“Not his. The hostage’s.”
Dobbins took the unit and hit REDIAL.
Ed answered. “Is the banker here?” The phone was on speaker.
“The bank isn’t coming, Ed. This’s Sheriff Dobbins. Listen here: I don’t negotiate.”
“But he said, Pete said—”
“Quiet up, Ed. Whatever was said before was different from what’s going on now.”
Even from a distance, Shaw could see Ruskin’s lips tighten.
“And what’s going on now is you set down that gun of yours and come outside with your hands way up in the sky.”
The man’s voice was suddenly desperate: “I want my banker.”
“No banker.”
Ed said, “Then Richard’ll die.”
“Then you will too.”
“Aren’t you getting a clue by now? I don’t care.”
“All the more reason for you to be dead.”
The sheriff tossed the unit back to Ruskin.
“Sheriff, look—”
Dobbins cut his deputy off. He gripped his Motorola mic/speaker. “Jerry, you got that Winchester yet?”
“Yeah, Sheriff,” was the staticky reply. “I’m chambered.”
“You see a target?”
“Off and on. He’s pacing a lot.”
“Standby.”
“Roger.”
Ruskin’s face approached disgust.
Shaw stepped away from the tall bushes and walked into the parking area, avoiding the tire-track-laced mud and a large bed of trash. Raccoons, maybe a bear, had been into the trash. Shaw recalled that the renters were from New York, probably the city, since it hadn’t occurred to them to bungee the trashcan lids.
In the back of the house he noted a dock stretching thirty feet into the smooth lake. A ten-foot outboard motor boat sat covered, winched out of the water. Shaw wasn’t much of a boater. His experience with bodies of water while growing up tended to involve getting thrown into icy water by his father, climbing out and fighting hypothermia.
Shaw removed a notebook from his jacket pocket and penned a note. He ripped the page out and walked to the line of squad cars in a wide circle, to avoid being seen by the sheriff. He stepped up to the woman deputy, the one with the accessories, each elegant in its own way: the earrings and the shotgun.
“I ask a favor?”
“Can’t give you a ride.”
“No. Pete Ruskin was doing a good job negotiating. I’ve got a few more tips. Could you get him this?” He held up the folded paper. “And maybe keep it quiet? The sheriff’s not too kindly disposed toward me.”
“Not just you. He’s sort of that way most of the time.”
“You have a problem delivering it?”
“No problem at all.”
Five
“I’m not armed.”
Standing in the doorway leading from the kitchen to the living room of the vacation house, Colter Shaw was holding his jacket tails up, revealing his waistband.
Ed spun around. “Who’re you?”
The hostage stared, maybe even more shocked than the man with the gun.
“It’s all right,” Shaw said. He turned to show his back, then completed the circuit and released the sport coat tails. He kept his hands raised.
Ed was in his late forties, balding and well-tanned, as farmers in the month of July will be. He was in jeans and a blue work shirt, his boots were scuffed beyond polishing but in sturdy repair. “Who?” he repeated in a whisper.
“I was in town talking to the sheriff’s department on other business. I heard about what was going on. I want to help.”
Ed looked past Shaw, into the kitchen.
“You locked the door but not the window. And you should put that chair under the doorknob. It works well on cork floors.”
“You’re a fucking undercover cop.”
“No. Just a civilian.”
“Mister . . . What’re you doing?” Richard was compact, dark complexioned and seemed muscular beneath his jeans and untucked tan, Tommy Bahama short-sleeved shirt. His head was crowned with curly dark red hair.
Shaw ignored him for the time being. “Ed, my name’s Colter Shaw. My job’s being a . . . troubleshooter, you could say. Finding missing persons, things like that.”
“Sit the hell down and shut up. You’re a fool!” Ed had wild eyes. Red. The gun he was holding was an old revolver, a long-barreled model, probably a .38, like cops in dated movies used to carry. The cylinder held six rounds and Shaw knew at least two slugs had been fired.
