney said, 'All the way around, goddamnit! These bastards over here at this white house. They're right on the goddamn wall! You make them get back!'
Talley hit the mute button again. The white house was a sprawling contemporary to Talley's left. A brushed-steel gate crossed the front drive. The house on the east side to Talley's right was dark gray. Talley counted to fifty, then opened the cell line again.
'Dennis, we got a little problem here.'
'Fucking right we got a problem. Make'm get back!'
'Those officers are Highway Patrolmen, Dennis. I'm with the Bristo Camino Police Department. They don't work for me.'
'Bullshit!'
'I can tell you what they're going to say.'
'Fuck what they say! If they come over that wall, people are going to die! I've got hostages in here!'
'If I tell these guys that you're being cooperative, they'll be more inclined to cooperate with you. You understand that, don't you? Everyone out here is concerned that the civilians in there with you are okay. Let me speak with Mr. Smith.'
'I told you they're fine.'
Talley sensed that everything inside wasn't as Rooney claimed, and that concerned him. Most hostage takers agreed to let their hostages say a few words because they enjoyed taunting the police with their control of the hostage; it made them feel powerful. If Rooney wouldn't let the Smiths talk, then he must be frightened of what they might say.
'Tell me what's wrong, Dennis.'
'Nothing's wrong! I'll let the sonofabitch talk when I get good and goddamned ready. I'm in charge of this shit, not you!'
Dennis sounded so stressed that Talley backed off. If anything was wrong in the house, he didn't want to make the situation worse. But having pressed Rooney for a concession, he had to get something or he would lose credibility.
'Okay, Dennis, fair enough for now, but you've still got to give me something if you want the patrolmen to back off. So how about this: You tell me who you have in there. Just tell me their names.'
'You know who owns the house.'
'We heard that those kids might have some friends over.'
'If I tell you, will you get these assholes to back off?'
'I can do that, Dennis. I just got word from their commander. He'll go along.'
Rooney hesitated, but then he answered.
'Walter Smith, Jennifer Smith, and Thomas Smith. There's no one else in here.'
Talley muted the phone again.
'Jorgy, tell the CHiPs to back off the wall. Tell them to find a position with a view of the house, but they can't be on the wall. Have them do it now.'
'Rog.'
Talley waited as Jorgenson spoke into his mike, then he went back to his phone.
'Dennis, what do you see?'
'They're pulling back.'
'Okay. We made it work, me and you. We did something here, Dennis. Way to go.'
Talley wanted Rooney to feel as if they had accomplished something together. Like they were a team.
'Just keep them away. I don't like them that close. They come over that wall, people are going to die in here. Do you understand what I'm saying? I'm not a guy you can fuck with.'
'I'll give you my word about that right now. We're not coming in there. We won't come over that wall unless we think you're hurting someone. I want to be up front about that. If it looks like you're going to hurt those people, we'll come in without warning.'
'I'm not going to hurt anyone if you stay away. That's all there is to it.'
'That's the way to play it. Just be cool.'
'You want these people, Talley? You want them safe and sound? Right now?'
Talley knew that Rooney was about to make his first demand. It could be as innocent as a pack of cigarettes or as outrageous as a phone call from the President.
'You know that I do.'
'I want a helicopter with a full tank of gas to take us to Mexico. If I get the helicopter, you get these people.'
During his time with SWAT, Talley had been asked for helicopters, jet aircraft, limousines, buses, cars, and, once, a flying saucer. All negotiators were trained that certain demands were non-negotiable: Firearms, ammunition, narcotics, alcohol, and transportation. You never allowed a subject the hope of escape. You kept him isolated. That was how you broke him down.
Talley responded without hesitation, making his voice reasonable, but firm, letting his tone assure Rooney that the refusal wasn't the end of the world, and wasn't confrontational.
'Can't do that, Dennis. They won't give you a helicopter.'
Rooney's voice came back strained.
'I've got these people.'
'The Sheriffs won't trade for a helicopter. They have their rules about these things. You could ask for a battleship, but they won't give you that, either.'
When he spoke again, Rooney sounded weaker.
'Ask them.'
'It can't even land here, Dennis. Besides, Mexico isn't freedom. Even if you had a helicopter, the Mexican police would arrest you as soon as it landed. This isn't the Old West.'
Talley wanted to change the subject. Rooney would brood about the helicopter now, but Talley thought that he could give him something else to think about.
'I saw the security tape from the minimart.'
Rooney hesitated, as if it took him a moment to realize what Talley was saying, then his voice was anxious and hopeful.
'Did you see that Chinaman pull a gun? Did you see that?'
'It played out just the way you said.'
'None of this would've happened if he hadn't pulled that gun. I damn near shit my pants.'
'Then none of this was premeditated. That's what you're saying here, right? That you didn't premeditate what happened?'
Rooney wanted to be seen as the victim, so Talley was sending the subtle message that he sympathized with Rooney's situation.
'We just wanted to rob the place. I'll admit that. But, fuck, here comes the Chinaman pulling a gun. I had to defend myself, right? I wasn't trying to shoot him. I was just trying to get the gun away so he couldn't shoot me. It was an accident.'
The adversarial edge disappeared from Rooney's voice. Talley knew that this was the first indication that Rooney was beginning to see Talley as a collaborator. Talley lowered his voice, sending a subtle cue that this was just between them.
'Can the other two guys hear me?'
'Why do you want to know that?'
'I understand that they might be there with you, so you don't have to respond to what I'm about to say, Dennis. Just listen.'
'What are you talking about?'
'I know you're worried about what will happen to you because the officer was shot. I've been thinking about that, so I've got a question. Was anyone else in there shooting besides you? Just a yes or no, if that's all you can say.'
Talley already knew the answer from Jorgenson and Anders. He let the question hang in the air. He could hear Rooney breathe.
'Yes.'
'Then maybe it wasn't your bullets that hit the officer. Maybe it wasn't you who shot him.'
Talley had gone as far as he could. He had suggested that Rooney could beat the rap by shifting the blame to one of the other subjects. He had given Rooney a doorway out. Now, he had to back off and let Rooney brood over whether or not to step through.
'Dennis, I want to give you my cell phone number. That way you can reach me whenever you want to talk. You won't have to shout out the window.'
'That'd be good.'
Talley gave him the number, told Rooney that he was going to take another break, then once more backed his car out of the cul-de-sac. Leigh Metzger was waiting for him on the street outside of Mrs. Peña's home. She wasn't alone. Talley's wife and daughter were with her.
Santa Monica Hospital Emergency Room
Santa Monica, California
Fifteen years ago
Officer Jeff Talley, shirtless but still wearing his blue uniform pants even though they are ripped and streaked with blood, notices her calves first. He is a sucker for shapely calves. Talley is sitting on a gurney in the emergency room, his torn hand packed in a bowl of ice to reduce the swelling and kill the pain while he waits for them to take him to X-ray. His partner, a senior patrol officer named Darren Consuelo, is currently locking Talley's gun, radio, Sam Browne, and other equipment in the trunk of their patrol car for safekeeping.
The nurse comes out of a door across the room, lost in whatever she's scribbling on the clipboard, dressed in white with a pale blue apron, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. The calves get him first because they are not hidden by the clunky white stockings that nurses often wear; they are sleek, strong, and fiercely brown from much time in the sun. She has legs like a gymnast or sprinter, which Talley likes. He checks her out: Tight ass, trim body, shoulders broad for her small stature. Then he sees her face. She appears to be about his age, twenty-three, twenty-four, something like that.
'Nurse?'
He winces when she glances over, trying to look like he's suffering intense pain. In truth, his hand is numb.
She recognizes the LAPD pants and shoes, smiles encouragingly.
'How's it going, Officer!'
She is not a beautiful woman, but she is pretty with healthy clean skin, and an expression of kindness that moves him. Her eyes glow with a warmth that fills him.
'Ah, Nurse-'
He reads her name tag. Jane Whitehall.
'Jane… they were supposed to bring me to X-ray, but I've been out here forever. Think you could check for me?'
He makes the grimace again, impressing her with his suffering.
'I know they're backed up tonight, but I'll see what I can do. What's wrong?'
He lifts his hand from the pink ice. The fleshy pad on the inside of his third finger is ripped and torn. The edges of the laceration are blue from the cold, but the bleeding has mostly stopped.
Nurse Whitehall grimaces sympathetically.
'Ow. That's nasty.'
Talley nods.
'I chased a rape suspect into a backyard in Venice, where the guy sicced his pit bull on me. I'm lucky I've still got a hand.'
Nurse Whitehall carefully places his hand back into the ice. Like her eyes, her touch is warm and certain.
'Did you catch him?'
'Yes, ma'am. He went down hard, but he went down. I always get my man.'
He smiles, letting her know that he is kidding her, and she returns his smile. Talley thinks that he is making great headway, and is about to tell her that he has just been accepted to become a Special Weapons and Tactics officer when Consuelo comes plopping around the corner with a Diet Coke and two PayDay candy bars. Consuelo, like always, smells of cigarettes.
'Jesus, you're still sittin' there? Haven't they snapped the picture yet?'
Talley takes the Diet Coke, wishing that Consuelo would go back to the candy machine. He wants to be alone with the nurse.
'They're backed up. You can hang out in the coffee shop, you want. I'll find you when I'm done here.'
Nurse Whitehall smiles politely at Consuelo.
'I'll see where we are with the X-ray.'
Consuelo grunts, gruff and pissed off about having to spend his day in the emergency room.
'While you're back there, snag a load of klutz pills for this guy, extra strength.'
Quickly, Talley says, 'I'll find you in the coffee shop.'
Nurse Whitehall cocks her head, clearly wondering what Consuelo means.
'Were you with him when the pit bull attacked?'
'That what he told you happened to his hand?'
Talley feels the flush creep up his neck. He meets Consuelo's eyes with a silent plea for help.
'Yeah, Consuelo was there. When we collared the rapist in Venice.'
Consuelo bursts out laughing, spraying peanuts and caramel all over the gurney.
'A rapist? A pit bull? Jesus, lady, this dumb putz slammed his finger in the car door.'
Consuelo walks away, gurgling his smoker's laugh.
Talley wants to crawl under the gurney and disappear. When he looks at Nurse Whitehall again, she is staring at him.
Talley shrugs, trying to make a joke.
'I thought it was worth the shot.'
'That really how you hurt your hand, you caught it in a car door?'
'Not very heroic, is it?'
'No.'
'Well, there you go.'
Nurse Whitehall walks three steps away, stops, turns back, and looks at him with an expression of profound confusion.
"I must be out of my mind.'
She kisses him just as two doctors and another nurse step off the elevator. Talley pulls her close, kissing her deeply, just as he does again that night after their date at the Police Academy 's Rod and Gun Club, and every night thereafter. From the instant he sees the warmth in her eyes, Jeff Talley is in love.
Three months and one day later, they marry.
Talley felt embarrassed and angry with himself. He had been so consumed that he had forgotten about Jane and Amanda. He checked the charge on his cell phone battery, then pocketed the phone and joined them.
Amanda looked like her mother: Both were short, though Amanda was a bit taller, and both were thin. They shared what Talley felt was their most telling feature: Faces so expressive that they were open doors to their hearts. Talley had always been able to see whatever Jane felt; in the beginning when the feelings were good, this was good; but toward the end, the open reflections of pain and confusion added to a load he found impossible to bear.
Talley kissed his daughter, who was as responsive as a wet towel.
'Sarah told us that there are men with guns barricaded in a house! Where are they?'
Talley pointed toward the cul-de-sac.
'Just around the corner and up that street. You see the helicopters?'
The helicopters made it hard to hear.
Amanda's eyes were wide and excited as she looked around at the police cars, but Jane looked drawn with dark rings circling her eyes. Talley thought that his wife looked tired. He felt a stab of guilt and shame.
'You been working overtime?'
'Not so much. Two nights a week.'
'You look tired.'
'Does it make me look older, too?'
'Jesus, Jane, I didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry.'
She closed her eyes and nodded, her expression saying that they were covering familiar ground.
Rather than stand outside, Talley brought them into the house. Mrs. Peña's kitchen was filled with the rich smells of brewing coffee and cheese enchiladas. She had put out pitchers of water and cans of soft drinks, insisting that the officers help themselves, and now she was cooking.
Talley introduced Jane and Amanda to Mrs. Peña, then led them into the family room. The big television was playing live coverage of the scene. Amanda went to the television.
'Sarah said they have hostages.'
'They have a father and two children. We think that's all, but we don't know. One of the kids is a girl. About your age.'
'This is so cool. Can we go see the house?'
'No, we can't go up there.'
'But you're the chief of police. Why not?'
Jane said, 'It's a crime scene, Mandy. It's dangerous.'
Talley turned to his wife.
'I should've called, Jane. This thing broke just after we spoke, then everything was happening so fast that I didn't even think of it. I'm sorry.'
Jane touched his arm.
'How are you doing?'
'I think the guy's going to come around. I've been on the phone with him, he's scared, but he's not suicidal.'
'I'm not asking about the situation, Chief. I mean you.'
She glanced at her hand on his arm, then looked up at him again.
'You're shaking.'
Talley stepped away just enough so that her hand fell.
He glanced past her at the big television. He could see Jorgenson hunkered behind his radio car.
'The Sheriffs are taking over as soon as they get here.'
'But they're not here. You are. I know what this does to you.'
'They'll be here when they get here. I'm the chief of police, Jane. That's it.'
She stared at him the way she did when she was looking for meaning beyond his words. It used to infuriate him. Where Jane's face was a mirror to every emotion she felt, his face was flat and plain and revealed nothing. She had often accused him of wearing a mask, and he had never been able to explain that it wasn't a mask. It was a tightly held control that kept him from falling apart.
He looked away again. It hurt to see her concern.
'All right, Jeff. I'm just worried about you, is all.'
Talley nodded.
'You guys should have dinner up here before you head back. Let some of the traffic bleed out. Maybe that Thai place. You like that place, don't you?'
Jane grew serious, then nodded.
'We could do that. There's no point in rushing home.'
'Good.'
'I don't want to just drop her off at your place so she has to sit there all alone, so how about she and I go eat, then we'll both stay over. We'll rent a movie. If this thing blows over tonight, you and Mandy could be laughing about it tomorrow this time.'
Talley felt embarrassed. He nodded, but the nod was a stall because he didn't know what to say. He noticed that Jane had dyed her hair a new color. She had colored it the same rich chestnut for as long as Talley could remember, but now it was a deep red so dark that it was almost black. Her hair was cut shorter, too, almost a boy cut. Talley realized then that this woman deserved more than he would ever be able to give her. He told himself that if he cared for her and for whatever they once had, he had to set her free, not curse her with a man whose heart had died.
'What?'
He looked away again.
'You and I need to talk.'
She didn't say anything for a moment, just stared up at him until a faint smile touched the corners of her mouth. He could tell that she was frightened.
'All right, Jeff.'
'The Sheriffs will be here soon. When they get set up, I'll hand off the phone, and then I should be able to leave.'
She nodded.
Talley wanted to tell her then. He wanted to tell her that she was free, that he wouldn't hold her back any longer, that he finally knew that he was beyond redemption, but the words wouldn't come and their absence left him feeling cowardly.
He told Metzger to escort his wife and daughter out of the development, then he went back to his car to wait for the Sheriffs in the dimming light.
Santa Clarita, California
Six miles west of Bristo Camino
Chili's Restaurant
7:02 P.M.
Glen Howell didn't have to warn his people to keep their voices down; they were surrounded by middle-class vanilla families come to sop up cut-rate frozen shrimp and fried cheese on their Friday night out; people Glen Howell thought of as zombies; irritated men and women at the end of another pointless week, pretending that their screaming, out-of-control, overfed children weren't monsters. Welcome to suburbia, Howell thought, and you can stuff it up your ass.
Howell didn't let the four men and two women get booze, or food that was made to order. He didn't have time to hustle after the parolee cooks in the kitchen, and booze would put his people to sleep. He needed them sharp. Howell had called in each of the six himself, running each name past Sonny Benza personally. They were longtime associates who could do what needed to be done without drawing attention to themselves, and they could do it quickly. From what Howell was learning, speed was going to be everything. Speed, and a total domination of the local scene. He accepted the fact that he would not sleep again until this was over.
Ken Seymore, who had spent the past two hours pretending to be a reporter from the Los Angeles Times, was saying, 'They requested a full crisis response team from the L.A. County Sheriff's Department. The Sheriffs are on the way now, but there's been some kinda problem, so they've been delayed.'
Duane Manelli fired off a question. Manelli spoke in abrupt bursts, the way an M16A2 coughed out three-shot groups.
'How many people is that?'
'In the Sheriff's team?'
'Yeah.'
When Duane Manelli was eighteen years old, a state judge had given him the choice between going into the service or pulling twenty months for armed robbery. Manelli had joined the army, and liked it. He spent twelve years in the service, going airborne, ranger, and finally special forces. He currently ran the best hijack crew in Sonny Benza's operation.
Seymore found his notes.
