The boy’s eyes widened. “We were never allowed to use it. She just kept it for emergencies. I don’t think I ever heard it ring, even.”
Donnelly kicked a chair across the room. “Dammit!”
* * *
“Why did you just lie to her?” Carter shouted. He couldn’t believe it. In all the permutations Carter had run through his mind, this was one he’d never considered. “Why did you tell her that you’re talking to the police?”
“She asked who I was talking to.”
“Listen to me, Brad. Don’t do this. Please don’t do this. I know where you’re coming from, I think. You don’t want to be alone. Not now, not at a time like this. I can respect that, but listen to me, okay? Just listen to me and promise that you won’t hang up.”
“You’ve got one minute.”
“Okay,” Carter said. “Okay, good.” His brain raced to pull all the pieces together. “There’s no easy way to do this, Brad, so I’m just going to lay it out on the line for you. You have to believe me when I tell you it’s the truth: In the time since I last talked with Nicki on the phone—what was that, four hours ago?—another set of heart and lungs have come and gone. I got the page a couple of hours ago, and when the doctor found out what was happening, he knocked Nicki off the list. The first time was their fault, and they stepped up to the plate to make it right. This second time we were the ones who fumbled the ball, and now Nicki’s only immediate hope for survival has evaporated.”
“And you want to blame me for that?” Brad said.
Yes, he wanted to blame him. He wanted to blame Brad for every goddamn thing that had gone wrong these past two days and kick the shit out of him for it, but what was the point? “I’m beyond casting blame,” he said. “Nicki’s a big girl and she makes her own decisions. They’re not always the brightest, but at least they’re hers. None of that changes the fact that she’s been knocked back to the end of the recipient list. That’s done and can’t be undone.”
“So, why are you telling me?” Brad asked.
Surely, he could see where this was going. Carter closed his eyes, praying that God would one day forgive him for he was about to propose. “Nicki’s blood type makes her the so-called universal recipient. That means that she can take donated organs from just about anyone.” He waited to hear something from Brad. “Are you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. What’s your point?”
Shit, he was going to make Carter actually say the words, wasn’t he? “Brad, when I see the world from your perspective, it’s a damned unfriendly place. If you give yourself up, you’ll never see the outside of a prison again, not for your whole life.”
“That ain’t gonna happen,” Brad said, forcing a laugh.
“I don’t blame you,” Carter said. “But it doesn’t have to come to that. You can end it all right now. You’ve got a gun, and you know that one way or another your life is over, so why don’t you make it for the good of everyone?”
“What the hell are you suggesting?” The sudden burst of anger told Carter that Brad had already answered his own question.
“A bullet through your head,” Carter said. He couldn’t be any more direct than that. “That’s all it would take. Leave a note there saying that you want your organs to go to Nicki, and the world can be right again. You could die doing something good, Brad. You could make—”
The line went dead.
“No, don’t!” Carter yelled, but it was too late. When he redialed the number it was no surprise that Brad had turned the telephone off. Slamming the steering wheel in frustrated fury, Carter marched back to the cop at the roadblock.
“Look, officer,” he said. He produced his prosecutor’s badge again. “I’ll say this once more, and you’ll either listen, or I swear I will have every one of your tax returns from now until doomsday audited, and I’ll pull every string I can to ruin your career. And all of that’s just a backup in case I can’t get an indictment for criminal neglect if something happens to my daughter. I need to speak to the officer in charge of this incident, and I need to speak to him now.”
When he saw the color drain from Trooper Evanow’s face, Carter knew that he’d broken through to the young cop.
* * *
The sudden anger startled Nicki. “Brad, what is it? What did they want?”
“Nothing,” he said, but a different kind of heat in his eyes told Nicki differently.
“What was the big explosion about?”
“Nothing, okay? It was about nothing.” He fiddled with the phone, then barked at Gramma, “How the hell do you turn this goddamn thing off?”
Gramma pointed with a nod. “The upper left-hand button.”
Brad pushed the button and the phone made a sound like a whistling bomb as it turned off. He dropped it back into her purse and paced the living room, holding his side tightly.
He limped over to stand in front of Nicki and gestured to Gramma. “If I let her go, will you promise to go with her?”
“Not a chance. We made a deal. We’re sticking together till the end.”
“I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“Till the end, Brad. We’ve gotten this far together, we can see it all the way through. I’m not going. I love you.”
The scowl lines deepened as he looked at her, and she tried to cheer him with a soft smile.
“I’m not going,” she said again.
Brad looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t bring himself to speak the words. He stomped the floor and rattled something in his gut that made him fold at the waist. “Shit!”
“What is wrong with you, Brad?”
He made himself stand straight, despite the pain. “Not a thing,” he grunted. “Not a goddamn thing.”
Nicki watched as he drew his Leatherman and limped toward Gramma.
* * *
Trooper Hayes had transitioned to his role as tactical sniper, and he wondered if it was possible to have worse conditions. A new wave of pelting rain had rolled in, pounding him and his team. Matt and his spotter, Luis Martinez, a close friend since the Academy, lay ridiculously close to each other atop the dune at the rear of the house—side three—each taking advantage of the limited cover provided by the jungle-camouflaged tarp they’d stretched overhead. While the true purpose of the tarp was to protect their equipment, they were nonetheless grateful for a little cover.