Of course there was always reloading.
Shaw sat beside Richard. “There’s a sheriff outside who’s inclined to start shooting.”
“Him, the one who called? I hate him!”
“He’s looking for any excuse. If it comes to that, both of you could get hurt. So stay away from the windows and don’t act in any way threatening. And stop firing out the window.”
“You! Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“I’ll do that. And, Ed: I heard what you said about the happiness of land-workers. I get it.”
For a moment, the man’s eyes softened.
Shaw continued, “I grew up in California. My parents had a spread and there were always tax issues.”
“Really, man,” Richard said. “You shouldn’t’ve done this.”
“The state police’ll be here soon. Their negotiators’ll take over. The sheriff’s a hothead, but we’ll get it worked out. Now, Ed, I’ve got a proposition. I want to take Richard’s place. Let him go. I’ll stay.”
Ed looked at Richard, who said angrily, “Nobody needs to take care of me.”
“I told you, I do this sort of work for a living.” Shaw looked casually over the room, assessing weapons. A baseball bat in the corner. Probably kitchen knives. “Is that okay, Ed? I want you to be okay with it.”
He was flustered. “No, I’m not okay with it. Forget it. Is a banker on the way?”
“Let’s not worry about the banker right now . . . If you listen to me, Ed, everything’s going to be fine. Okay?”
The farmer nodded slowly.
Shaw turned to Richard. “Just hang in there.”
“Jesus, mister,” he whispered, “you are, plain and simple, crazy.”
Six
As he surveyed the living room of the lake house once more, Shaw reflected that he’d heard that before.
You did what? You’re crazy, Colter . . .
A few years ago, a woman he’d been dating offered her assessment of his decision to rappel down a three-hundred-foot cliff in the dead of night. Windy too.
Not like he was asking her to join him. The descent had been the day before what had turned out to be their last date.
Crazy . . .
For him, the rappel had been a lark; he was bored, that was all. There’s a curious paradox about people who live by a code of survival. The entire concept is about, obviously, staying alive. But that truism misses a key to practitioners: you can never really live unless you confront some danger you must survive.
Richard’s phone rang again.
“Don’t go near the window,” Shaw reminded. “He might be trying to draw you into position.”
Ed looked at the iPhone. He hit ANSWER. “You have my banker? I’m not—”
“Fuck your banker,” Dobbins shouted.
The phone was not on speaker, but Shaw could hear it from across the room.
“I want Shaw,” Dobbins belted. “I want him now.”
Ed seemed paralyzed. But the gun remained pointed halfway between Richard and Shaw.
Shaw said, “Tell him I’ll talk to Ruskin. Only him.”
“He said—”
Sheriff Dobbins raged, “I heard and he’s not getting to pick and choose who he talks to.
Put him on.”
Shaw said to Ed, “All right.” He held his hand out for the phone.
Ed shook his head, as if worried Shaw would jump him. Shaw pointed to a table. “Leave the phone there.”
The farmer set the mobile down and backed away, staying clear of windows. “Hands where I can see them.”
Shaw complied and he rose slowly. The gun wasn’t pointed directly at him but the hammer was cocked back to single action. The trigger would have an easy pull. A lot of accidents happen when you walk around with a cocked pistol.
Shaw picked up the phone.
“Yes?”
“The fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“I’ve done this before, Sheriff. There’s no need for tactical at this point. Ed’s being reasonable.”
The sheriff growled, “You are going to jail for this. If you even fucking survive. Now I’ve got two hostages to deal with. Thank you very fucking much. It’ll be a cold day in hell before the prosecutor gives you a break, I’ll see to that.”
“When the troopers get here, we’ll talk. Until then? No.”
“You son of a—”
Shaw disconnected.