'Here's what we're looking at: A command team, a negotiating team, a tactical team – the tac team includes a perimeter team, the assault team, snipers, and breachers – and an intelligence team. Some of these guys might double up on what they do, but we're looking at about thirty-five new bodies on the scene.'
Somebody whistled.
'Damn, when those boys roll, they roll.'
LJ Ruiz leaned forward on his elbows, frowning. Ruiz was a quiet man with a thoughtful manner who worked for Howell as an enforcer. He specialized in terrorizing bar owners until they agreed to buy their booze from distributors approved by Benza.
'What's a breacher?'
'If they gotta blow open a door or a window or whatever, the breachers set the charge. They go to a special school for that.'
Howell didn't like that many more policemen coming in, but they had expected it. Seymore had reported that, so far, the federal authorities hadn't been requested, but Howell knew that the odds of this would increase as time passed.
Howell asked when the Sheriffs would arrive.
'Cop I talked to, he said they'll be here in three hours, maybe four tops.'
Howell checked his watch, then nodded at Gayle Devarona, one of the two women at the table. Like Seymore, she had pretended to be a news reporter in order to openly ask questions. If the questions were too blatant to ask, she used her skills as a thief.
'What's up with the local cops?'
'We got sixteen full- and part-time employees, fourteen police officers and two full-time office people. I got their names here, and most of the addresses. I could've gotten the others, but I had to come here.'
Seymore laughed.
'Bitch, bitch, bitch.'
'Fist yourself.'
Howell told them to knock it off. Bullshit took time.
Devarona tore a single sheet from a yellow legal pad and passed it across the table to Howell.
'I got the names from the Bristo police office. The addresses and phones I got from a contact at the phone company.'
Howell scanned a neatly hand-printed list. Talley's name was at the top, along with his address and two phone numbers. Howell guessed that one was the house phone, the other a cell.
'You get any background on these people, see what we have to deal with?'
She went through what she had, which made Bristo sound like a burial ground for retired meter maids and retards. Not that bad, really, but Howell thought that they'd caught a break. He knew of small towns in Idaho where half the population had pulled time on LAPD's Robbery-Homicide Division and the other half were retired FBI. Try to fuck around up there, they'd hand you your ass. Howell checked his watch again. By midnight tonight, he could and would have credit checks and military records (if any) of each of these officers, as well as information about their families.
'What about Talley?'
Sonny Benza had specifically told him to zero in on Talley. You cut off the head, the body dies.
She said, 'I got what I could. Single, ex-LAPD. The condo he lives in is provided by the city.'
Seymore interrupted.
'Those cops I talked to out at Smith's place, they said Talley was a hostage negotiator in LA.'
Devarona scowled, like she hated him stepping on her goods.
'His last three years on the job. Before that, he was SWAT. There's a picture of him on the wall in their office, Talley in an assault suit, holding the big gun.'
Howell nodded at these last two bits of information. They were the first interesting things that he'd heard. He wondered how a SWAT-qualified crisis negotiator ended up crossing school kids in Beemerland. Maybe the free condo.
Devarona said, 'He was on LAPD a total of fourteen years, then he resigned. The woman I talked to didn't want to say, but I'd make him for a stress release. Something's hinky about why he hung it up.'
Howell made a note to pass that up to Palm Springs. He knew that Benza had people on the Los Angeles Police Department. If they turned something rotten on Talley, they might be able to use it as leverage. He had one last question about Talley.
'He work as a detective down there?'
'I asked about that. The girl didn't know, but it's still a good notion to follow up.'
When Devarona finished, Howell waited for more, but that was it. Everyone had given what they had. All in all, Howell couldn't kick. Start to finish, they'd had maybe two hours to get it together. Now there was more to do. He considered the sixteen names on Devarona's list. The list of bankers, lawyers, private investigators, and police officers owned by Sonny Benza and his associates was far longer; that list numbered in the hundreds, and all of those names could be brought to bear for the task at hand.
'Okay, get the rest of the addresses, then divide up the names and start digging. Gayle, you're on credit and finances. We get lucky, one of these clowns is gonna be in so deep that he's drowning. Maybe we can toss him a life preserver. Duane, Ruiz, find out where these people play. Some married doof is gonna keep a whore on the side; one of these turds is gonna like chasing the dragon with a fruit. Shovel dirt and find the skeletons. Ken, you're back at the house with the reporters. If anything breaks, I want to know about it before God.'
Seymore leaned back, irritated. Howell always got pissed off when he did that.
'Don't start with the faces, goddamnit. If you've got something to say, say it.'
'We're going to need more people. If this thing drags out a few days, we're gonna need a lot more.'
'I'm on it.'
Now Seymore leaned forward, and lowered his voice still more.
'If things get wet, we're going to need people who can handle that end.'
Wet work was blood work. Howell had already thought of that and had already made the call.
'The right people are on their way. You worry about your job. I got my side covered.'
Howell checked his watch again, then copied Talley's address and phone numbers on the bottom of the sheet. He tore off his copy, then stood.
'I want updates in two hours.'
Howell put Talley's address in his pocket as he walked out to his car. Not just anyone would murder a chief of police with an army of cameras and newspeople around. He needed someone special for a job like that.
Friday, 7:39 P.M.
Newhall, California
Sundown
His name was Marion Clewes. He was waiting in a donut shop in Newhall, California, twelve miles west of Bristo Camino in an area where all of the signs were in Spanish. Marion was the only person in the shop other than the woman behind the counter who spoke no English and seemed uneasy about his being there. Even at sundown, the unairconditioned shop was hot, leaving her skin filmed with grease. It was a filthy place, with coffee rings on the broken Formica tables and a sticky floor. Marion didn't mind. He could feel the weight of the air, heavy with grease and cinnamon. He took a seat at a table facing the door to wait for Glen Howell.
Marion was used to meeting Howell in places like this. Howell was never comfortable with him, and was probably afraid of him. He suspected that Howell didn't even like him, but that was okay. They paid him well for doing what he enjoyed, and he did these things with a merciless dependability.
Marion stared at the woman. She crossed and recrossed her arms until she disappeared behind the fryer, frantic to escape his gaze. He shifted his stare to the parking lot. A fly droned past his ear. It was a black desert fly, fat with juice and thorny with coarse hair, kicking off green highlights in the cheesy fluorescent lights. It buzzed low over the table in an S-shaped course, swung slowly around, and landed in a sprinkle of sugar. Marion slapped it. He waited, holding his hand in place, feeling for movement. When Marion raised his hand, the fly oozed sideways, legs kicking, trying to walk. Marion watched it. The best it could do was drive itself in a pathetic circle. Marion examined his hand. A smear of fly goo and a single black leg streaked his third finger. He touched his tongue to the smear and tasted sugar. He watched the fly push itself in the circle. Gently, he held it in place with his left index finger, and used his right index fingernail to break away another leg. He ate it. Hmm. One by one, he broke away the fly's legs and ate them. One wing was damaged, but the other beat furiously. He wondered what the fly was thinking.
Headlights flashed across the glass.
Marion glanced up to see Howell's beautiful Mercedes pull to a stop. It was a lovely car. Marion watched Howell get out of the car and come inside. Marion pushed the fly to the side as Howell took a seat opposite him.
'There's a woman in the back. I don't think she speaks English, though.'
'This won't take long.'
Howell spoke softly, getting down to business. He placed a slip of yellow paper on the table in front of Marion.
'Talley lives here. It's a condo. I don't have anything about what the place is like or if there's security or anything like that.'
'It doesn't matter.'
'Here's the drill: We have to own this guy – that's straight from the top – and we don't have a lot of time to mess around. I need you to find something we can use to twist him.'
Marion put the address away. He had done this kind of thing before, and knew what was needed. He would look for weakness. Everyone held their weakness close. He would copy bank account numbers; he would search for pornography and drugs, old love letters and sex toys, prescription medications and computer files. Maybe a lab report from a personal physician describing heart disease or phone records to another man's wife. It could be anything. There was always something.
'Is he there now?'
'Don't you listen to the news?'
Marion shook his head.
'He's not home, but I can't tell you when he will or won't get back there. So be ready for that.'
'What if he walks in on me?'
Howell averted his eyes, reached a decision, then looked back.
'If he's got you, kill him.'
'Okay.'
'Listen, we don't want him dead. We want to control him. We need to use him. But if you're caught, well, fuck it. Cap his ass.'
'What about later? After he's used?'
'That's up to Palm Springs.'
Marion accepted that. Sometimes they were kept alive because they could be used over and over, but most times he was allowed to finish the job. The finishing was his favorite part.
Howell said, 'You have my pager number and my cell?'
'Yes.'
'Okay. Page me when you're done. Whether you find something or not, keep me in the loop.'
'What if there's nothing in his home?'
'Then we'll hit his office. That'll be harder. He's the chief of police.'
Howell got up without another word.
Marion watched the beautiful Mercedes slide away into the deepening twilight, then looked back at the fly. Its legless body lay on its side, still. Marion touched it. The remaining wing fluttered.
Marion said, 'Poor fly.'
Marion carefully pulled out the remaining wing, then left to do his job.
Friday, 7:40 P.M.
The helicopters over York Estates switched on their lights to become brilliant stars. Talley didn't like losing the sun. The creeping darkness changed the psychology of hostage takers and police officers alike. Subjects felt safer in the dark, hidden and more powerful, the night allowing them fantasies of escape. Perimeter guards knew this, so their stress level would rise as their efficiency decayed. Night laid the foundation for overreaction and death.
Talley stood by his car, sipping Diet Coke as his officers reported. Rooney's employer, who believed that he could identify the unknown subject, had been located and was inbound; Walter Smith's wife had not yet been found; Rooney's parole officer from the Ant Farm had been identified but was in transit to Las Vegas for the weekend and could not be reached; ten large pizzas (half veggie, half meat) had just been delivered from Domino's, but someone had forgotten napkins. Information was coming in so fast that Talley began to lose track, and it would come faster. He cursed that the Sheriffs hadn't yet arrived.
Barry Peters and Earl Robb trotted up the street from their radio car. Robb was carrying his Maglite.
'We're set with the phone company, Chief. PacBell shows six hard lines into the house, four of them listed, two unlisted. They blocked all six in and out like you wanted. No one else can call in on those numbers, and the only number they can reach calling out is your cell.'
Talley felt a dull relief; now he didn't have to worry that some asshole would get the Smiths' number and convince Rooney to murder his hostages.
'Good, Earl. Did we get more bodies from the Highway Patrol?'
'Four more CHiPs and two cars from Santa Clarita.'
'Put them on the perimeter. Have Jorgenson do it, because he knows what I told Rooney.'
'Yes, sir.'
Robb trotted away as Peters turned on his Maglite, lighting two floor plan sketches that had been made on typing paper.
'I worked these out with the neighbors, Chief. This is the upstairs, this is the downstairs.'
Talley grunted. They weren't bad, but he wasn't confident that they were accurate; details like window placement and closet location could be critical if a forced entry was required. Talley asked about architectural drawings.
'These are the best I could do; there wasn't anything at the building commission.'
'There should be. This is a planned community. Every house plan in the development should be on file.'
Peters looked upset and embarrassed.
'I'm sorry, Chief. I called both the Antelope Valley and Santa Clarita building commissions, but they don't have anything, either. You want me to try something else?'
'The Sheriffs are going to need those plans, Barry. Get hold of someone from the mayor's office or one of the council people. Sarah has their home and work numbers. Tell them we need access to the permit office right away. Pull the permits you find and check the contractors. Somebody had to keep a set of file plans.'
As Peters hustled away, Larry Anders's car rolled around the corner and pulled to a stop beside Talley. A slim, nervous man climbed from the passenger side.
'Chief, this is Brad Dill, Rooney's employer.'
'Thanks for coming, Mr. Dill.'
'Okay.'
Talley knew that Dill owned a small cement-contracting business based in Lancaster. Dill had weathered skin from working in the sun and small eyes that kept glancing somewhere else. He had trouble maintaining eye contact.
'You know what's going on here, Mr. Dill?'
Dill glanced up the street past Talley, then inspected the ground. Nervous.
'Okay, the officer told me. I just want to say I didn't know anything about this. I didn't know what they were going to do.'
Talley thought that Dill probably had a criminal record.
'Mr. Dill, those two didn't know what they were going to do until they did it. Don't worry about it. You're here because you've worked with them and I'm hoping you can help me understand them. You see?'
'Okay. Sure. I've known Dennis for almost two years now, Kevin a little less.'
'Before we get into that, I want you to identify these guys. Officer Anders says you also know the third subject?'
'Okay. Sure. That would be Mars.'
'Let's look at the pictures. Larry, do you have them?'
Anders returned to the car and brought back the two 8 x 10 prints that had been made from the security tape. He had to return to his car a second time for his Maglite. Soon they would have to move into one of the houses. Talley wondered if Mrs. Peña would let them use hers.
'Okay, Mr. Dill. Let's take a look. Can you identify these people?'
The first picture showed a slightly fuzzy Kevin Rooney by the front door. Dennis and the third man were clearly visible in the second print. Talley was pleased with the prints. Anders had done a good job.
'Okay. Sure. That's Kevin, he's Dennis's kid brother. And that one is Dennis. He just come back from the Ant Farm.'
'And you know the third man?'
'That would be Mars Krupchek. He come on the job about a month ago. No, wait, not quite four weeks, I guess. Him, I don't know so well.'
Anders nodded along with Dill, confirming what he had heard earlier.
'I called Krupchek in to Sarah on the drive, Chief. She's running his name through DMV and the NCIC.'
Talley questioned Dill about how Dennis behaved on the job. Dill described a temperamental personality with a penchant for overstatement and drama. Talley grew convinced that his original impression was correct: Rooney was an aggressive narcissist with esteem problems. Kevin, on the other hand, showed evidence of concern for others; where Dennis would show up for work late and expend little effort on the job, Kevin showed up on time and was willing to help others; he was a passive personality who would take his cues from the stronger personalities in his sphere of influence. He would never drive an action, but would instead react to whatever was presented to him.
Talley paused to consider if he was missing an obvious avenue of questioning. He took the Maglite from Anders to look at the photograph of Kevin, then decided to move on to Mars Krupchek. He had been concerned about Mars since he had seen the unknown subject lean over the counter to watch Junior Kim die. Talley noticed something on the 8 x 10 of Mars that he hadn't seen in the security tape. A tattoo on the back of Mars's head that read: BURN IT.
'What can you tell me about Krupchek?'
'Not so much. He showed up one day looking for work when I needed a guy. He was well-spoken and polite; he's big and strong, you know, so I gave him a try.'
'Did he know the Rooneys before he came on the job?'
'No, I know that for a fact. I introduced them. You know, Mars this is Dennis, Dennis this is Mars. Like that. Mars just kinda stays by himself except for when he's with Dennis.'
Talley pointed out the tattoo.
'What's this mean, "Burn it"?'
'I dunno. It's just a tattoo.'
Talley glanced at Anders.
'Did you put out the tattoo as an identifier?'
'Yes, sir.'
Identities on the NCIC computer could be crosschecked by permanent identifiers like tattoos and scars. Talley turned back to Brad Dill.
'You know what he did before this?'
'No, sir. Nope.'
'Know where he's from?'
'He doesn't talk so much. You ask him, he doesn't say so much.'
'How does he get along with the other men?'
'Well enough, I guess. He never had much to do with anyone until Dennis came back. That was only a week or so ago. Before Dennis came back, he would just stay by himself and watch everyone else.'
'What do you mean, watch everyone else?'
'I don't know if I'm saying it right. When the guys go on a break, he doesn't sit with'm. He sits off by himself and watches them, kinda like he was keeping an eye on them. No, wait, that's not right. It was more like he's watching TV. Does that make sense? Sometimes it'd make me think he'd fallen asleep the way he'd do that. He was just, I dunno, staring.'
Talley didn't like what he was hearing about Krupchek, but he also didn't know what to make of it.
'Has he ever demonstrated violence or aggression toward the other men?'
'He just sits there.'
Talley handed the photograph back to Anders. Mars Krupchek might be retarded or suffer from some other mental impairment, but Talley didn't know. He had no sense of who Mars Krupchek was, what he was capable of, or how he might act. This left Talley feeling anxious and wary. The unknown could kill you, and was often worse than you imagined.
'Mr. Dill, do you have an address for Krupchek?'
Dill pulled a tiny address book from his back pocket and read off an address and phone number. Anders copied them.
Talley thanked Brad Dill for his help, told him that Anders would bring him home, then took Anders aside out of earshot.
'Check that Krupchek's address matches with the billing address listed with the phone. If it does, call the Palmdale City Attorney's office and ask for a telephonic search warrant, then head to his residence. After you've got the warrant, go in and see what you find. Take someone with you.'
As Anders and Dill drove away, Talley tried to recall the things that he still needed to do. Mrs. Smith had to be found, his officers had to be fed, and he wanted to check the perimeter positions of the newly arrived Highway Patrol officers to make sure that Jorgenson hadn't placed them too close to the house. When he realized that he would have to call Rooney again soon, a swell of panic threatened to overwhelm him. He would have to call Rooney every hour throughout the night; interrupt his sleep, break down his resistance, wear him down. A hostage barricade was a war of attrition and nerves. Talley didn't know that his own nerves were enough to see it through.