“Are we having fun yet?” Matt grumbled.
“Just remember that this adrenaline rush is what SWAT is all about,” Luis drawled, his tone heavy with irony. “Want me to take over on the trigger for a while?”
Both the spotter and the shooter were equally trained as marksmen. If this had been a more intense standoff, a switch might have been in order. As it was, with the windows closed, and no one appearing to be in any kind of a hurry, stress hadn’t become an issue. “Nah,” he said. “I’m fine.”
“He said he wouldn’t be taken alive,” Luis said. “What’s your bet?”
“I bet it’s easier to talk about than do,” Matt said. “I give it even odds.”
“Assault units, get ready!” The voice in their earpieces startled them both. “Perp’s got a knife and he’s moving for the old woman.” The warning came from Muhammad Dali, the Voice of God for this operation, the one who passed along the orders from Commander Donnelly. Matt pressed his cheek to the stock of his rifle, but kept both eyes open, focusing past the scope to the side of the house that was his responsibility. Luis, meanwhile, settled into the eyepieces of his tripod-mounted binocular spotting scope. All they needed was a target and an order to take it out. Matt felt ashamed by the thrill he felt at the thought of his first kill.
“It’s getting damn dark out here,” Luis observed. “Why don’t they fire up the lights?”
Matt didn’t bother to answer. Below and to his right, he could see the side-three entry team on the far side of the dune, gathering for their assault. He knew without looking that a similar team was assembling on side one. It occurred
to Matt that with this flimsy sticks-and-paper construction, people better choose their targets carefully and shoot straight. The walls wouldn’t stop a BB.
The rain and the unpleasantness of the sand meant nothing. Nothing existed but the mission. If the balloon went up, Matt’s orders were clear: take any shot necessary to keep the perpetrators from harming the hostage, or from getting away. One way or another, these assholes wouldn’t kill again.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Brad was six feet away from Gramma when a motor sputtered to life outside the house and the blackness beyond the curtains erupted in the brilliant white light of two noontimes.
“What’s happening?” Nicki gasped.
“Generator,” Brad said. “They don’t want us slipping out when they can’t see. Plus, blinding us gives them even more advantage.”
Gramma seemed not to notice the lights and the noise. All she saw was the knife in Brad’s hand. “W-what are you going to do?”
“Not what you’re worried about,” he said. “Relax.”
The old woman’s eyes grew huge as she realized what his intentions were. “Are you letting me go?”
“If you fight me or bite me or try to punch me, or even just mildly piss me off, I’m going to cut your throat,” he said. He let the words settle on her. “But otherwise, yes, I’m letting you go.” Leaning down closer to her, he could see the tears welling in her eyes.
As he reached for the cord that bound her hands, it almost looked as if he was kissing her cheek as he whispered, “When you get out there, you tell them not to rush the place, you understand? You tell them that we need some time. You tell them that if I see a face—if I think I see a face—I’m going to shoot it. Do you understand that?”
“Yes,” Gramma said. “Yes, I understand perfectly.”
“You tell them that this isn’t about you or about me or about Nicki. You tell them that the reason I’m letting you go is because I don’t want your grandkid to end up without anyone. I’ve been there, and it sucks.” He felt his throat thicken as he said those words, and he got to the business of slipping the blade between Gramma’s flesh and the rope that held her right wrist in place. The cord cut easily and fell to the floor. “Remember what I told you about lashing out at me.”
“I-I remember,” she stammered. She didn’t move.
When the second rope was cut, he helped her stand. The effort made the room spin. When she was on her feet, he moved close again, and whispered even more softly than before, “I’ve got one more thing I want you to tell them when you get outside . . .”
* * *
Muhammad couldn’t contain the enthusiasm in his voice as he shouted, “They’re coming out! He’s releasing the grandmother! He’s releasing her!” Matt smiled. Muhammad’s voice could not have been pitched higher if he was doing play-by-play. There were some other voices in the background, and then the young cop was all business again. “Side one assault team, get ready,” he said.
It wasn’t Matt’s side of the building, and protocol required that he not be distracted from his quadrant of responsibility, but this kind of drama was hard to resist. He watched as the sergeant in charge of the side one assault team stepped partially out into the open from behind his dune, as two other team members took up positions behind the dead Bronco. He could see right away that the release itself would be blocked from his view by the peak of the roof.
He returned his eyes to the back door and settled in again. “Well, that changes a lot of things,” he told Luis.
* * *
It was the noblest, most stupid thing Brad had ever done. As he opened the door for the old woman and ushered her out, he saw beyond the glare of the lights that the SWAT guys were moving up to receive her. Watching her walk out to them, he couldn’t help but admire her spirit. Conscious of her audience, Gramma straightened herself and walked with as much dignity as she could muster out toward the lights. When she reached the truck, two black-clad gunmen darted out and dragged her back to cover.
Brad closed the door. “Well, it shouldn’t be long now,” he said.
Nicki smiled at him over the back of the sofa. “Thank you,” she said. “It was the right thing.”
