Chapter Seven
A soaked trooper—his name tag read P. EVANOW—stood at Carter’s car window against a backdrop of yellow barricade tape that blocked all access to the beach road. “You have to turn around, sir. There’s a hostage situation in progress.”
Carter showed his badge and credentials. “I am a district attorney, and I have information that the incident commander needs to know.”
Trooper Evanow was unimpressed. “I’m sure that badge means something in New York, but right here, it means that you still have to move along.”
Carter felt his face flush as his mind raced. How could—
His cell phone rang, and Carter snatched it from the seat where he’d left it. “Janssen,” he said.
A familiar voice said, “Carter, this is Warren Michaels. You were right, June Parker does have a cell phone. I have the number right here.”
* * *
Brad gave in to the need to sit. His belly was getting hotter all the time.
“How are you feeling?” Nicki asked him.
“Like somebody’s barbecuing chicken in my gut.”
Between the thick clouds, the setting sun, and the pulled drapes, it could have been midnight inside the Parker home. Out there somewhere, people were planning their deaths.
“Do you keep hearing noises?” Nicki asked.
“There’s a friggin’ army out there,” Brad said. “But we’ve got time. I don’t think they’ll make their move till the wee hours. They’ll hold out as long as they can.” He tried to sound like the authority. Certainly, that’s how it went down when they arrested him before. Then, they waited till four in the morning and took him out of a sound sleep.
“Why prolong the inevitable?” Gramma asked.
“You’re a hundred years old,” Brad snapped. “Why do you prolong the inevitable by getting up in the morning?”
“Brad!” Nicki gasped.
Gramma’s tone was smooth as cream. “I need to be alive for that little boy you brutalized.”
Brad’s laugh came with a lot of pain. “Yeah, I brutalized him. He’s got a boo-boo on his head and I’ve got a hole drilled through me.”
Nicki decided to try again. “Brad?”
“I’m not letting her go,” he said for the thousandth time.
“But she didn’t—”
“—do anything to deserve this.” Brad finished the sentence for her.
“But you can’t be willing for her to get hurt.” Nicki said this as a statement of fact. “Think how you’d feel if that happened.”
“That won’t be a problem if she does what she’s told and keeps her head down at the end.”
“But—”
“Nicki, please. I don’t want to go through all of this again. I’m tired and I hurt. I know what I’m doing, okay?” He added with a smile, “Not that you can tell by looking.”
“If I get killed,” Gramma said, “you’ll both be the murderers that you claim not to be.”
Brad shifted in his chair, wincing against the belly spikes. “I already am the murderer that Nicki claims not to be. She’s innocent of everything but hanging around with me.”
“Unless you count kidnapping,” Nicki said.
“You had nothing to do with that, either,” Brad snapped. “You hear that, Granny?”
The new tone to his voice seemed to startle Gramma.
“You remember that, okay? All of this—everything bad that has happened here—has been my doing. Nicki wanted to call the police from the very beginning. None of this is what she’d signed on for.”
“Then let her go, too,” Gramma said. “If she’s innocent, it’s the thing to do. It’s the reasonable—”
A high-pitched synthesized Bach fugue cut her off. The sound startled them all.
“Cell phone,” Nicki said.
They shifted their eyes to Gramma. She nodded toward the bag perched on top of the television. “In my purse.”
“You expecting a phone call?” Brad asked.
“I only have it for emergencies,” Gramma said. “I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a call on it.”
“Gee, who do you think it’s for?” Brad asked, clearly knowing the answer. The arms of the kitchen chair popped as he pressed against them to raise himself to his feet. He hobbled over to the purse, pulled out a cheap featureless cell phone, and pressed the Send button. “Yeah?”
* * *
Donnelly jumped as if someone had nailed him with a cattle prod. “What the hell’s he doing?” A second later, it was obvious. “Cell phone! Where the hell did he get a cell phone? Goddammit, why didn’t someone think to jam that!”
* * *
Carter’s heart froze as a man’s voice answered, “Yeah?” He worked hard to keep his voice soft. “Is this Brad?”
“Who wants to know?”
“This is Carter Janssen. Nicolette’s father.”
“She hates to be called that.”
“I know,” Carter said, holding his head just so, thankful for the good signal and not wanting to risk it. “I rarely call her that, actually. Usually it’s Nicki. Is she there?”
“Yeah, she’s here. I don’t know that she’ll want to talk to you.”
“How about you, Brad?” Carter said. “Are you willing to talk to me?” Carter imagined himself as a fisherman, luring his prey oh-so-gently toward the hook. If he pushed too hard, he’d lose him before he had a chance to present his proposal.
“She’s here of her own free will,” Brad said. The words sounded rehearsed.
“I know. But things have changed, Brad. They know who the real killer is from the Quik Mart. It’s a kid named Jeremy Hines, the sheriff’s boy, and he’s in custody.” He decided not to mention the sheriff’s murder.
“So?”
Carter scowled. It was obvious, wasn’t it? “So Nicki has nothing to run from anymore.” He paused to let the words sink in. “She needs to know that. Will you let me speak to her?”
Brad’s tone got softer as he said, “Maybe she doesn’t want to.”
“Give her the chance. Please. Just let me talk to her for a few minutes.”
“How do I know this isn’t some sort of a trap? You could be making all of this up.”
“You’re not getting it, Brad. Nicki doesn’t have to worry about traps. She’s free and clear, and she needs to know that.” Another pause, just a second or two. “There’s also a way out for you, Brad. There’s a way to turn all of this into something good.”
Carter could hear voices on the other end of the phone, but they were not directed at him. One of them belonged to Nicki. “Brad?” Carter said. “Are you there?”
* * *
“Who is it?” Nicki asked.
“The police want to talk to you,” Brad lied, holding out the phone to Nicki. “I told them I didn’t think you’d want to.”
“What do they want?”
“To talk you into giving up and leaving me here.”
“Tell them to forget it. I’m staying.”
* * *
Commander Donnelly pounded the table with his fist, making everyone jump. Suddenly, Scotty didn’t want to be there anymore. “Can we trace that call?” he asked the room.
“Once we know the number for the cell phone, we can.”
“Find it,” Donnelly barked. He turned to Scotty. “How about you? Do you know your grandmother’s cell phone number?”
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 adrenalin 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 Eight
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 ligh
t 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.
Time to Live: Part Five Page 6