Metzger's voice cut through his radio.
'Chief, Metzger.'
'Go, Leigh.'
'The Sheriffs are inbound. Ten minutes out.'
Talley slumped against his car and closed his eyes. Thank God.
Dennis tried not to look at Mars after his conversation with Talley, but he couldn't help himself. He thought about what Kevin had told him, about Mars wanting to shoot that cop who had come to the door, about Mars lying that the cop had pulled his weapon and Mars firing first. Maybe Talley had something; maybe Dennis could beat the rap if it was Mars who shot the officer, and not him. If Kevin backed him up, they might be able to cut a deal with the prosecutor for their testimony against Mars. Dennis felt a desperate hope, but then he remembered the money. If he cut a deal, he had to give up the money. He shoved the phone aside and turned back to the others. He wasn't ready to give up the cash.
Kevin looked at him anxiously.
'Are they giving us the helicopter?'
'No. We gotta find another way out of here. Let's start looking.'
The girl and her fat brother were still kneeling beside their father. She started on him right away.
'There's nothing to look for. You've got to do something to help my father.'
She still held the washcloth to her father's head, but now the ice was melted and the cloth was soaked. Dennis felt a flash of annoyance.
'Shut up, all right? I've got a situation here, in case you haven't noticed.'
Her face worked harder.
'All you're doing is watching yourself on TV. You hurt him. Look at him. He needs a doctor.'
'Shut up.'
'It's been hours!'
'Put more ice in the cloth.'
'Ice doesn't help!'
The fat boy started crying.
'He's in a coma!'
The girl surprised him. She lurched to her feet with the abrupt fury of a jack-in-the-box and stomped toward the door.
'I'm getting a doctor!'
Dennis felt outside of himself, as if the weight of the cops and his being trapped in this house were all suddenly real where they hadn't been before. He caught her in two steps, slapping her just the way his old man used to lay out the old lady, that shrill bitch. He caught the girl square on the side of the face with the weight of his hand, knocked her flat fucking down to the floor. The fat boy shouted her name and charged, pummeling Dennis like an angry midget. Dennis dug his fingers into the soft meat on the back of the boy's neck, and the fat boy squealed. Then Kevin was shoving him away.
'STOP IT!'
Kevin pushed the fat boy down with his sister, placing himself between them and Dennis.
'Just stop it, Dennis. Please!'
Dennis was in a blood fury. He wanted to beat Kevin down, to smash his face and kick him into a pulp. He wanted to beat the fat boy and the girl, then throw the cash in the Jaguar and crash out of the garage and shoot it out with the cops all the way down to Mexico.
Mars was staring at him, his face a shadow, his eyes tiny glints of strange light like ferrets peering from caves.
Dennis shouted, 'What?'
Mars made the quiet smile and shook his head.
Dennis stepped back, breathing hard. Everything was coming apart. Dennis looked back at the television, half expecting to see the cops storming the house, but the scene outside was exactly as it had been minutes before. The girl was holding her face in her hands. The fat boy was glaring with hate-filled eyes like he wanted to cut Dennis's throat. Their father was breathing noisily through his nose. The pressure was making him crazy.
Dennis said, 'We gotta do something with them. I can't deal with this shit.'
Mars lumbered to his feet, large and gross.
'We should tie them up so we don't have to worry about them. We should have done that anyway.'
Dennis hooked his head toward the girl, speaking to Kevin.
'Mars is right. We can't leave these assholes running around like this, getting in the way. Find something to tie'm up with, and take them upstairs.'
'What do I use to tie them?'
'Look in the garage. Look in the kitchen. Mars, you find something, okay? You know what we need. This turd doesn't know anything.'
Mars disappeared toward the garage. Kevin took the girl's arm as if he was afraid that she would hit him, but she stood without resisting, her face working and the tears coming harder.
'What about my father? You can't just leave him like this.'
Her father was cold to the touch; every few seconds a tremor rippled through his body. Dennis took his pulse like he knew what he was doing, but he couldn't tell a goddamned thing. He didn't like how the man looked, but didn't say anything about it because there was nothing to say.
'We'll put him on the couch. That way he'll be more comfortable.'
'He needs a doctor.'
'He's just sleeping. You take a head shot, you gotta sleep it off, is all. My old man used to beat me worse than this.'
Dennis had Kevin help lift her father onto the couch.
When Mars returned, Dennis told them to take the kids upstairs. He was tired of thinking about them. He was tired of thinking about everything except the money. He needed a way out.
Mars opened the door to her room, then stepped aside so that she and Kevin could enter. He had come back from the garage with extension cords, duct tape, a hammer and nails. He gave two extension cords to Kevin.
'Put her in here. Tie her to the chair, and tie her tight. Tie her feet. I'll take care of the windows and the door when I finish with the boy.'
Mars looked at her with unfocused eyes, as if he were waking from a deep sleep and she was the memory of a dream.
'I'll check how you tie her when I come back.'
Mars pulled Thomas away as Kevin brought her into the room. The lights were on because she never turned them off; she fell asleep with them on, either talking on the phone or watching TV, and woke with them on, and never thought to turn them off when she left to start her day. The shades had been pulled and the phone was on the floor against the wall, its plug smashed so that it couldn't be used. Kevin dragged her desk chair into the middle of the floor. He avoided her eyes, nervous.
'Just let this happen and everything will be okay. You gotta pee or anything?'
She felt a flush of embarrassment. She had to use the bathroom so badly that she burned.
'It's in there.'
'Where? You got your own bathroom?'
'Uh-huh. It's right there.'
'Okay, come on.'
She didn't move.
'You can't come with me.'
He stood in the bathroom door, waiting.
'I'm not going to leave you alone.'
'I'm not going to the bathroom in front of you.'
'Would you rather pee on yourself?'
'I'm not letting you watch. I don't have guns or anything in there, if that's what you're worried about.'
He seemed annoyed, but she didn't care. He stepped into the bathroom to look around, then came back.
'Okay, I won't go in with you, but you can't close the door. I'll stand over here. That way I can't see you.'
'But you'll hear.'
'Look, piss or don't piss. I don't care. If you're not going to go, put your ass in the chair before Mars comes back.'
Jennifer had to pee so badly that she decided to go. She tried to pee quietly, but it seemed louder than ever. When she was finished, she returned to her room too embarrassed to make eye contact.
'You're disgusting.'
'Whatever. Sit here and put your hands behind the chair.'
'I don't see why you can't just lock me in. It's not like I can go anywhere.'
'Either I'm going to tie you or Mars will tie you.'
She perched on the chair, tense and wary.
Kevin had two long black extension cords. She cringed when he touched her, but he didn't treat her roughly or twist her arms.
'I don't want to make this too tight, but I got to tie you. Mars is going to check.'
His voice held a regret that surprised her. She knew that Kevin was scared, but now she wondered if he felt embarrassed at what they were doing. Maybe he even had a conscience. He finished with her wrists, then moved around in front of her to tie her ankles to the legs of the chair. She watched him, thinking that if there was a friend to be found among them it was him.
'Kevin?'
'What?'
She kept her voice soft, scared that Mars would hear.
'You're caught in this just like me.'
His face darkened.
'I've heard the three of you talking. You're the only one who seems to know that you're making it worse by being here. Dennis doesn't get that.'
'Don't talk about Dennis.'
'Why do you go along with him?'
'Things just happen, is all. Don't talk about it.'
'My father needs a doctor.'
'He's just knocked out. I've been knocked out.'
'You know it's worse than that. Think about what you're doing, Kevin, please. Make Dennis see. If my father dies they'll charge you with his murder, too. You know that.'
'There's nothing I can do.'
'You knew better than to rob that minimart, didn't you? I'll bet you tried to talk Dennis out of it, but he wouldn't listen and now you're all trapped in here and wanted for murder.'
He kept his face down, pulling at the extension cords.
'I'll bet that's true. You knew it was wrong, and it was. Now you know this is wrong, too. My daddy needs a doctor, but Dennis is just being stubborn. If you keep following Dennis and Mars, the police will kill you all.'
Kevin leaned back on his heels. He seemed tired, as if he had been worrying the problem for so long without solution that the worrying had worn him out. He shook his head.
'I'm sorry.'
A shadow moved behind Kevin, catching Jennifer's eye. Mars stood in the door, staring at them, his face blank. She didn't know how long he had been there, or what he had heard.
Mars didn't look at Kevin; he was staring at her.
'Never be sorry.'
Kevin stood so quickly that he almost fell.
'I tied her ankles too tight. I had to tie them again.'
Mars went to the windows. He hammered heavy nails into the sills so that the windows wouldn't open, then came back to stand in front of her. He stood very close, towering over her in a way that made him seem to reach the ceiling. He squatted between her legs, then tugged at the bindings on her ankles. The cord cut into her skin.
'This isn't tight enough. You tied her like a pussy.'
Mars wrapped the cord more tightly, then did the same at her wrists. The wire cut into her flesh so hard that she had to bite her tongue, but she was too scared to complain. He tore a strip of wide gray duct tape off the roll. He pressed it hard over her mouth.
Kevin worried his hands, fidgeting, clearly frightened of Mars.
'Make sure she can breathe, Mars. Don't put it so tight.'
Mars ran his fingers hard over the tape. She was so creeped out at his touch that she wanted to scream.
'Go downstairs, Kevin.'
Kevin hesitated at the door. Mars still knelt in front of her, pushing at the tape as if he wanted to work it into her pores. Pushing and pushing. Rhythmic. Pushing. Jennifer thought she might faint.
Kevin said, 'Aren't you coming?'
'I'll be along. Go.'
Jennifer looked at Kevin, pleading with him not to leave her alone with Mars.
Kevin left.
When she finally looked at Mars again, he was watching her. Mars brought his face level with hers, then leaned forward. She flinched, thinking he was going to kiss her, but he didn't. He didn't move for the longest time, staring first into her left eye, then into her right. He leaned closer, and sniffed. He was smelling her.
Mars straightened.
'I want to show you something.'
He pulled off his shirt, revealing a flabby body as pasty as an unwashed bedsheet. Tattooed across his chest in flowing script was:
A Mother's Son
'You see? It cost two hundred forty dollars. That's how much I love my mom.'
Looking at him grossed her out. His chest and belly were specked with small gray knots as if he were diseased. She thought they might be warts.
She suddenly felt the weight of his eyes and glanced up to see him watching her. She realized that he knew she had been staring at the lumps. He touched one of them, a hard gray knot, then another, and the corner of his mouth curled into a smile that was almost too small to see.
'My mom burned me with cigarettes.'
Jennifer felt sick. They weren't lumps or warts; they were scars.
Mars pulled on his shirt, then leaned close, and this time she was certain that he would touch her. Her heart pounded. She wanted to turn away, but she couldn't.
He placed his hand on her shoulder.
Jennifer jerked against her binds, twisting her head, arching her back, feeling the bite of the extension cords in her wrists and ankles as she tried to scream through the tape.
Mars squeezed her shoulder once, firmly, as if he were testing the bone beneath her flesh, and then he drew away.
Mars made the little smile again, then went to the door. He paused there, staring at her with eyes so empty that she filled them with nightmares. He turned off the lights, stepped out, then pulled the door closed. The sound of his hammer was as loud as thunder, but not so loud as her fearful heart.
Dennis was at the window, watching the police, when he heard the pitch of the helicopters change. That was the first thing, the helicopters repositioning themselves. Then one of the patrol cars out front fired up. The lead car swung around in a tight arc, roaring away as a new Highway Patrol car arrived. He couldn't tell if Talley was still outside or not. The cops were up to something, which made Dennis feel queasy and scared. They would have to leave soon or they might not be able to leave at all.
Mars settled onto the couch by Walter Smith. He put his hand on Smith's head as if he was stroking the soft fur between a dog's ears.
'They didn't give you the helicopter because they don't believe you're serious.'
Dennis paced away from the window, irritated. He didn't like Mars's smug I-know-something-that-you-don't smile. Mars had egged him on about robbing the minimart, and Mars had shot the cop at the front door.
'You don't know what you're talking about. They've got rules about this stuff. Fuck them anyway. I never thought we'd get a helicopter. I just thought it would be worth a try.'
Mars stroked Smith's head, running his fingers slowly over the man's scalp as if he was probing the contours of his skull. Dennis thought it was weird.
'You don't see the big picture, Dennis.'
'You want a picture, Mars? Here it is: We've gotta find a way out of here with that cash.'
Mars patted Smith's head.
'Our way out is right here. You don't understand the power we have.'
'The hostages? Jesus, they're all we have. If we didn't have these people, the cops would be all over us.'
When Mars looked up again, Dennis thought his eyes were brighter, and somehow now watchful.
'What we have is the fear they feel. Their fear gives us power. The police will only take us seriously if they're scared we'll kill these people. It isn't the people that we have to trade, Dennis. It's their death.'
Dennis thought he was kidding.
'Okay, dude. Mars, you're creeping me out.'
'The police have no reason to deal with us unless they take us seriously. All they have to do is wait until we get tired, and then we'll give up. They know that, Dennis. They're counting on it.'
Dennis felt his chest expand against a tight pressure that filled the room. Mars continued to watch him, his eyes now focused into hard, dark beads. Dennis had the vague feeling that somehow the power between them was shifting, that Mars was leading him somewhere and waiting to see if Dennis would follow.
'So how do we convince them?'
'Tell them we're going to let the fat boy go as a sign of good faith.'
Dennis didn't move. He could see Kevin from the corner of his eye, and knew that Kevin was feeling the same awful pressure.
'We send the fat boy out the front door. We don't go with him, we just open it and tell him to go. He just has to walk across the yard here and out to the cars, and he'll be fine. Your pal, Talley, he'll probably call the kid over, saying something like, "C'mon, son, everything is fine." '
Dennis's back felt wet and cold.
'We wait until he's about halfway across the yard, then we shoot him.'
Dennis heard his own heartbeat. He heard his breath flow across his teeth, a faraway hiss.
Mars spread his hands at the simple beauty of it.
'Then they'll know we mean business, and we'll have something to trade.'
Dennis tried to tell himself that Mars was kidding, but he knew that Mars was serious. Mars meant every word.
'Mars. We couldn't do something like that.'
Mars looked curious.
'I could. I'll do it, if you want.'
Dennis didn't know what to say. Overhead, the helicopters beat louder. He went to the shutters and pretended to look out, but the truth was that he couldn't look at Mars any longer. Mars had scared him.
'I don't think so, dude.'
'You don't?'
'No. We couldn't do that.'
The bright intensity in Mars's eyes faded like a candle losing its flame, and Mars shrugged. Dennis felt relieved. He told them to watch out for the cops, then he once more walked through the house. He went into every downstairs room around the perimeter of the house, checking each window to see if he could use it to sneak out, but all of the windows were in plain view of the cops. Dennis knew that his time was running out. If he was going to get out, he had to do it soon, because more cops were on the way. He moved along the rear of the house, through the family room and into the garage. He hoped to find some kind of side door, but instead he came to a small utility bathroom at the end of a workshop off the garage. A sliding window with frosted glass was let into the wall above the sink. Dennis opened it, and saw the heavy leaves of an oleander bush, dark green and pointed, thick against the dusty screen. He pressed his face to the screen and peered out, but it was impossible to see very much in the growing darkness. The window was on the street side of the wall that enclosed the backyard, but was hidden by the oleander. If the oleander wasn't there the cops out front would be able to see him. Dennis pushed out the screen, taking care to do it quietly. He opened the window wider, crawled up onto the sink, and leaned out. He would never have done this in the daylight, but the darkness gave him confidence. The ground was four feet below. He worked his shoulders through the window. The row of oleanders followed the wall, but he couldn't tell how far. He was growing excited. He pushed himself back into the house, then turned around so that he could step through feet first, one leg and then another. He lowered himself to the ground. He was outside the house.
Dennis crouched on the ground beneath the oleander, his back pressed to the high stucco wall, listening. He could hear the police radios from the cars parked at the front of the house. He caught tiny glimpses of the two cars through the leaves, glinting in the streetlight. He couldn't see the cops, but he knew they would be watching the front of the house, not the row of shrubs along the side wall. Dennis lay down at the base of the wall and inched along its length. The oleanders were thicker in some places and thinner in others, but the police didn't see him. He came to the end of the wall and saw that the oleanders continued into the neighbor's front yard. Dennis grew more excited. They could bag the cash, drag it along behind the oleanders, then slip away while the cops were watching the house, right under their noses!
Dennis worked his way back to the window and climbed into the house. Dennis was pumped! He was going to beat this thing! He was going to beat Talley, beat the murder rap, and cruise south to TJ in style.
He ran back to the office to tell Kevin and Mars that he had found the way out.
The planet Venus hung low in the blackening western sky, racing toward the ridge of mountains and the edge of Talley's roof. The stars were not yet out, but here in the high desert, away from the city, the sky would soon be washed with lights.