“Then how come it felt so stupid?”
“Don’t you see?” she said. “We just bought ourselves all the time in the world. Without her, there’s no reason to storm the place anymore.”
Brad couldn’t contain the grunt as he lifted Nicki’s feet and helped himself to the end of the sofa, where he put her feet back down on his lap. “Let’s hope you’re right,” he said. “Because from where I sit, they’ve got no reason not to shoot us both dead.”
* * *
Scotty bolted out of the Mellings’ front door before anyone could stop him and jumped from the stoop into the sand, where he sprinted around the corner toward the bright lights that marked his house. Somebody yelled for him to stop, but then somebody else said, “Let him go.”
His head hurt from the effort, and he felt a little dizzy, but that was okay. He wanted to see his Gramma. He needed to see her.
There she was.
At first, he saw just a cluster of cops, backlit against the floodlights, but then, in the middle of them, he saw her. She looked stronger and taller than he remembered, and pretty pissed. He could tell from her body language that she was tired of being pushed around by these cops, and he told himself that maybe it was because she was at least half as anxious to see him as he was to see her.
They must have said something about Scotty on the radio, because he was still fifty yards away when she looked up, staring right at him, and muscled her way through the cops to head his way.
They met somewhere in between, and Scotty felt the air leave his lungs as Gramma enveloped him in a huge bear hug. He realized out of nowhere that he was crying, and while he didn’t know why, he knew that he couldn’t stop. No one had ever looked as beautiful as Gramma did in that moment.
“I’d never leave you, sweetie,” she whispered, so close to his ear that he could feel her breath on his cheek. “Never in a million years.”
Scotty tried to say something, but his voice wouldn’t work. It probably would have been something lame anyway.
A black-clad cop cleared his throat and placed his hand on Gramma’s shoulder. “Pardon me,” he said, “but they need to talk to you in the command post.”
Scotty let Gramma hold his hand as they walked back to the Mellings’ house and stepped inside. He didn’t even let go when other people could see.
The mood in the command post had lightened. All heads turned as they entered.
“Maury Donnelly,” the commander said, stepping forward and offering his hand. “We’re very glad to see you, Mrs. Parker. Are you hurt?”
Gramma shook her head. “No, I’m fine, but that boy in there, Brad, he wanted me to be sure to give you a message as soon as I saw you. He meant what he said before: if he sees a face, he’ll shoot it. I think he’s serious. And he also said if you try to rush the building, he’ll shoot the girl.”
Those were the first words Carter heard as Trooper Evanow ushered him into the room.
* * *
Brad fiddled with the pistol in his lap, turning it over, checking the action to make sure it worked. He dropped out the magazine and checked the gauge on the back. Ten rounds left. Nine more than he probably needed.
“You still planning to shoot it out with them?” Nicki asked.
“Only if they start it,” Brad said. He grunted against a stab of pain that lit up his right side.
For the first time—miraculously, foolishly, she realized, because all the signs had been there from the beginning—she saw that he was seriously suicidal. In her heart of hearts, she’d allowed herself to believe that it had just been tough talk, driven by his desire to come off as a hard-ass. “So, you’re seriously trying to die?”
Brad gave her a wry look. “I’m seriously trying to get away, actually, but we seem to have run out of options. I’m not goin
g back to prison.”
“So you’re going to die instead?”
“It’s not so bad. You said so yourself.”
Nicki struggled to a sitting position, and her head spun from the effort. “But you have a choice,” she said. “Do you know what I’d give to have a choice to stay alive?”
“I won’t go back. I’d rather be dead.”
“Living is always better than dying.”
“Oh, come on, Nicki, open your eyes. I’ve been raped. I’ve been beaten till I couldn’t stand.”
“Tell somebody, then.”
He wanted to laugh, but it hurt too much to try. “You mean walk down to the warden’s office, like you’d walk down to the principal’s office, and just tell him that you want Zippo transferred to a different table in the cafeteria? The guards know, Nicki. They know every goddamn thing, and half of them make money on the deal. To report another inmate, you have to give names. You give names, and somebody’ll slip into your cell and cut your nuts off. Or cut your gut open so you can hold your intestines in your hand. Those assholes get away with what they get away with because the guards know. Because they enjoy it. Don’t tell me that living’s better than dying. Not until you know what you’re talking about.”
Nicki hated the fear and sadness she saw in Brad’s face. “Then why didn’t you just kill yourself?” she asked. “Why did you go through the effort to escape if life has no meaning?”
“Had,” Brad said, emphasizing the past tense. “Life had meaning as long as I had a plan to get out of there. Now, that’s gone. It’s all gone. Everything.”
“So, the solution is to get yourself killed by the very people you hate the most? Why involve so many people? If that’s your only solution, why not just do it yourself?”
“I guess I’m just too much of a pussy.” He wished that the subject had never come up. There was no way to make her understand.
“Oh, now there’s an epitaph,” Nicki scoffed. “‘Too much of a pussy to do himself in.’ Very classy. The history books will be impressed.”
“Are you kidding? Christ on a crutch, we won’t get within a hundred yards of making the history books. We’re nobody.”
Nick of Time Page 35