He casually handed the phone back to Ed—a natural gesture—and the farmer reached for it instinctively. Then stopped. In the space of one second, Shaw tossed aside the phone and launched himself into Ed, grabbing his gun wrist and driving him into the small parlor off the living room. Rolling on the floor, they grappled and punched and struggled for control of the gun.
The muzzle swung first toward one then the other.
It was as Shaw was struggling to get footing on the gamy, department store oriental carpet, that Ed rolled sideways fast and, hand still on the Colt, the gun went off with a stunning roar.
* * *
• • •
Shaw left Ed’s limp form in the parlor and breathing hard, walked into the living room.
The phone was ringing once more, and Dobbins’s voice clattered through the air, via his car’s loudspeaker. “What’s going on? Shaw? Somebody tell me.”
“You all right?” Richard asked. He was on his feet.
Shaw nodded, his face revealing dismay. “Didn’t want that to happen. He should’ve just given up.”
“Is he . . .”
“Dead,” Shaw said matter-of-factly. He looked around for the ringing phone. “Where’d it fall?”
“Under the couch.” Richard pointed.
Shaw set the pistol on the coffee table and walked across the room to find it.
As he crouched, Richard said, “Shaw.”
He looked up.
The man had tugged on blue latex gloves. He’d picked up the Colt and was pointing the weapon at Shaw’s chest. He pulled the trigger.
Seven
The EMTs were walking quickly along the mulchy front walk to the lake house.
The technicians, a man and a woman, were in their early thirties, stocky and strong. They wore bulky uniforms, decorated with gear sprouting from many pockets. Both bore tattoos, his on the neck, hers on the back of the hand. His a rock group logo, hers a butterfly wearing sunglasses.
Inside they hurried to the person lying motionless on the floor of the living room. They crouched and did what all EMTs do.
First, clear an airway.
Not really necessary in this case, given the nature of these injuries. But they’d been trained to follow protocol, and so they did.
Sheriff Dobbins strode up to the pair. “Gonna be all right?”
“We’ll let you know, Sheriff,” Butterfly Lady said.
“You can’t tell?” Delivered gutturally, as one impatient word.
“We’ll let you know,” her male partner added, listening to the heart.
Sheriff Dobbins stepped away and muttered to the person on his right, “Just asked a question. What’s the problem with a civil answer?”
Colter Shaw, also looking down at the choreography of the medical techs, said nothing. Ruskin joined them and glanced down at the supine man, the one who’d been claiming to be Richard Lansing. “How is he?”
Dobbins growled, “Don’t know. And don’t you ask. You’ll get your head chewed off.”
Both Rock Star and Butterfly were impervious.
Shaw’s blows had been delivered fast and hard, but he didn’t think the man had been too badly hurt. When Richard had pulled the trigger, the hammer had landed on an empty cylinder. He’d understood instantly that he’d been gamed and that Shaw had emptied the gun in the parlor as he’d stood over Ed.
Shaw had been about to call Dobbins and Ruskin and invite them in for the arrest, when Richard had dropped the Colt and reached for his back waistband.
Shaw hadn’t counted on a second weapon. He’d lunged forward and driven an open palm into Richard’s jaw. Then he’d turned to the side, ready to slam his elbow into the solar plexus. But the coup de grace was unnecessary. Richard had dropped straight to the floor, a bag of rocks. Collecting and unloading the gun—a baby Glock—Shaw had looked over the man’s shallowly breathing body with amusement. He didn’t think in his decade as a reward seeker he’d ever knocked anybody out.
Dobbins said, “Clocked him pretty damn good.”
“Well, reaching for a gun has consequences.”
“Granted that.”
Ed Whitestone stood in the corner of the living room, no longer portraying the accidental victim of Colter Shaw’s roughhousing—the shot had gone into the floor. The farmer was on the phone. He finished his conversation, then joined the other men.
“God bless you, sir,” he said, voice cracking. Then he threw his arms around a startled Colter Shaw and began to sob.
Eight
Richard’s real last name was Quinn.