Talley's condominium was one of forty-eight stucco and stained-wood units spread over four buildings arranged like the letter H. Mature eucalyptus and podocarpus trees shouldered over the buildings like drunks leaning over a rail. Marion guessed that the condos had at one time been apartments, then converted and sold. Each unit had a small fenced patio at ground level, and centered between the four buildings was a very nice pool; small, unprotected parking lots were on either side of each building for the residents. It seemed like a pleasant place to live.
Marion walked through the grounds, hearing music and voices. Cars were turning into the parking lots, men and women still arriving from work; an older woman was methodically swimming laps, the pool's lone occupant; charcoal grills were smoking on several of the patios, filling the air with the smells of burning flesh.
Marion circled the building with Talley's unit. Because the buildings were of older construction (Marion guessed they had been built in the seventies), the gas meters, electric meters, and junction boxes for both telephones and cable TV were clustered together at an out-of-the-way spot opposite the parking lots. Any individual security systems would be junctioned with the telephone lines. Marion was pleased to see that the building had no alarms. Marion was neither surprised nor shocked; being a sleepy small town so far from LA, the greatest security the condo association might buy would be having a rent-a-cop cruise the parking lots every hour. If that.
Marion found Talley's unit, let himself through the gate to the front door. He clenched his jaw so as not to laugh; the patio and door were hidden by a six-foot privacy fence. He couldn't have asked for anything easier. He rang the bell twice, then knocked, already knowing that no one was home; the house was dark. He pulled on latex gloves, took out his pry bar and pick, then set to work. Four minutes later, the deadbolt slipped. Eighty seconds after that, he let himself in.
'Hello?'
He didn't expect an answer, and none came. Marion shut the door behind him, but did not lock it.
The kitchen was to the left, a small dining room to the right. Sliding glass doors offered a view of the patio. Directly ahead was a large living room with a fireplace. Marion looked for a desk or work space, but saw none. He unlatched the glass doors, then crossed the living room to open the largest window. He would relock everything if he left at his leisure, but for now he arranged fast exits. Howell did not want Talley dead, so Marion would try not to kill him even if Talley surprised him.
Marion climbed steep stairs to a second-floor landing with doors leading to a bathroom and two other rooms, the room to his right the master bedroom. He turned on the light. Marion expected to search every closet and drawer in the house for something that could be used as leverage, but there it was as soon as he entered, right there, waiting. It happened that way, sometimes.
A desk rested against the far wall, scattered with papers and bills and receipts, but that isn't what caught Marion's eye. Five photographs waited at the back of the desk, Talley with a woman and girl, the woman and Talley always the same, the girl at different ages.
Marion kneeled, brought the frame to his face.
A woman. A girl.
A wife. A daughter.
Marion considered the possibilities.
Friday, 8:06 P.M.
The Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department Crisis Response Team came around the corner like a military convoy. A plain Sheriff's sedan led the file, followed by a bulky Mobile Command Post vehicle that looked like a bread truck on steroids. The Sheriffs wouldn't need Mrs. Peña's home; the van contained its own power generator, a bathroom, uplinks for the Intelligence Officer's computers, and a communications center for command and control coordination. It also had a Mr. Coffee. The Sheriff's SWAT team followed in two large GMC Suburbans with a second van containing their weapons and support gear. As the convoy stopped, the SWAT cops un-assed, already geared out in dark green tactical uniforms. They hustled to the second van, where a senior sergeant-supervisor passed out radios and firearms. Four radio cars followed the tactical vehicles with uniformed deputies who clustered around their own sergeant-supervisor. Talley heard a change in the helicopters' rotor turbulence as they repositioned to broadcast the Sheriffs' arrival. If Rooney was watching television, his stress level would soar. During periods like this the possibility of the subject panicking and taking action increased. Talley hurried to the lead car.
A tall, slender African-American officer climbed out from behind the wheel as a blond officer with thinning hair climbed from the passenger side.
Talley put out his hand.
'Jeff Talley. I'm the chief here. Are you the team commander?'
The tall man flashed a relaxed smile.
'Will Maddox. I'll be the primary negotiator. This is Chuck Ellison, my secondary. The commander would be Captain Martin. She's back in the van.'
As Talley shook their hands, Ellison winked.
'She likes to ride in the van instead of with us negotiators. Lots of pretty lights in there.'
'Chuck.'
Ellison looked innocent.
'Something I said?'
The energy on the street changed dramatically; Talley had felt that he was hanging from a ledge by his fingers, but now an organized military weight was settling over York Estates. A brilliant pool of white light swept over them on its way along the convoy. All three of them held up their hands to cut the glare. The different teams breaking up into their components with well-rehearsed efficiency felt comforting. Talley no longer felt alone. In a matter of minutes, this man Will Maddox would take the responsibility of other lives from his shoulders.
Talley said, 'Mr. Maddox, I am damned glad to see you here.'
'Will. Mr. Maddox is my wife.'
Ellison laughed loudly.
Maddox smiled absently at the lame joke, glancing at the mouth of the cul-de-sac a half-block away.
'The barricade up there?'
'Up at the end. I've got two men directly out front, three men spread across the property on either side, and another three beyond the back wall on Flanders Road. We have two people on each entrance here into York and three with the media. We could use more with the media right away before they start leaking through the development.'
'You can brief the Captain on those kinds of things, but there are a couple of points that I need to hit before we get into all that.'
'Go.'
Talley walked with them back toward the control van to find the Captain. He knew from his own experience that Maddox and Ellison would want a virtual replay of his conversations with Rooney.
'It's you who's had direct contact with the subjects?'
'Yes. Only me.'
'Okay. Are the innocents under an immediate threat?'
'I don't believe so. The last contact I had with Rooney was about twenty minutes ago. Way I left it, he's in there thinking that he has outs both for Kim's murder and the attempt on the officer. You know about that?'
While inbound, the Sheriffs had received a radio briefing on the events leading up to the barricade situation. Maddox confirmed that they knew the bare bones.
'Okay. Turns out Kim had a gun, and more than one of the subjects besides Rooney fired upon the officer. I left him thinking that a sharp lawyer could cut a deal on both counts.'
'Has he made any demands?'
Talley told him about Rooney demanding that the perimeter be pulled back and the deal that they'd made, the hostage names for the pullback. Getting the first concession was often the most difficult, and how it was gotten could set the tone for everything that was to follow.
Maddox walked with his hands in his pockets, his expression knowing and thoughtful.
'Good job, Chief. Sounds like we're in pretty good shape. You used to be with LAPD SWAT, weren't you?'
Talley looked more closely at Maddox.
'That's right. Have we met?'
'I was on LAPD as a uniform before I went with the Sheriffs, which put us there about the same time. When we got the call here today, your name rang a bell. Talley. You did the nursery school.'
Talley felt uncomfortable whenever someone mentioned the nursery school.
'That was a long time ago.'
'That had to be something. I don't think I would've had the balls.'
'It wasn't balls. I just couldn't think of anything else.'
On a bright spring morning in the Fairfax area of Los Angeles, a lone gunman invaded a Jewish day-care center, taking an adult female teacher and three toddlers hostage. When Talley arrived, he found the gunman confused, incoherent, and rapidly dissociating. Fearing that the subject had suffered a psychotic break and the children were in imminent danger, Talley offered himself in trade for the children; this was against direct orders from his crisis team captain and in violation of LAPD policy. Talley approached the day-care center unarmed and unprotected, surrendering himself to the gunman, who simultaneously released the children. As the gunman stood in the door with one arm hooked around Talley's neck and a 9mm Smith amp; Wesson pistol pressed to Talley's head, Talley's best friend during those days, Neal Craimont, dropped the subject with a sixty-yard cortical brain shot, the 5.56mm hypervelocity bullet passing only four inches to the left of Talley's own brain stem. The newspapers had made Talley out to be a hero, but Talley had considered the events of that morning a failure. He had been the primary negotiator, and for a negotiator, it is always a failure when someone dies. Success only comes with life.
Maddox seemed to sense Talley's discomfort. He dropped the subject.
When they reached the rear of the command van, a woman wearing a green tactical uniform stepped from among a knot of sergeants to meet them. She had a cut jaw, smart black eyes, and short blond hair.
'Is this Chief Talley?'
Maddox nodded.
'This is him.'
She put out her hand. Now closer, Talley saw the captain's insignia on her collar. She had a tough grip.
'Laura Martin. Captain. I'm the field commander in charge of the crisis response team.'
Where Maddox and Ellison were relaxed and loose, Martin was as taut as a power cable, her manner clipped and humorless.
'I'm glad you've met our negotiators. Sergeant Maddox will take over as the primary.'
'We were just discussing that, Captain. I think we're in pretty good shape with that. The subjects seem calm.'
Martin keyed the radio transceiver strapped to her harness and called for a communications check of her supervisors in five minutes, then looked back at Talley.
'Do you have a perimeter in place around the house?'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'How many men?'
'Eleven. A mix of my people and the Highway Patrol. I put the men in close, then pulled them back to get things going with Rooney, so you'll have to be careful with that.'
As Talley spoke, Martin didn't seem to be paying attention. She glanced both ways along the street, leading Talley to think that she was measuring the scene and more than likely sizing up his officers. He found himself irritated. The command van was being repositioned farther down the block over an access point to the underground power and phone lines that ran under the streets. If they wanted to tap into the phone lines that ran to the house, they could do it from there. They could also tap power for the van. Talley had already called PacBell and the Department of Water and Power to the scene.
'I'll get my supervisors together so you can brief everyone at once. I want to rotate my tactical people into the perimeter as soon as we've stabilized the situation.'
Talley felt another flash of irritation; it was clear that the scene was stable. He suggested that Martin assemble her supervisors in Mrs. Peña's home, but Martin thought that would take too much time. As she called her people together under a streetlight, Talley radioed Metzger for copies of the floor plan. He passed them out as everyone assembled, and gave a fast overview of his conversations with Rooney, describing what he knew of the house and the people within it.
Martin stood next to him, arms crossed tightly, squinting at him with what Talley began to feel was a critical suspicion.
'Have you cut the power and phones?'
'We blocked the phones. I didn't see any reason to cut the power until we knew for sure what we were dealing with.'
Martin told her intelligence officer, a sergeant named Rojas, to have someone from the utility companies standing by if they needed to pull the plug.
Metzger pointed up the street.
'They're already standing by. See that guy in the Duke cap? That's him.'
The tactical team supervisor, a veteran sergeant named Carl Hicks, studied the floor plan sketches, and seemed irritated when Talley couldn't produce actual city floor plans.
'Do we know where they're keeping the hostages?'
'No.'
'How about the location of the subjects?'
'The room immediately to our right of the front door is the father's office. Rooney is usually in there when he talks to me, but I can't say if he sticks. I know he moves through the house to keep an eye on the perimeter, but he's buttoned up pretty well. The shades are down over every window except the French doors overlooking the pool in back. They don't have drapes back there, but he's got the lights off.'
Hicks frowned at Martin.
'Sucks for us, but what can you do? We might be able to get heat images.'
If they had to breach the house, it was safer for everyone if the breaching team knew the location of everyone in the environment.
Maddox tipped his chin toward Talley.
'The Chief here worked Rooney into admitting that all three perps are inside. I might be able to work him for the locations.'
Martin didn't look impressed with that.
'Hicks, float two men around the perimeter to find out exactly what we're dealing with here. Let's make sure this place is secure.'
Talley said, 'Captain, be advised that he's hinky about the perimeter. I pulled back the line to start the negotiation. That was part of the deal.'
Martin stepped away to stare up the street. Talley couldn't tell what she might be looking at.
'I understand that, Chief. Thank you. Now, will you be ready to hand off the phone to Maddox and Ellison as soon as we're in place?'
'I'm ready right now.'
She clicked her tongue curtly, then glanced at Maddox.
'Sounds good, Maddox. The three of you should get into position at the front of the house.'
Maddox's face was tight. Talley thought he was probably irritated with her manner, also.
'I'd like to spend some time going over the Chief's prior conversations with these guys.'
Martin checked her watch, impatient.
'You can do that while we rotate into the perimeter; I want to get the show on the road. Chief Talley, I have seven minutes after the hour. Do I now have command of the scene?'
'Yes, ma'am. It's yours.'
Martin checked her watch again. Just to be sure.
'Then log it. I now have command and control. Sergeant Maddox, get into position. Sergeant Hicks, you're with me.'
Martin and Hicks trotted away into the milling SWAT officers.
Maddox stared after her for a moment, then looked at Talley.
'She's wound kinda tight.'
Talley nodded, but said nothing. He had thought that he would feel relieved when he turned over command of the scene.
He didn't.
Alone in his dark room, Thomas held his breath, better to hear past the changing whup-whup-whup of the helicopters. He feared that Mars might pretend to leave, then creep back to see if he was trying to get untied. Thomas knew every squeak in the upstairs hall because Jennifer liked to spy on him; one squeaky spot was right outside his door, the other about halfway to Jennifer's room. So he listened.
Nothing.
Thomas was spread-eagle on his lower bunk, face up, his wrists and ankles tied so tightly to the corner bedposts that his feet felt numb. After Mars had finished tying him, he stood by the bed, towering over him like some kind of retard with his slack jaw hanging open like one of those public-bathroom perverts his mother always warned him about every time he went to the mall. Then Mars had taped over his mouth. Thomas was SCARED; sweat gushed from him like he was a lawn sprinkler and he thought he was going to suffocate. He struggled and pulled at the wires that held him, straining to get free until he felt Mars's breath on his cheek. Then he couldn't move at all, like his mind and body had disconnected and all he could do was just lie there like a turtle waiting for a car to squash it flat.
Mars placed a hand on his chest, and now the breath went to his ear. Warm and moist. Then, a whisper.
'I will eat your heart.'
Thomas's body burned from the inside out, a kind of wet heat that grew hotter and hotter. He messed his pants.
Mars went to the door, shut the lights, and left, pulling the door closed. Thomas waited, counting slowly to one hundred. Then he set about working his way free.
Thomas was good at working his way free. He was also good at sneaking out of his house, which he had done almost every night this summer. He would sneak out after his parents had gone to bed to hook up with Duane Fergus, who lived in a big pink house on King John Place. Sometimes they threw eggs and wads of wet toilet paper at the cars passing on Flanders Road. When that got old, they would sneak across Flanders to a development that was still under construction where teenagers parked to make out. Duane Fergus (who was a year older and claimed to shave) once threw a rock at a brand-new Beemer because (he said) the lucky turd behind the wheel was getting 'road head.' They both shit a brick when the car roared to life, bathing them in its lights. They ran so hard back across Flanders that a monster 18-wheeler had almost turned them into blacktop pie.
Thomas had perfected the art of moving through his home without being seen because he had changed some of the camera angles. Just a bit, just a nudge, so that his mom and dad couldn't see everything. He knew that most people didn't live in houses where every room was watched by a closed-circuit television system. His father explained that they had such a system because he handled other people's financial records and someone might want to steal them. It was a big responsibility, his father had said, and so they had to protect those records as best they could. His father often warned both Thomas and Jennifer to be careful of suspicious characters, and to never discuss the alarms and cameras with their friends. His mother was fond of saying that she thought the whole mess was nonsense and just their father's big toy. Duane thought they were da bomb.
The wire holding his left wrist was slack.
When Mars was tying Thomas's right wrist to the post, Thomas had scrunched away just enough so that now the cord held a little bit of play. Now he worked harder at it, pulling the knots tighter but creating enough slack to touch the knot that held him to the post. The knot was tight. Thomas dug at it so hard that the pain in his fingertips brought tears, but then the knot loosened. He worked frantically, terrified that Mars or one of the others would throw open the door, but then the knot gave and his left hand was free. The tape hurt coming off his mouth worse than getting a cavity filled. He untied his right hand, then his feet, and then he was free. Like Duane said, you had to risk being street pizza if you wanted to see a guy getting road head.
Thomas stayed on the bed, listening.
Nothing.
I know where Daddy has a gun.
Thomas felt calm and certain in what he needed to do. He knew exactly what the cameras could see and what they couldn't. He wanted to go to his bathroom to clean himself, but knew he would be visible on the monitor if he did. He pulled off his pants, used his underwear to clean off the poo as best he could, then balled the underwear and pushed them under the bed. He slipped to the floor and crawled along the wall toward his closet, passing under his desk. Someone had ripped his phone out of the wall, leaving the plug in the socket but tearing free the wires. Turds.
In The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, the children found a secret door at the rear of their wardrobe that let them escape the real world into the magical land of Narnia. Thomas had his own secret door at the back of his closet: An access hatch to the attic crawl space that ran beneath the steep pitch of the roof. It was his own private clubhouse (his and Duane's), through which he could move along the eaves to the other access hatches dotted around the house.
Thomas pulled open the hatch and wiggled into the crawl space, being careful not to bump the rafters with his head. The heat in the closed space of the attic enveloped him like a gas. He found the flashlight that he kept just inside the hatch, turned it on, then pulled the hatch closed. The crawl space in this part of the house was a long triangular tunnel that followed the back edge of the roof. Where windows were cut into the roof, the triangle became a low rectangle, forcing Thomas to crawl on his belly. He worked his way along until he came to a second access hatch, this one in Jennifer's closet. He listened until he grew satisfied that the turds weren't in her room, then he pushed it open, knocking over a tumble of shoes.
The closet was dark, its door closed.
He eased his way out over the shoes and through a rack of her dresses, then turned off his flashlight. He listened at the closet door, and again heard nothing. He eased open the door. The lights in Jennifer's room were off; that was good because he knew that most of her room could be seen on the monitors. He opened the door so slowly that it seemed to take forever to get it open enough for him to stick out his head. The room was lit by pale blue moonlight. He could see Jennifer bound to the chair near the front of the room, her back to him.
'Jen?'
She lurched in the chair and mumbled. He called to her, his voice low.
'I'm in your closet. Just relax, okay? If they're watching, they can see you on the monitors.'
She stopped struggling.
Thomas tried to remember what the camera saw of Jennifer's room. He and Duane sometimes went into the security room when his parents were away so that Duane could see her naked. He was pretty confident that if he crept out of the closet on his belly, then hugged the wall beneath the windows where the shadows were darkest, he could get pretty close to the chair. If he heard Mars or those other turds coming, he could haul ass back into the crawl space, then go back to his room or run for the garage.
'Jen, listen up, okay? I'm going to come over there.'
She shook her head wildly, mumbling frantically into the tape.
'Be QUIET! I can untie you.'
He pushed open the closet a few inches wider, then edged forward on his elbows into the shadows. As he passed her desk, he saw that her phone had also been torn from the plug. Turds.
Thomas worked his way around the perimeter of the room, and soon he was stretched out beside her bed, using deep shadows as cover. He was about four feet from her now, and could see that her mouth was taped. He looked up at the corner of the ceiling where the camera was located. These cameras didn't hang down visible to anyone in the room; they were what his father called 'pinhole cameras,' set in the crawl space behind the wall where they peeked out through tiny holes. He slithered out to the chair and worked his way behind her. He figured that the camera could probably see her from the waist up, but not very well in the darkness. He decided to take a chance. He snaked his hand up behind her, then quickly yanked the tape from her mouth before ducking down to the floor again.
'Shit! Ow!'
'Be quiet! Listen!'
'They're going to catch you!'
'Shhhh! Listen!'
Thomas strained his ears again, concentrating past the helicopters and the sounds of the police outside.
Nothing.
'It's okay, Jen. They didn't see, and they can't see me now. Don't look around. Just listen.'
'How did you get in here?'
'I used the crawl space. Now listen and hold still. I'm going to untie you. They nailed the windows shut, but I think we can use the crawl space to get downstairs. If we sneak to the garage, we can open the garage door and run for it.'
'No!'
Thomas worked frantically at the knots binding her. The cords weren't that tight around her wrists and ankles, but the knots had been pulled hard.
'Thomas, stop! I mean it! Don't untie me.'
'Are you on dope? We might be able to get away!'
'But Daddy will still be in here! I'm not going to leave him.'
Thomas settled back on his heels, confused.
'But, Jen-'
'No! Thomas, if you can get out, then go, but I'm not leaving without my father.'
Thomas was so angry he wanted to punch. Here they were, locked in the dark with three psychokillers who probably drank human blood, one maniac who wanted to eat their hearts for sure, and she wouldn't leave. But then, as Thomas thought about it, he knew she was right. He couldn't leave their father, either.
'What are we gonna do, Jen?'
She didn't answer for a time.
'Call the police.'
'The house is surrounded by police.'
'Call them anyway! Maybe they have an idea. Maybe if we tell them exactly what's going on in here it will help them.'
Thomas glanced toward her desk, recalling the wires ripped from the plug.
'They broke the phones.'
Jennifer fell silent again.
'Then I don't know. Thomas, you should get out.'
'No!'
'I mean it. If you can get to the police, maybe you can help them. You know all about the alarms and the cameras. You know that Daddy is hurt. That asshole, Dennis, lied to them about Daddy. He's telling them we're all fine.'
'Let me untie you. We can hide in the walls.'
'No! They might hurt Daddy! Listen, if they find out that you're not in your room, I'm going to tell them that you got out. They won't know you're still in the walls. They'll never even think of that! But if both of us are gone, they'll take it out on Daddy. They might hurt him!'
Thomas thought about it.
'Okay, Jen.'
'Okay, what?'
'We're not going to leave him. I'm going to get us out of here.'
Jennifer jerked so hard against the cords that she almost tipped over the chair.
'You leave that gun alone! They'll kill you!'
'Not if I have the gun! We can hold them off long enough to let in the police, that's all we have to do.'
She twisted hard in the chair, trying to see him.
'Thomas, don't you dare! They're adults! They're criminals and they've got guns, too!'
'Don't talk so loud or they'll hear you!'
'I don't care! It's better than you getting killed!'
Thomas reached up, pulled the tape back over her mouth, and rubbed it hard so that it would stick. Jennifer squirmed, trying to shout through the tape. Thomas hated the thought of leaving her tied, but she just didn't see that he had no other choice.
'I'm sorry, Jen. I'll untie you when I get back. Then we can get Daddy out of here. You'll see. I won't let them hurt us.'
Jennifer was still struggling as Thomas worked his way back through the shadows. When he reached the closet he could still hear her trying to shout through the tape. She was shouting the same thing over and over. He could understand her, even though her words were muffled.
They're going to kill you.
They're going to kill you.
Thomas slipped back into the crawl space, working his way carefully through the dark.
The little bathroom off the garage was as dark as a cave when Dennis showed them the window, telling Mars and Kevin that they could work their way into the neighbor's yard and then around the side of that house to slip past the cops. Mars seemed thoughtful, but Dennis couldn't be sure with all the dark shadows.
'This could work.'
'Fuckin' A, it could work.'
'But you never know what the police are doing or where they might be. We have to give them something to think about besides us.'
'They'll be watching this house. They got nothing else to do.'
Kevin said, 'I don't like any of it. We should give up.'
'Shut up.'
Mars went into the garage and stood by the Range Rover. Dennis was scared that Mars would suggest killing the kid again.
'C'mon, Mars, we've got to get goin' here. We don't have all the time in the world.'
Mars turned back to him, his face lit by the dim light from the kitchen.
'If you want to get away, we should burn the house.'
Dennis started to say no, but then he stopped. He had been thinking of putting the kids in the Jaguar and opening the garage door with the remote as a diversion, but a fire made better sense. The cops would shit their pants if the house started to burn.
'That's not a bad idea. We could start a fire on the other side of the house.'
Kevin raised his hands.
'You guys are crazy. That adds arson to the charges against us.'
'It makes sense, Kevin. All the cops will be watching the fire. They won't be looking at the neighbor's yard.'
'But what about these people?'
Kevin was talking about the Smiths.
Dennis was about to answer when Mars did it again. His voice was quiet and empty.
'They'll burn.'
The back of Dennis's neck tingled as if Mars had raked a nail across a blackboard.
'Jesus, Mars, nobody has to burn. We can put'm here in the garage before we take off. We'll figure somethin' out.'
They decided to use gasoline to start the fire. Dennis found a two-gallon plastic gas can that the family probably kept for emergencies, but it was almost empty. Mars used the plastic air hose from the family's aquarium to siphon gas from the Jaguar. He filled the two-gallon can, then a large plastic bucket that was stained by detergent. They were carrying the gasoline into the house when they heard the helicopters again change pitch and more cars pull into the cul-de-sac.
Dennis stopped with the bucket, listening, when suddenly the front of the house was bathed in light, framing the huge garage door and spilling into the bathroom window even through the oleanders.
'What the fuck?! What's going on?'
They hurried to the front of the house, gasoline splashing from the bucket.
'Kevin! Watch the French doors!'
Dennis and Mars left the gasoline in the entry, then ran into the office where Walter Smith still twitched on the couch. Spears of light cut through the shutters, painting them with zebra stripes. Dennis opened the shutters and saw that two more police cars filled the street. All four cars had trained their spotlights on the house and a great pool of light from the helicopters burned brilliantly on the front yard. More cars arrived.
'Holy shit.'
The television showed the L.A. County Sheriffs rolling through the dark streets of York Estates. Dennis watched a group of SWAT assholes trot through an oval of helicopter light as they deployed through the neighborhood. Snipers; stone-cold killers dressed in ninja suits with rifles equipped with night-vision scopes, laser sites, and – for all he knew – motherfucking death rays. Mars had been right; these bastards would drop them cold if they tried to drive away with the kids.
'This is fucked. Look at all those cops.'
Dennis peeked out the shutters again, but so many floodlights had been set up in the street that the glare was blinding; a thousand cops could be standing sixty feet away, and he wouldn't know.
'Fuck!'
Everything had once more changed. One minute he had a great plan to slip away, but now all sides of the house were lit up like the sun and an army of cops were filling the streets. Overhead, the helicopters sounded as if they were about to land on the house. Sneaking through the adjoining neighbor's yard would now be impossible. Dennis turned back to the television. Six patrol cars filled the cul-de-sac, washed in brilliant white light from the helicopter, as many as a dozen cops moving behind them.
Dennis went to Walter Smith, and inspected his wound. The bruising had followed his eye socket under the eye to his right cheek, and moved across most of his forehead above the eye. The eye had swollen closed. Dennis wished now that he hadn't hit the sonofabitch. He turned away and went to the door.
'I'm going to check the windows again, okay? I gotta make sure Kevin isn't falling asleep. Mars, you keep an eye on the TV. If anything happens, yell.'
Mars, leaning against the wall with his face to the shutters, didn't respond. Dennis wasn't sure if Mars heard him or not, but he didn't care. He trotted back to the family room to find Kevin.
'What's going on? Aren't we leaving?'
'The goddamned Sheriffs are here. They're crawling all over the goddamned neighborhood. They got snipers out there!'
Dennis was consumed with the sudden notion that he would be assassinated. These cops would want to pay back the bastard who had wounded one of their own, and that was him. If he passed a window or showed himself in the goddamned French doors, those sniper bastards would bust a cap and put one right through his head.
Kevin, of course, made it worse by putting on the pussy face.
'What are we going to do?'
'I don't know, Kevin! They got so many lights out there I can't see a goddamned thing. Maybe I can see better on those televisions back there in the safety room.'
Kevin suddenly turned toward the rear of the house.
'Did you hear that?'
Dennis listened, scared shitless that SWAT killers were even now slipping into the house like a tapeworm up a cat's ass.
'Hear what?'
'I thought I heard a bump from back there.'
Dennis held his breath to listen more closely, but there was nothing.
'Asshole. Just let me know if Mars is coming. I might be with the money.'
Dennis left Kevin at the mouth of the hall, then trotted back to the master bedroom, and into the safety room.
He hadn't checked the monitors since the sky was rimmed with red. Now he saw Mars standing by the shutters; the front entry with bullet holes in the door, and the girl tied to a chair in her upstairs room. He couldn't see the boy, but didn't think twice about it; Dennis searched the monitors for angles outside the house, but those views were shadowed and unreadable.
'Shit!'
He spun away from the monitors, frustrated and pissed. He jerked an armful of hangered jackets from the clothes rack and threw them at the far wall. If there was any way to get fucked, he could find it!
Dennis turned back to the monitors. He considered the buttons and switches beneath the monitors. Nothing was labeled, but he didn't have anything to lose. If it was up, he pushed it down; if it was out, he pushed it in. Suddenly a monitor that had shown nothing but shadows on the dark side of the house filled with a lighted view. He pushed a second button, and the pool area filled with light. A third, and the side of the house by the garage was lit. He saw the cops at the front of the house pointing at the lights that suddenly blazed at them.
Dennis pushed more buttons, and the wall at the rear of the property beyond the pool was bathed in light. Two SWAT cops with rifles were climbing over the wall.
'SHIT!!!'
Dennis sprinted back through the house, shouting.
'THEY'RE COMING!!! KEV, MARS!!! THEY'RE COMING!'
Dennis raced to the French doors in the dark beyond the kitchen. He couldn't see the cops past the blinding outside lights, but he knew they were there, and he knew they were coming.
Dennis fired two shots into the darkness, not even thinking about it, just pulling the trigger, bam bam. Two glass panes in the French doors shattered.
'The fuckin' cops are comin'! Talley, that fuck! That lying fuck!'
Dennis thought his world was about to explode: They would fire tear gas, then crash through the doors. They were probably rushing the house right now with battering rams.
'Mars! Kev, we gotta get those kids!'
Dennis ran for the stairs, Kevin shouting behind him.
'What're we gonna do with the kids?'
Dennis didn't answer. He hit the stairs three at a time, going up.
Three minutes before Dennis Rooney saw the SWAT officers and fired two rounds, Thomas lowered himself through the ceiling into the laundry room. It was so dark that he cupped his hand over the flashlight and risked turning on the light, using the dim red glow through his fingers to pick his footing. He let himself down onto the top of the hot-water heater, felt with his toe to find the washing machine, then slid to the floor.
He held still, listening to Kevin and Dennis. The laundry room turned a corner where it opened onto the kitchen; the pantry was off that little hall. He could hear them talking, though he couldn't understand what they were saying, and then the voices stopped.
Thomas crept through the laundry room to his father's tiny hobby room at the end opposite the kitchen. Both rooms were at the rear of the garage, though you could only get to the garage through the laundry. That's how everyone came into the house from their cars: Through the laundry room and into the kitchen.
When Thomas reached the hobby room, he eased the door closed, then once more turned on his flashlight. His father's hobby was building plastic models of rocket ships from the early days of the space program. He bought the kits off eBay, built and painted them at a little workbench, then put them on shelves above the bench. His father also had a Sig Sauer 9mm pistol in a metal box on the top shelf. He had heard his mom and dad fighting about it: His dad used to keep it under the front seat of the Jaguar, but his mom raised such a stink that his father had taken it out of the car and put it in the box.
On the top shelf.
A long way up.
His hand cupped over the bell of the flashlight, Thomas spread his fingers enough to let out a shaft of light. He figured that he could use the stool to climb onto the bench, and, from there, he could probably reach the box.
He climbed. It was so quiet that every creak from the bench sounded like an earthquake. He turned on the flashlight again for a moment to fix the box in his mind's eye, then reached for it, but the box was too high. He stretched up onto his toes. His fingers grazed the box just enough for him to work it toward the edge of the shelf.
That's when he heard Dennis.
'THEY'RE COMING!!! KEV, MARS!!! THEY'RE COMING!'
Thomas didn't waste a moment thinking about the gun; he had come so close, but now he didn't have time. His only thought was to get back to his room before they discovered him. He jumped down from the bench and ran to the laundry as two fast gunshots exploded in the house, so loud that they made his ears ring.
He wasn't thinking about Jennifer's purse. It was on the folding table by the door to the garage, that convenient place where everyone in the family dropped their stuff when they came in from the garage. Jennifer's purse was there, a Kate Spade like every other girl in her high school owned. Thomas grabbed it.
He scrambled up onto the washing machine, from there to the top of the hot-water heater, then through the access hatch into the crawl space. The last thing that he heard before closing the hatch was Dennis shouting that they had to get the kids.
Handing off the role of primary negotiator was never easy. Talley had already forged a bond with Rooney, and now would pull away, replacing himself with Maddox. Rooney might resist, but the subject was never given a choice. Having a choice was having power, and the subject was never given power.
Talley brought Maddox and Ellison into the cul-de-sac where they hunkered behind their car. Talley wanted to go over his earlier conversations with Rooney in greater detail so that Maddox would have something with which to work, but they didn't have time. The gunshots from the house cracked through the summer air like a car backfiring in a distant canyon: poppop.
Almost instantly, a storm of transmissions crackled over their radios:
'Shots fired! Shots fired! We are under fire from the house, west rear at the wall! Advise on response!'
All three of them knew what had happened the instant they heard the calls.
'Damnit, she moved in too close! Rooney thinks he's being breached!'
Ellison said, 'We're fucked.'
Talley felt sick; this is the way it went bad, this is how people got dead, just this fast.
Maddox clawed for his radio as other voices checked off positions and status. The tinny voice of Carl Hicks, the tactical supervisor, came back, calm over the strained voices of his men.
'Will advise, stand by while we assess.'
Talley didn't wait; he dialed the tactical team's frequency into his own transceiver.
'Pull back, pull back, pull back! Do NOT return fire!'
Martin's voice cut over his, short and clipped.
'Who is this?'
'Talley. I told you to respect that perimeter!'
'Talley, get off the freq.'
Maddox finally had his radio, cursing as he keyed the mike.
'One, Maddox. Listen to him, Captain. Do not breach that house. Pull back or we're going to have a mess!'
'Clear the frequency! Those people are in danger.'
'Do not breach that house! I can talk to him!'
Talley had his cell phone out. He punched redial to call the house, praying that Rooney would answer, then ran to Jorgenson's car, still there in the street, and turned on the public address system.