Yes, he’d driven here from New York but there the facts ended. He’d done time for armed robbery, at juvenile. He’d racked up some drug time over the years and, more recently, at the advanced age of thirty-four, was on the NYPD’s and the FBI’s radar for his involvement with an East Coast crew.
The buddy he’d come to Humble with probably wasn’t much of a fisherman. He was one Terry McNab, a resident of Brooklyn and an enforcer for the same outfit.
For reasons yet to be discovered, it seemed that the pair rented the lake house here to stage a fake kidnapping. Well, Shaw reflected, it was more a reverse kidnapping. They’d picked a family at random, the Whitestones, and broken into their house.
McNab stayed with the wife and daughter while Quinn and Ed drove to the lake house, where he was to play the role of a disgruntled farmer who’d taken Quinn—as Richard Lansing—hostage. The man was to do exactly what Quinn said. If he deviated, McNab would torture his wife and daughter.
Earlier, a series of events and observations had led Shaw to conclude that something akin to this was unfolding. The note he’d written to Ruskin had nothing to do with hostage negotiation. It read:
You’re being scammed. Richard is the taker and Ed is the hostage. Get officers to Ed’s house ASAP. Associate of Richard’s is there, holding wife and daughter as leverage over Ed. No idea why.
I’ll go inside lake house. As soon as the family is safe, call me. Use phrase “cold day in hell,” and I’ll take it from there.
Why I’m writing this to you—don’t trust sheriff. Too eager to shoot. And Lexus and Rolex? On sheriff’s salary? Is he in on it?
Now, Quinn had been revived, cuffed and stashed in the back of Ruskin’s squad car.
The deputy, the sheriff and Shaw were on the front lawn. The sheriff said, “So, didn’t trust me?”
There was only one answer: “No.”
Ruskin cleared his throat and said, “Sheriff Dobbins’s what you might call well-off. Independently. He doesn’t even need to work. Puts in long hours and—”
“Give it a rest, Deputy.”
&nbs
p; The fact that the sheriff had given him the code words about a cold day in hell reassured Shaw that Ruskin was comfortable with Dobbins.
Then to Shaw, “How’d you figure it out?”
“We’ll get to that. No time now.” His eyes were on Richard Quinn in the back of Ruskin’s squad car. The sun made his red ringlets glow an impressive crimson.
“What’s the rush?”
“Something’s going on.” Shaw looked away from the car. “The whole point of this—”
Ruskin snapped his fingers. “—was to get the whole dang sheriff’s department here. To keep us out of the way of another thing going down in the county.”
Shaw said, “I think so.”
“But what?” Dobbins muttered. “Robbery? You’ve got your well-off folks in the county, but nobody spectacular. There’re banks, jewelry stores, like everywhere. No score at any of ’em’re worth risking your life for. We’re a death penalty state.”
Ruskin said, “Cimarron County’s mostly a place you drive through.”
Shaw said, “That’s it. You have got something valuable here. The interstate.”
The sheriff barked a laugh. “That pair was keeping us busy while some other boys in their crew ’jacked a shipment headed north.”
“Drugs.” Shaw and Ruskin said simultaneously.
Interstate 35 led straight from Mexico into the heartland.
Nodding, Dobbins said, “They’ve probably called it off—if they haven’t heard from Quinn or McNab by now.”
“Possible,” Shaw said, “but you can’t count on it. Quinn might’ve given them the go-ahead once he and Ed were inside and everybody from your department showed up here. Thinking you were monitoring their phones. We need the details of the plan.”
Dobbins’s head swiveled toward the car containing Quinn. “’Kay,” he said in a slow voice. “I’ll find out.” He started toward the car.
“Sheriff, you want some interrogation help,” Ruskin asked. “Maybe Mr. Shaw here—”
“Naw,” the big man replied, lifting a hand as he walked away. “I’m good.”
The Second Hostage Page 3