Thomas scrambled across the joists like a spider. He slammed his head into the low-hanging rafters so hard that his teeth snapped together, but he didn't stop or even think about the noise he was making. He scurried through the long straight tunnel of the crawl space past Jennifer's room, under her window, past her bathroom, past his, and then to the access hatch in his closet. He didn't pause to see if they were in his room, but scrambled through the hatch and ran to his bed. He wanted to retie himself; to pretend that he hadn't moved. He pulled the ropes back over his ankles, working frantically, his hands slick with sweat, as shouts and footsteps pounded toward him through the hall.
He looped the ropes and slipped his hands through, realized in a flash of fear that he had forgotten the tape that had covered his mouth, but then it was too late.
Dennis threw open the door. He saw that the boy had damn near untied himself, but he didn't care.
'C'mon, fat boy!'
'Get away from me!'
Dennis jammed his pistol into his waist, then pinned the fat boy with a knee to untie him. Outside, Talley's voice echoed over his P.A., but Dennis couldn't make out the words. He pulled the fat boy from his bed, hooked an arm around his neck, and dragged him back toward the stairs. If the cops crashed through the front door, he would hold his gun to the kid's head and threaten to kill him. He would hide behind the kid and make the cops back down. He had a chance. He had hope.
'Hurry up, Kevin! Jesus! Bring the girl!'
Dennis dragged the fat boy down the stairs and into the office where Mars was waiting by the window. Mars looked totally calm, as if he was killing time in a bar before going to work. He tipped his head when he saw Dennis, that stupid tiny smile on his calm face.
'They're not doing anything. They're just sitting there.'
Dennis dragged the kid to the shutters. Mars opened the shutters enough for Dennis to see. The cops weren't storming the house. They were hunkered behind their cars.
Dennis realized that the phone was ringing just as Talley's voice came over the P.A. again.
'Answer the phone, Dennis. It's me, Talley. Answer the phone so I can tell you what happened.' Dennis scooped up the phone.
Martin and Hicks ran into the cul-de-sac without waiting for a cover vehicle, Martin hitting the ground beside Talley so hard that she almost bowled him over, shouting, 'What in hell do you think you're doing, interfering with my deployment?'
'He's shooting at your people because he thinks they're assaulting the house, Martin. You're violating my agreement with him.'
'This scene now belongs to me. You handed off control.'
'Pull back your people, Martin. Just relax. Nothing is going on in there.'
Talley keyed the P.A. mike again.
'Dennis, take it easy in there. Please. Just pick up the phone.'
'Hicks!'
Hicks leaned into the car past Talley and jerked the mike plug from its jack.
Talley's head was throbbing. He felt caught in a vise.
'Let me talk to him, Captain. Order your people to stand down, and let me talk to him. If it's too far gone you can breach, but right now let me try. Tell her, Maddox.'
Martin glared at Maddox, who nodded at her. He looked embarrassed.
'He's right, Captain. Let's not get too aggressive here. If Talley made a deal, we have to honor it or this guy isn't going to trust me any further than a cat can shit a walnut.'
Martin glared at him so hard that she seemed to be trying to cook him with her eyes. She glanced at Hicks, then bit out the words.
'Pull back.'
Hicks, looking uncomfortable, plugged the P.A. mike back into its jack, then mumbled orders into his tactical mike.
Talley turned back to the house.
'Pick up the phone, Dennis. We made a screwup out here, but we are not coming into that house. Check it out. The perimeter is pulling back. Check it out and talk to me.'
Talley held the cell phone to his ear, counting the rings. It rang fourteen times, fifteen…
Finally, Rooney answered, screaming.
'You fuck! You fuckin' lied to me! I've got a fuckin' gun to this kid's head right here! We've got these people! We'll fuckin' kill'm, you fuck!'
Talley spoke over him, his voice loud and forceful so that Rooney would hear him, but not strident. It was important to appear in control even when you weren't.
'They're pulling back. They are pulling back, Dennis. Look. You see the officers pulling back?'
The sounds of movement came over the phone. Talley guessed that Rooney had a cordless and was watching the tactical team at the rear of the property.
'Yeah. I guess. They're going back over the wall.'
'I didn't lie to you, Dennis. It's over now, okay? Don't hurt anyone.'
'We'll burn this fuckin' place down, you try to come in here. We've got gasoline all good to go, Talley. You try to come in and this place is going to burn.'
Talley locked eyes with Maddox. Rooney booby-trapping the house with gasoline was a bad turn; if he was creating a situation dangerous to the hostages, it could justify a preemptive breach of the house.
'Don't do anything to endanger yourself or those children, Dennis. For your own sake and for the sake of the innocents in there. This kind of thing can create problems.'
'Then stay on the other side of that wall. You assholes try to come get us and this place is gonna burn.'
Talley muted the phone while Dennis answered to warn Maddox about the gasoline. Maddox relayed the information to the tactical team. If Rooney was telling the truth about the gasoline, firing tear gas or flash-bang grenades into the house could ignite an inferno.
'No one is coming in. We screwed up, is all. Some new guys came out and we got our wires crossed, but I didn't lie to you. I wouldn't do that.'
'You fuckin' well did screw up, dude! Jesus!'
The tension lessened in Rooney's voice, and, with it, Talley felt the vise ease its grip. If Rooney was talking, he wouldn't shoot.
'What's the status in there, Dennis? You didn't hurt anyone, did you?'
'Not yet.'
'Those shots you fired, they were out of the house?'
'I'm not saying I fired anything. You're saying that, not me. I know you're recording this.'
'No one needs a doctor?'
'You're gonna need a doctor, you try this shit again.'
Talley took a deep breath. It was done; they were past the crisis. Talley glanced at Martin. She looked irritated, but attentive.
Talley muted the receiver again.
'He's calming down. I think now would be a good time for the handoff.'
Martin glanced at Maddox.
'You ready?'
'I'm ready.'
Martin nodded at Talley.
'Go.'
Talley uncovered his phone.
'Dennis, have you been thinking about what we talked about earlier?'
'I got a lot on my mind.'
'I'm sure. It was good advice, what I said.'
'Whatever.'
Talley lowered his voice, trying to sound like what he was about to say was just between them, guy to guy.
'Can I tell you something of a personal nature?'
'What?'
'I gotta piss real bad.'
Rooney laughed. Just like that, and Talley knew that the handoff would work. He made his voice relaxed, putting a friendly spin on it, indicating that everything that was about to happen was the most natural thing in the world and beyond all objection. Rooney was just as relieved to be past this hump as Talley.
'Dennis, I'm going to take a break out here. You see all the new people we have?'
'You got a thousand guys out there. Of course, I see'm.'
'I'm going to put an officer named Will Maddox on the line. You scared me so bad that I've gotta go clean my shorts, you know? So Maddox will be here on the line if you want to talk or if you need anything.'
'You're a funny guy, Talley.'
'Here he is, Dennis. You stay cool in there.'
'I'm cool.'
Talley handed the phone to Maddox, who introduced himself with a warm, mellow voice.
'Hey, Dennis. You should've seen ol' Jeff out here. I think he crapped his pants.'
Talley didn't listen to any more. The rest of it would be up to Maddox. He slumped down onto the street and leaned against the car, feeling drained.
He glanced at Martin, and found her watching him. She duck-walked over, and hunkered on the pavement beside him, then searched his eyes for a moment as if she were trying to find the right words. Her face softened.
'You were right. I got in a hurry and screwed up.'
Talley admired her for saying it.
'We survived.'
'So far.'
After the screaming, after those frantic moments when Thomas thought that Dennis would shoot him in the head as he was threatening, Jennifer glared at him and said one word.
'Don't.'
No one heard but Thomas; Dennis was pacing and talking to himself, Kevin following Dennis with his eyes the way a nervous dog will watch its master. They were in the office, the TV on, just now reporting that shots had been fired in the house. Dennis stopped to watch, suddenly laughing.
'Jesus, but that was close. Jesus Christ.'
Kevin crossed his arms, rocking nervously.
'What are we going to do? We can't get away now. They're all around the house. They're even in the neighbor's yard.'
Dennis's face darkened, and he snapped.
'I don't know, Kevin. I don't know. We'll figure out something.'
'We should give up.'
'Shut up!'
Thomas rubbed his neck, thinking he might yak. Dennis had carried him down to the office by the neck, an arm hooked around his throat in a headlock, squeezing so hard that Thomas couldn't breathe. Jennifer came over and knelt by him, making as if to help him, but pinching his arm, instead, her whisper angry and frightened.
'You see? You see? You almost got caught!'
She went to their father.
Mars returned from elsewhere in the house, his arms filled with big white candles. Without saying a word, he lit one, dripped wax on the television, seated the base in the wax. He moved to the bookcase, did it again. Dennis and Kevin were coming apart, but Thomas thought that Mars looked content.
Dennis finally noticed.
'What the fuck are you doing?'
Mars answered as he lit another candle.
'They might cut the power. Here, take this.'
He stopped with the candles long enough to toss a flashlight to Dennis. It was the one from the kitchen utility drawer. He tossed a second to Kevin, who dropped it.
Dennis turned on the light, then turned it off.
'Those candles are a good idea.'
Soon, the office looked like an altar.
Thomas watched Dennis. Dennis seemed inside himself, following Mars with a kind of watchful wariness, as if Mars held something over him that he was trying to figure out. Thomas hated them all, thinking that if he only had the gun he could kill them, Mars with the candles, Dennis with his eyes on Mars, Kevin staring at Dennis, none of them looking at him, pull out the gun and shoot every one of them, bangbangbang.
Dennis suddenly said, 'We should stack pots and pans under the windows in case they try to sneak in, things that will fall, so we'll hear.'
Mars grunted.
'Mars, when you're back there, do that, okay? Set up some booby traps.'
Jennifer said, 'What about my father?'
'Jesus, not that again. Christ.'
Her voice rose.
'He needs a doctor, you asshole!'
'Kevin, take'm back upstairs. Please.'
Thomas didn't care. That was what he wanted.
'Do you want me to tie them again?'
Dennis started to answer, then squinched his face, thinking.
'It took too long to cut all that shit off, you and Mars tying them like a couple of fuckin' mummies. Just make sure they're locked in real good, not just with the nails.'
Mars finished with the candles.
'I can take care of that. Bring them up.'
Kevin brought them, holding Jennifer's arm, almost having to drag her, but Thomas walking in front, anxious to get back to his room though he tried to hide it. They waited at the top of the stairs until Mars rejoined them, now with a hammer and screwdriver. He trudged up the steps, thump thump thump, with the slow inevitability of a rising freight elevator, dark and dirty. Mars led them to Thomas's room first, the end of the hall. It was spooky without light.
'Get in there, fat boy. Pull your covers over your head.'
Mars pushed him inside hard, then knelt by the knob, the one Thomas would use to get out. He hammered the screwdriver under the base, popped it off, unfastened three screws, then pulled the knob free, leaving only a square hole. He looked at Jennifer then, no one else, Jennifer.
'You see? That's how you keep a child in its room.'
They left Thomas like that, pulling the door, then hammering the door closed. Thomas listened until he heard the crash of Jennifer's knob coming free and her door being nailed, and then he scrambled for his closet. He was thinking only of the gun, but as soon as he turned on his flashlight he saw Jennifer's purse. He had dropped it just inside the hatch when he scrambled back into the room. He clawed it open and upended it.
Out fell her cell phone.
Palm Springs, California
Friday, 8:32 P.M.
The three of them had Glen Howell on the speaker, Benza, Tuzee, and Salvetti, the TVs muted so they could hear. Benza, on his third pack of Gaviscon, nursed an upset stomach, his acid reflux acting up.
Howell, his voice crackling with the shitty cell connection, sitting in his car somewhere in the dark, said, 'He's got a wife and kid, a daughter. They're divorced or separated or something. The wife and kid live down in LA, but he sees the kid every two weeks or something.'
Tuzee, his face pasty beneath the tan, looking like a corpse from the strain, rubbed irritably at his face and interrupted.
'Stop it.'
'What?'
'Stop with the 'or something.' Don't end every sentence with 'or something.' It's pissing me off. You've got a college education.'
Benza reached out, patted Tuzee's leg, but didn't say anything.
Tuzee had his face in his hands, the flesh folded around his fingers like a man twice his age.
'He either sees them every two weeks or he doesn't; it's either a fact or it isn't. Find out the fucking facts before you call us.'
The connection popped and hissed, a background roar.
'Sorry.'
'Keep going.'
'He's seeing them this weekend. The wife is bringing up the daughter.'
Benza cleared his throat, phlegm from the Gaviscon.
'And you know this to be a fact?'
'Book it. We got that from his office, an older woman there who likes to talk, you know, how sad it is and all because the Chief's such a nice man.'
'Where are they now, the family I mean?'
'That, I don't know. I got people on that. They're due up tonight, though. That part I know for sure.'
Benza nodded.
'We've gotta think about this.'
Salvetti had already made up his mind. He leaned back, crossed his arms, his legs splayed and open.
'That shit just happened, that was too close. We've gotta move.'
'You mean the Sheriffs?'
'Yeah.'
'Yeah, that was close.'
They were silent for a time, each man lost in his own thoughts. Benza had dialed up Howell as soon as he saw the Sheriffs rolling into the neighborhood. Then, when the TV reported that shots were fired, he damn near tossed his soup, thinking this was it, SWAT was going in and they were cooked.
Howell said, 'There's more.'
'Okay.'
'They're looking into the building permits.'
'Why the fuck?'
'Something like this happens, some asshole barricades himself in a building, they want the floor plans. So now they're trying to find the people who built the house so they can get the plans.'
'Shit.'
Benza sighed and leaned back. Tuzee glanced at him, shaking his head. Benza owned the construction companies that built the house and installed the security systems. He didn't like where this was going. He stood.
'I'm going to walk, so if you can't hear me just say, okay?'
'Sure, Sonny.'
'First thing first. Our records. I'm looking at this house on the TV right now. There's a ring of cops around it like they're about to hit the beach at Normandy, but let me ask you something.'
'Okay.'
'Could we get our people in there?'
'In the house?'
'Yeah, in the house. Right now, right in front of the cops, the TV cameras, everything; get a couple guys inside the house?'
'No. I've got good people, Sonny, the best, but we can't get in right now. Not the way it stands now. We'd have to own the cops to do that. You give me a day, two days, I could probably do it.'
Benza, irritated, glowered at the televisions, two pictures, one showing the house with a bunch of SWAT cops out front, the other some blond dyke being interviewed, short hair slicked back, dressed like a man.
'Could we get close? Now. Not owning the cops, but now.'
Howell thought about it.
'Okay, look, I don't have a TV. I'm not seeing what you're seeing right now, okay? But I know Smith's house and I'm familiar with the neighborhood, so I'm going to say yeah. We could probably get close.'
Benza looked at Tuzee and Salvetti.
'How about we burn it down? Right now, tonight. Get some guys in there with some accelerant, everybody's gonna know it's arson so who gives a shit what, torch the place, burn it to the ground.'
He spread his hands, looking at them, hopeful.
Salvetti shrugged, unimpressed.
'No way to know the disks would be destroyed. Not for sure. I promise you this, if Smith has any of that stuff in his security room, it isn't gonna burn. Then we're fucked.'
Benza stared at the floor, ashamed of himself, thinking what a stupid idea, burn the place.
Tuzee leaned back now, crossing his arms, stared at the ceiling.
'Okay, look. Here it is the way I see it: If these kids were going to give up, they would've given up. Something's keeping them in that house, I don't know what, but they're sticking. The more cops pile up around that place, the more likely we are to have a breached entry.'
Salvetti sat forward, raising a hand like he was in class, interrupting.
'Wait. Call me crazy, but how about this? Why don't we just call'm? Talk to these dicks ourselves, cut a deal.'
Howell's voice hissed from the speaker.
'The lines are blocked. The cops did that.'
'Smith's regular lines, maybe, but not our lines. We pay extra for those lines.'
Tuzee was saying, 'What do you mean, cut a deal?'
'We lay it out for these assholes who they're dealing with, say they think they're in trouble with the cops, they haven't seen the kinda trouble we can bring down. We cut a deal, pay'm something like fifty K to give up, we'll provide the lawyers, all of that.'
'No fuckin' way. Uh-uh.'
'Why?'
'You want to tell three punk assholes our business? Jesus, Sally.'
Salvetti fell silent, embarrassed.
Benza caught Tuzee looking at him, resigned.
'What, Phil?'
Tuzee slumped in his chair, more tired now than ever.
'Talley's family.'
'We've got a lot to think about with that.'
'I know. I'm thinking about it. Once we go down that road, no turning back.'
'You know where that ends, don't you?'
'You're the guy just suggested we burn the fucking house down, six people inside, the whole world watching.'
'I know.'
'We can't just sit. We came damned close with what happened tonight, and now they're looking at the building permits and God knows what else. That's bad enough, but I'm worried about New York. I'm thinking, how long can we keep the lid on this?'
'We've got the lid on. I trust the guys we have on the scene.'
'I trust our guys, too, but old man Castellano is going to find out sooner or later. It's bound to happen.'
'It's only been a few hours.'
'However long it's been, we need to get a handle on things before they find out. By the time that old man hears, we've gotta be able to tell him that we're no longer a threat to him. We've gotta laugh about this over schnapps and cigars, else he'll hand us our asses.'
Benza felt tired in his heart, but relieved, too. Comfort came with the decision.
'Glen?'
'I'm here, Sonny.'
'If we move on Talley like this, you got a man there who can handle it?'
'Yes, Sonny.'
'He can do whatever needs to be done? All the way?'
'Yes, Sonny. Can and will. I can handle the rest.'
Benza glanced at Phil Tuzee, Tuzee nodding, then Salvetti, Salvetti ducking his head one time.
'Okay, Glen. Get it done.'
Friday, 11:40 P.M., Eastern time
8:40 P.M., Pacific time
New York City
His wife was a light sleeper, so Vittorio 'Vic' Castellano left their bedroom to take the call. He put on the thick terry-cloth bathrobe, the birthday present from his kids with Don't Bug Me embroidered on the back, and gimped alongside Jamie Beldone to the kitchen. Beldone held a cell phone. On the other end of it was a man they employed to keep an eye on things in California.
Vic, seventy-eight years old and two weeks away from a hip replacement, poured a small glass of orange juice, but couldn't bring himself to drink it. His stomach was already sour.
'You sure it's this bad?'
'The police have the house locked down with all Benza's records inside, including the books that link to us.'
'That sonofabitch. What's in his records?'
'They show how much he kicks to us. I don't know if it'll show business by business, but it's going to show something like that so he can keep track of where his money goes. If the Feds recover this, it will help them build an IRS case against you.'
Vic poured out the orange juice, then ran water in the glass. He sipped. Warm.
'It's been how long this is going on?'
'About five hours now.'
Castellano checked the time.
'Does Benza know that we know?'
'No, sir.'
'That chickenshit sonofabitch. Heaven forbid he call to warn me like a real man. He'd rather let me get caught cold than have time to fuckin' prepare.'
'He's a piece of shit, skipper. That's all there is to it.'
'What's he doing about it?'
'He sent in a team. You know Glen Howell?'
'No.'
'Benza's fixer. He's good.'
'Do we have our own guy there?'
Beldone tipped the phone, nodding.
'He's on the line now. I have to tell him what to do.'
Vic drank more of the warm water, then sighed. It was going to be a long night. He was already thinking of what he would say to his lawyers.
'Should we maybe get our own team in there?'
Beldone pursed his lips, then shook his head.
'We'd have to get the guys together, plus the five-hour plane flight; not enough time, Vic. It's Sonny's show. Sonny and Glen Howell.'
'I can't believe that chickenshit hasn't called me. What's he thinkin', back there?'
'He's thinking that if it goes south, he's going to run. He's probably more afraid of you than the Feds.'
'He should be.'
Vic sighed again, then went to the door. Forty years as the boss of the most powerful crime family on the East Coast had taught him to worry about the things he could control, and let other people worry about the things he couldn't.
He stopped in the door and turned back to Jamie Beldone.
'Sonny Benza is an incompetent asshole, and so was his fuckin' father.'
'The Mickey Mouse mob, Vic. Brain damage from all the tan.'
'If it goes south, Sonny Benza isn't goin' anywhere. You understand?'
'Yes, sir.'
'If they fuck this up, they gotta pay.'
'They'll pay for it, skipper.'
'I'm goin' to bed. You let me know if anything happens.'
'Yes, sir.'
Vic Castellano shuffled back to his bed, but could not sleep.
Friday, 8:43 P.M.
Talley was in Mrs. Peña's home with the Sheriffs, sipping her coffee, rich and heavy with brown sugar and cream though none of them had asked for it that way; she told them it was the Brazilian way. They were watching the security tape.
Talley pointed at the television with his cup.
'The first one inside is Rooney, this next guy is Krupchek. Kevin comes in last.'
Martin watched with the flat, uninvolved expression of an experienced officer. Talley found himself watching her instead of the tape, curious about her background and how she'd become a SWAT captain.
Martin nodded at the screen.
'What's that on his head, a tattoo? There, on the big one.'
'That's Krupchek.'
'Right, Krupchek.'
'It says 'burn it.' We're running it through the computer.'
Talley told them what he had learned from Brad Dill about Krupchek and the Rooney brothers, then filled them in on having dispatched Mikkelson and Dreyer to locate landlords and neighbors.
Ellison said, 'These guys have any family we can bring out? We had a guy once, he backed us off for twelve hours until his mama gets there. She gets on the phone, tells him to get his ass out of that house, the guy comes out crying like a baby.'
Talley had worked with subjects like that, too.
'Rooney might have an aunt in Bakersfield, but Dill didn't know about Krupchek. If we can find their landlords or friends, we might get a line on the families. You want, I'll have Larry Anders, he's my senior officer here, put your Intelligence Officer in touch with whoever we find.'
Maddox nodded, his face creased with attention.
'I might want to talk to Dill and those people myself. You okay with that?'
'I know the job. Whatever you want. Tell Anders, and he'll arrange to bring them here.'
As the new primary negotiator, Maddox had the responsibility to form his own opinions on the behavior characteristics of a subject. Talley would have done the same thing.
Martin stepped closer to the television. They had reached the part of the tape where Krupchek leaned over the counter.
'What's he doing?'
'Watch.'
Maddox joined Martin at the TV. He crossed his arms in a way that Talley thought was protective.
'Jesus, he's watching that man die.'
Talley nodded.
'That's what I thought.'
'The sonofabitch is smiling.'
Talley finished his coffee and put down the cup. He didn't need to see it again.
'We told the Sheriff's investigators up at Kim's about the hand. See there on the counter? They should have a pretty good palm print from that, but I haven't heard.'
Martin glanced at Ellison.
'Run the prints for wants and warrants.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
Metzger came up behind Talley and touched his arm.
'Chief, see you a second?'
Talley excused himself from the Sheriffs and followed Metzger into the adjoining room. Metzger glanced back at the Sheriffs, then lowered her voice.
'Sarah wants you to call her right away. She's says it's important. She says I should knock you down and drag you to a phone, it's so important.'
'Why are you whispering?'
'She says it's important. You're supposed to call on your office line, not use a radio.'
'Why not the radio?'
'Because other people can hear on the radio. She says use the phone.'
Talley felt a hot burn of concern that something had happened to Jane and Amanda. He took out his cell phone, hitting the autodial for his office. Out by the television, Maddox was looking at him, concerned.
Sarah answered on the first ring.
'It's me, Sarah. What's up?'
'Oh, thank God. There's a little boy on the phone. He says that his name is Thomas Smith, and that he's calling from inside the house.'
'It's a crank. Forget it.'
Warren Kenner, who was Talley's personnel supervisor and one of only two Bristo sergeants, came on the line.
'Chief, I think we got something here. I checked the phone number the boy says he's calling from with the cell company. It's registered to the Smiths, all right.'
'Did you talk with the boy, or just Sarah?'
'No, I talked to him. He sounds real, saying things about the three guys in that house, and his sister and father. He says his dad's hurt in there, that he got knocked out.'
Talley worried his lip, thinking, getting just a little excited.
'Is he still on the phone?'
'Yes, sir. Sarah's talking to him right now on another line. They locked him in his room. He says he's on his sister's cell phone.'
'Stand by.'
Talley went to the door; several officers and Highway Patrolmen were milling near Mrs. Peña's kitchen, drinking coffee and eating cheese enchiladas. He called Martin, Maddox, and Ellison into the room, then led them as far from the others as possible.
'I think we've got something here. Kid on the phone, saying he's Thomas Smith from inside the house.'
Martin's face tightened, coming together in a kind of expectant question.
'Is this bogus or real?'
Talley went back to the phone.
'Warren? Who else knows about this?'
'Just us, Chief. Me and Sarah, and now you.'
'If this turns out to be real, I don't want the press finding out about this, you understand? Tell Sarah. That means you don't talk about this with anyone, not even the other police, not even off the record.'
Talley looked at Martin as he spoke. She nodded, agreeing.
'If Rooney and those other guys see the press talking about someone in the house calling out, I don't know what they might do.'
'I understand, Chief. I'll tell Sarah.'
'Put him on.'
A boy came on the line, his voice low and careful, but not frightened.
'Hello? Is this the Chief?'
'This is Chief Talley. Tell me your name, son.'
'Thomas Smith. I'm in the house that's on TV. Dennis hit my dad and now he won't wake up. You gotta come get him.'
An edge of fear crept into the boy's voice when he mentioned his father, but Talley couldn't yet be sure the call wasn't a hoax.
'I have a couple of questions for you first, Thomas. Who's in the house with you?'
'These three guys, Dennis, Kevin, and Mars. Mars said he was going to eat my heart.'
'Besides them.'
'My father and sister. You gotta make Dennis send my dad to a doctor.'
The boy could have gotten all of this information off the news, but so far as Talley knew, no one had as yet reported, or knew, the whereabouts of the mother. They were still trying to locate her.
'What about your mother?'
The boy answered without hesitating.
'She's in Florida with my Aunt Kate.'
Talley felt a blossom of heat in his chest. This might be real. He made a scribbling gesture with his hand, telling Martin to get ready to write. She glanced at Ellison, who fumbled out his spiral notepad and a pen.
'What's your aunt's name, bud?'
'Kate Toepfer. She has blond hair.'
Talley repeated it, watching Ellison write.
'Where does she live?'
'West Palm Beach.'
Talley didn't bother to cover the phone.
'We got the boy. Get a number for this woman, Kate Toepfer in West Palm Beach, that's where the mother is.'
Maddox and Ellison exchanged words, Talley not hearing because he had already gone back to the boy. Martin stepped close, pulling at his arm to tip the phone so that she could hear.
'Where you are now, son, are you okay? Could they catch you talking to me?'
'They locked me in my room. I'm on my sister's cell phone.'
'Where's that, your room?'
'Upstairs.'
'Okay. Where's your dad and sister?'
'My dad's down in the office. They got him on the couch. He needs a doctor.'
'Was he shot?'
'Dennis hit him, and now he won't wake up. My sister says he needs a doctor, but Dennis won't listen.'
'Is he bleeding?'
'Not anymore. He just won't wake up. I'm really scared.'
'How about your sister? Is she okay?'
Maddox said, 'Ask him does he know the subject locations.'
Talley raised a hand, the boy still talking, saying something about his sister.
'What was that, Thomas? I missed that. Is she okay?'
'I said she won't leave. I tried to get her to leave, but she won't without our dad.'
Martin plucked at him.
'Can he get out? Ask him if he can get out.'
Talley nodded.
'Okay, Thomas, we're going to get you out of there as fast as we can, but I want to ask something. You're alone in your room on the second floor, right?'
'Yeah.'
'Could you let yourself out your window if we were down below to catch you?'
'They've got the windows nailed shut. But even if they didn't, they could see me.'
'They could see you climbing out the window even though you're alone?'
'We have security cameras. They could see on the monitors in my folks' room if they were looking. They would see you sneaking up to the house, too.'
'Okay, son, one more thing. Dennis told me that he had set up the house to burn with gasoline. Is that true?'
'They've got a bucket of gas in the entry hall. I saw it when they brought me downstairs. It really stinks.'
Talley heard brushing sounds on the phone, and the boy's voice dropped.
'They're coming.'
'Thomas? Thomas, are you all right?'
The boy was gone.
Martin said, 'What's happening?'
Talley listened, straining now, but the line was dead.
'He said they were coming, then he hung up.'
Martin took a deep breath, let it hiss out.
'You think they caught him?'
Talley closed the phone and put it away.
'I don't think so. He didn't sound panicked when he shut the phone, so I don't think he was discovered; he just had to end the call.'
'Was Rooney telling the truth about the gasoline?'
'Yes.'
'Shit. That's a problem. That's a fucking big problem. All we need is a goddamned barbecue.'
'He also said that there's a video security system. That's how he saw your people approaching the house.'
Martin turned to Ellison.
'Have the I.O. check the phone lines to see if there's a security feed. We might be able to back-trace it to the provider and find out what we're dealing with.'
Talley started to say that his people had already come up empty with that, but he let it go. If it was him, he'd double-check, too.
'He says the father is injured. That's why he called out, to say his father needs a doctor.'
Martin's expression turned grim. She hadn't heard that part.
'First the goddamned gas, and now this. If the man is in imminent danger, we might have to risk a breach.'
Maddox shifted, uncomfortable.
'How're we gonna breach knowing this guy can see it coming, him with gasoline ready to go? We'll get people killed.'
'If we have someone dying in there, we can't ignore it.'
Talley held up his hands like he was pushing them apart.
'The boy didn't say anyone is dying, he just said the man is hurt.'
He repeated Thomas's description of Walter Smith's condition. Martin listened, head down, but glancing at Maddox and Ellison from time to time as if to gauge their reactions. When Talley finished, she nodded.
'Well, that's not a lot of information.'
'No.'
'All right, at least we know we're not talking about a gunshot victim here. Smith's not in there bleeding to death.'
'Sounds like head trauma.'
'So we've got a possible concussion, but we can't be sure about that. We can't very well call Rooney back to ask about the father. He might get it in his head that one of those kids is calling out.'
Talley had to agree.
'We have to protect the boy. If he gets the chance to call again, I'm pretty sure he will.'
Maddox nodded.
'When I talk with Rooney again I'll push him to find out how everyone's doing. Maybe I can kick free some information about the father.'
They agreed that for now the best plan was to let Rooney and the others in the house calm down. Martin looked back at Talley.
'If the boy calls again, he'll call through your office.'
'I would guess so. He must've gotten the department's number from information.'
Talley knew what she wanted.
'I'll have someone in my office around the clock. If the boy calls, they'll page me and I'll bring you in.'
Martin checked her watch, then looked at Maddox.
'We've got to get to it. I want you and Ellison set up in front of that house so we can start breaking these assholes down.'
Talley knew what that meant: They would maintain a high noise level profile, phoning Rooney periodically throughout the night to keep him awake. They would try to wear him down by depriving him of sleep. Sometimes, if you got them tired enough, they gave up.
Martin turned back to Talley, and now her face softened. She put out her hand, and Talley took it. Her grip wasn't as hard as before.
'I appreciate your help, Chief. You've done a good job keeping this situation under control.'
'Thanks, Captain.'
Martin squeezed his hand, then let go.
'You want to relieve your people now, that's fine. I'd like four of your officers to liaison with the locals, but past that, we've got it. I know you have a slim department up here.'
'It's yours, Captain. You have my numbers. If you need me, call. Otherwise, I'll grab a few hours' sleep and see you in the morning.'
'We're good.'
Martin gave him an uncertain smile that almost looked pretty, then walked away. Talley thought that she probably had a hard time smiling, but people often did, and for reasons that surprised you. Maddox and Ellison followed her.
Talley brought his cup to the kitchen, thanked Mrs. Peña for her help, then went to his car. He brought Larry Anders up to speed, then checked the time, wondering if Jane and Amanda were still at dinner or were waiting at home.
He wondered why Martin had squeezed his hand.
The television crews wouldn't share their food, cheap pricks, big urns of Starbucks coffee that someone had brought, Krispy Kreme donuts, and pizza. Just as well, or Ken Seymore would have missed seeing Talley leave.
Rather than eating, Seymore was seated in his car, a Ford Explorer, near the gate. He told the two cops there, who had asked him what he was doing, that he was waiting for a pool photographer to arrive from Los Angeles. Going to snap some shots of the guys guarding the development, he had said. That had been enough. They'd left him alone.
When Seymore saw Talley drive out, he picked up his phone.
'He's leaving.'
That was all he needed to say.
Friday, 8:46 P.M.
Her heart pounding, her lips tingling from the kiss, his voice a whisper in her ear there in the dark, parked outside her house.
'We would be good together. I've thought that for weeks, the two of us, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle.'
He was a doctor at her hospital, newly divorced, two boys in high school, one a year older than Mandy, the other a year younger.
'You know it would be good.'
'It would.'
She loved the warm hardness of him, something that had been missing so long; this large male body, holding her, hers to hold. And a nice man. A nice man. They had the same sense of humor, wacky and sarcastic.
'Come home with me tonight. For a little while.'
Her first date with another man since Jeff moved out, almost a year; Jeff up there in Bristo, Jeff who had simply shut down on her, stopped feeling, pulled back, withdrawn, disappeared, whatever the hell. It felt like cheating.
'I don't know.'
'I don't want the night to end. We don't have to do anything. Not for at least five minutes.'
She laughed. Couldn't help herself.
He kissed her, and she kissed back, the sensuous play of lips and tongues. She felt drunk with it, and so SO alive.
'I told Amanda I would be in by now.'
'I'll cry. Worse, I'll sulk. It's terrible when I sulk.'
Laughing, she put her hand over his face and pushed him away. Gently.
He sighed, and now they were serious.
'Okay. I had fun.'
'Me, too.'
'I'll see you at work tomorrow. I'll drop around the floor, find you.'
'I'm off tomorrow and the day after.'
'Thursday, then. That would be Thursday. I'll see you then.'
She kissed him a final time, a quick peck, though he wanted more, then hurried into the empty house. Amanda was sleeping over at her friend Connie's. She hadn't told Amanda that she was going out, let alone that she would be in by now. That had been a lie.
The next day, Jane changed her hair color, going with the dark red, the red that's almost black, wondering if it made her look younger, wondering what Jeff would think.
Everything that night, it had felt like cheating.
'Earth to Mom?'
Jane Talley focused on her daughter.
'Sorry.'
'What were you thinking?'
'If your father likes my hair.'
Amanda's face darkened.
'Like you should care. Please.'
'All right. I was wondering if that mess is going to blow up in his face. Is that better?'
They had stopped at Le Chine, a Vietnamese-Thai place in a mall near the freeway, ordering pho ga, which was a rice noodle soup, and crispy shrimp, which was, well, crispy shrimp. They ate there often, sometimes with Jeff. Jane had toyed with the plain white rice, but that was it. She put down her fork.
'Let me tell you something.'
'Can't we just go home? I don't want to be here, anyway. I told him that.'
'Don't say "him." He's your father.'
'Whatever.'
'He's having a hard time.'
'A year ago it was a hard time, now it's just boring.'
Jane was so tired of keeping all the balls in the air, of being the supportive nurturing mother, of waiting for Jeff to come to his senses, that she wanted to scream. Some days, she did; she would press her face into the pillow and scream as hard as she could. A flash of anger shook her so deeply that if Mandy rolled her eyes one more time she would snatch up the fork and stab her.
'Let me tell you something. This has been hard on everybody; on you, on me, on him. He's not like this. It was that goddamned job.'
'Here we go with the job.'
Jane called for the check, so livid that she didn't trust herself to look at her daughter. As always, the owner, a woman named Po who knew they were Talley's family, insisted that there was no charge. As always, Jane paid, this time quickly, in cash, not waiting for change.
'Let's go.'
Jane walked out to the parking lot, still not looking at Amanda, her heels snapping like gunshots on the pavement. She got behind the wheel but did not start the car. Amanda slid in beside her, pulling the door. The night air smelled of sage and dust and garlic from the restaurant.
'Why aren't we moving?'
'I'm trying not to kill you.'
When Jane figured out what she needed to say, she said it.
'I am scared to death that your father is finally going to give up and call it quits. I could see it in him tonight. Your father, he knows what this is doing to us, he's not stupid. We talk, Amanda; he says he's empty, I don't know how to fill him; he says he's dead, I don't know how to bring him to life. You think I don't try? Here we are, split apart, time passing, him wallowing in his goddamned depression; your father will end it just to spare us. Well, little miss, let me tell you something: I don't want to be spared. I choose not to be spared. Your father used to be filled with life and strength, and I fell in love with that special man more deeply than you can know. You don't want to hear about the job, fine, but only a man as good as your father could be hurt the way that job hurt him. If that's me making excuses for him, fine. If you think I'm a loser by waiting for him, tough. I could have other men; I don't want them. I don't even know if he still loves me, but let me tell you something: I love him, I want this marriage, and I goddamned fucking well care whether or not he likes my hair.'
Jane, crying, saw that Amanda was crying, too, great honey drops inflating her eyes. She slumped back in the seat, bouncing her head on the headrest.
'Shit.'
Sharp rapping on the window startled her.
'Ma'am? Are you all right?'
Jane rolled down the window, just an inch, two. The man seemed embarrassed, leaning forward, one hand on the roof, the other on her door, his expression asking if there was anything he could do.
'I'm sorry, I know it's not my business. I heard crying.'
'That's all right. We're fine. Thank you.'
'Well, if you're sure.'
'Thank you.'
She was reaching for the key when he jerked open the door, pushing her sideways into Amanda, the smell of donuts suddenly strong in the car.
Later, she would know that his name was Marion Clewes.
Friday, 9:12 P.M.
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, backwards. 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 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. Peña'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 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 weedkiller in the garage, there was Drāno. 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.
Friday, 11:02 P.M.
The Sheriffs had set up a dedicated phone for Maddox and Ellison. It was looped by a cell link from Maddox's radio car to the command van, where it was hardwired into the Smith's phone line beneath the street. It provided the negotiators with a cell phone's freedom of movement while allowing all conversations to be recorded in the van. Martin, Hicks, and everyone else in the van would be listening to every word. Talley didn't want that.
Talley took out his cell phone, but he had forgotten Smith's number and had to ask for it.
Maddox, watching him, said, 'We've got the hard line.'
Talley ignored him.
'I'm more comfortable with this. You got the number?'
Unless the Sheriffs had changed the phone block, the Smiths' phone should still accept Talley's calls. Ellison read off the number as Maddox watched Talley. Talley knew they thought this was odd, but he didn't care.
'Why are you doing this?'
'What?'
'Out of the blue, you're back, you're calling the house. Every call has to have a point. Why?'
Talley stopped dialing the number and tried to order his thoughts. He had developed a certain amount of respect for Maddox and wanted to tell him the truth, but his fear wouldn't allow it. He wanted Smith. That's all he knew. Smith was his link to the people who had his wife and daughter. He considered the house and what might be on the other side of its door, then looked back at Maddox. He needed to say something that would bring Maddox onto his side.
'I'm scared that Smith is dead. I think I can push Rooney into telling us without tipping him off that the boy called.'
'If he's dead, Rooney isn't going to say shit and the boy would've told us.'
'So what do we do, Maddox? You want to breach the house?'
Maddox held his gaze, then looked back at the house and nodded.
'All right, then.'
Talley redialed the number, then waited for the ring. The front and sides of the house glowed from the banks of white lights that the Sheriffs had erected, the glare so hot that the house seemed washed out and pale. Exaggerated black shadows stretched across the lawn like grave markers. The phone rang four long times before Rooney picked up.
'That you, Talley? I saw you come back.'
For the space of three heartbeats, Talley said nothing. That had never happened before, but it took that time for Talley to push aside the anxiety that he knew would be in his voice. He could have nothing weak in his voice. Nothing that might warn Rooney or put him on guard.
'Talley?'
'Hello, Dennis. You there in the office, watching us?'
The shutters flicked open, then closed.
'I guess you are. Did you miss me?'
'I don't like that new guy, Maddox. He thinks I'm stupid, calling every fifteen minutes, pretending he wants to make sure we're all right, but it's to keep us awake. I'm not stupid.'
Talley felt himself grow calm now that he was back on the phone. He had hated it earlier today, but now the familiarity of it strengthened him, just him and the phone and the subject, a small self-contained world where he played a game against the voice on the other end. It surprised him that he felt a confidence that he hadn't known in years, a deep sense that he could control this world if not the larger one. He glanced up at the helicopters. Red and green angels.
'I came back tonight because we've got a big problem out here.'
Rooney hesitated as Talley knew he would; thinking. Talley knew that what he was about to say would surprise Maddox and Ellison, so he glanced at them and touched his lips. Then he filled the silence that Rooney left, firming his voice to show that he was serious and concerned.
'I need you to let me talk to Mr. Smith.'
'We been through that, Talley. Forget it.'
'I can't forget it this time, Dennis. These people out here, the Sheriffs, they think you won't let me talk to Mr. Smith or his children because they're dead. They think you've murdered them.'
'That's bullshit!'
Maddox and Ellison shifted next to him, staring. Talley felt the weight of their eyes but ignored them.
'If you don't let me speak with Mr. Smith, they are going to assume that he is in fact dead, and they are going to breach the house.'
Rooney started cursing and shouting that everyone was going to die and that the house would burn. Talley expected his reaction and let him vent.
Maddox gripped Talley's arm.
'What the hell are you saying? You can't say somethin' like that!'
Talley held up a hand, telling him to back off. He waited for a break in Dennis's rant.
'Dennis? Dennis, I'm telling you right now that I believe you, but they don't. This isn't up to me, son. I believe you. But unless you give me something to convince them, they're going in. Let me speak to him, Dennis.'
Talley was taking a big chance. If Smith was conscious and able to speak, Rooney might very well put him on the phone. If that happened, Talley would still try to get the information about the men in the car, but he knew the odds of that would be slim. Talley's only hope was that Smith was still unconscious. If Rooney would admit his condition, Talley had a shot at getting Smith released.
Rooney said, 'Fuck you and fuck them! If you try to come in here, these kids are gonna die!'
'Let me speak to him, Dennis. Please. They think he's dead, and they are going to come in.'
Rooney screamed, 'SHIT!'
Talley could hear the frustration in Rooney's voice. He waited. Rooney was silent and that meant he was thinking; he couldn't put Smith on the phone, but he was scared to admit that Smith was injured. Talley felt a surge of excitement, but hid it. He softened his voice, made it understanding and sympathetic. We're both in this together, pal.
'Is something wrong in there, Dennis? Is there a reason you can't put Smith on the phone?'
Rooney didn't answer.
'Talk to me, Dennis.'
Rooney took almost a full minute before he finally answered.
'He got knocked out. He won't wake up.'
Talley knew better than to ask how; it would put Rooney on the defensive, and Talley didn't want to do that. He had Smith's situation out in the open, so now he could try to get Smith. Maddox, still watching, raised his eyebrows in a question. Talley nodded, getting there; he repeated the admission for Maddox.
'So you're saying that Mr. Smith is unconscious. Okay, okay, I'm glad you're telling me this, Dennis. That explains things. Now we can deal with it.'
'They better not try to come in here.'
They, not you.
'I think we can work with this, Dennis. Are we talking about a head injury here? I'm not asking how this happened, but is that what's wrong with him?'
'It was an accident.'
'Is he breathing?'
'Yeah, but he's out cold. He can't talk.'
Now Talley had to move it to the next level. Now he had to get in the house, or get Smith out.
'Dennis, now I understand why you couldn't put him on, but you've got a guy in there who needs to be in the hospital. Let me come get him.'
'Fuck that! I know what you bastards will do, you'll rush the house.'
Rooney was scared. He was flat-out terrified.
'No. No, we wouldn't do that.'
'Fuck yourself, Talley. You ain't comin' in!'
Talley pressed harder. He knew that he could have suggested sending in a paramedic or a doctor, but he didn't want anyone going in; he wanted Walter Smith coming out.
'If you won't let us come in, then all you have to do is put him outside, right outside the front door.'
'I'm not stupid! I'm not gonna walk out the door with all the snipers you have out there!'
Talley saw movement to his side, Maddox and Ellison. He heard Maddox key his radio, telling someone to have the ambulance brought up.
'No one is going to shoot you. Just put him outside and we'll come get him. If you save his life, Dennis, it will help you when you get to court.'
'No!'
That's all it takes, Dennis. Put him outside.'
Rooney's voice rose. 'No!'
'Save him.'
Rooney shouted again. 'No!'
'Help me help you.'
Rooney slammed down the phone. 'Dennis?'
Nothing. Rooney was gone. 'DENNIS?!'
Maddox and Ellison stared at him, motionless, waiting. 'What?'
Talley had been so close, but he had wanted it too much. He had pressed too hard. He had lost.
Dennis slammed down the phone, then picked it up and smashed it on Smith's desk. 'That fuck! That fuck wants me dead!' He was so angry that his head felt swollen and thick.
Kevin paced in front of the television with his arms crossed, a nervous wreck. Kevin went to the couch and stared down at Walter Smith. 'We should let them have him. He's a lot worse.'
'Fuck them! They didn't give us a helicopter, did they?'
'What does that matter? Look at him, Dennis! I think he's having seizures.'
Smith would be still as a corpse, then he would suddenly jerk, his whole body twitching. Dennis couldn't look at him.
'You wouldn't know a seizure if it bit you on the ass.'
'Look at him. Maybe it's brain damage.'
Dennis went to the shutters. Nothing had changed since he'd looked the time before, or from the time before that: The cul-de-sac was filled with cops and cop cars, and more seemed to be coming. Dennis wouldn't admit it to Kevin, but he was scared. He was hungry and tired, and the smell of the gasoline in the entry was making him sick. His pockets bulged with the money he had stuffed in them.
Kevin came over to him.
'Dennis, he's dying. It's bad enough we got the Chinaman and that cop, this guy dies they'll add another murder charge.'
'Shut up, Kevin. Jesus.'
'We should talk to a lawyer like that cop said. We need a lawyer to cut us a deal. We can blame Mars.'
'Don't let him hear you!'
'I don't care if he hears!'
'Just calm down, Kevin. I'm working on it. I just need some food, is all. Some food and some time. We'll think of something. The girl is in there cooking.'
'How can you even think about eating? I'm about to puke.'
'I saw some Gaviscom in the bathroom. Eat that.'
'I want to sleep.'
'Would you shut the fuck up?! The cops will put you in jail, where you can sleep every night for the rest of your life!'
Dennis knew Kevin was right, but he tried not to think about it. Every plan he hatched had holes big enough to hide a house, and now the cops were threatening to break down the doors. Walter Smith twitched and trembled again. It looked like he was freezing to death, the way you'd shiver if you were sleeping on a block of ice. Dennis felt tears well in his eyes because he was so scared. Here he was, sitting on a million bucks, and he didn't know what to do.
Mars and the girl came in with the pizzas, Dennis thinking that maybe the food would help, but when the girl saw her father, she dropped the pizza and ran straight to her father.
'What's wrong with him? Daddy?!'
Dennis thought his head would burst.
She dropped down to her knees, leaning over her father but not touching him.
'Look at the way he's shaking. Why is he shaking like this? Aren't you going to do something?'
Kevin put on the pussy face.
'Dennis, he needs a doctor.'
Dennis wanted to smash him.
'No.'
The girl glared at him, screaming.
'He's ice-cold! Can't you see this? Don't you know he's dying?!'
Kevin stepped closer, in Dennis's face now, pleading.
'Please, Dennis. If he dies, we got another murder charge. We're fucked up bad enough.'
Dennis was scared. He didn't want the sonofabitch to die. He didn't want another murder charge.
Kevin picked up the phone.
'Call them. Let them have him.'
'No.'
'They'll like it that you're trying to help. They might even cut us some slack. Think about it, Dennis. Think.'
Kevin stepped closer, his whisper more than a plea.
'If those SWAT guys come in here, you'll never keep the money.'
Dennis glanced at Mars, who sat on the floor with a plate of eggs and pizza, eating. Mars met Dennis's eyes, then made a little smile like he knew it all along, like Dennis didn't have the balls to play it hard.
Fuck Mars.
Dennis wanted the money.
He took the phone and punched in Talley's number.
Talley was charging his phone off the cigarette lighter in Maddox's car when the phone rang. He tensed, a jag of fear jolting him because he thought it was the Watchman's Nokia.
Maddox said, 'That's your phone.'
Talley opened his phone.
'Talley.'
It was Rooney.
'Okay, Talley. If you want him, come get him. But just you.'
Talley had thought it was over, thought he had completely blown any chance at getting to Smith, but here was Rooney delivering him. Talley was dead, but now he lived again. He had a chance at Jane and Amanda!
Talley rolled to his knees and peered over the car's hood. He muted the phone to hiss at Maddox.
'Ambulance. He's coming out.'
Ellison said, 'Sonofabitch.'
Maddox went back on the hard line as Talley un-muted his phone.
'Okay, Dennis. I'm here. I'm with you. Let's figure this out.'
'There's nothing to figure out, goddamnit. Come get him. But you better keep SWAT outta here. That's the deal.'
'I can't carry him by myself. I'll have to bring someone else.'
'Fuckin' liar! You're going to try to kill me!'
'That won't happen, Dennis. You can trust me. Me and one other person and a stretcher. That's it.'
'Fuck you, Talley, fuck you! All right! You and one other guy, but that's it! You gotta strip down! I want you stripped! I gotta know you aren't carrying guns!'
Talley looked at Maddox and twirled his finger, telling Maddox to have the ambulance get here fast.
'Okay, Dennis. If that's what you want, that's what we'll do.'
'You'll keep'm outta here. That's the deal, right? We have a deal?'
'That's the deal.'
'I swear to Christ if those bastards try something these kids are gonna die! Everybody's gonna die.'
'Just take it easy. Work with me and no one has to die.'
'Fuck you!'
The connection popped in Talley's ear. Rooney was gone.
Talley stared at the house. Several moments passed before he lowered the phone; his hand was okay, but his ear hurt from the pressure. His sweatshirt was soaked, and the Colt cut into his belly. He felt numb.
Maddox stared at him, and Ellison smiled.
'Sonofabitch. You kicked one free. That was great work, man. That was a clinic.'
Talley left them without a word. He climbed into the backseat, stripped off his clothes except for his underwear and shoes, and waited for the ambulance. In an earlier life Talley would have felt proud, but now he wasn't. He hadn't done it for Walter Smith. He was risking Smith's life, his own, and likely the children's in the house. He had done it for himself, and for Amanda and Jane.
Friday, 11:19 P. M.
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 open 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.
None of it looked real: Talley and the other guy in their underwear, carrying Smith away; Smith being loaded into the ambulance; the search-lights 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 keep them, 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 and with 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.
The Channel Eight news van was parked at the edge of the empty lot. The reporter was a pretty boy, couldn't have been more than 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 honeywagon 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, for chrissake, 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.