She kissed his forehead and went outside. He must have fallen asleep because he woke up tied to that infernal chair. He bit down on the leather gag, saliva dripping down his stomach, until a sharp pain hit him in the jaw. It was the first time she had left him there. And it would be the last.
There was a window opposite and he could see the house from where he sat. She was pacing back and forth in the kitchen, yelling at someone else in the house. There was a loud thud of music in the background, a deep base which would have covered any screams from reaching the neighbors.
Flynn knew he’d have to be quick. All he needed to do was relax, muscle by muscle, joint by joint. Wriggling an inch at a time, working those straps, slowly, gently, and then letting his body slacken. He did it over and over, until he could feel the tension loosen and his right wrist popped free. It surprised him.
He unfastened the buckle over his left wrist and for a second saw the strap wasn’t bonded leather as he’d been lead to believe. But a synthetic imitation that would have shattered Tarian’s scrupulous image. It was glossy with his blood.
He removed the gag and looking down, saw the leather ties around his chest were fastened behind the chair. Heart slamming, he noticed the shears lying on the shelf beneath the window, tantalizingly close. They reminded him what she would do if he ever disobeyed.
Straining forward, he grabbed both handles and slipped one blade between the rope and his chest. He worked the shears, slicing... slicing... until he was free, ankles and wrists tingling with the return of circulation. Time seemed to stop as he held his breath, and he prayed she wouldn’t see him.
He limped toward the door of the shed and turned the knob. Thank God it was dark, he remembered thinking, creeping barefoot along the path. There was only a starlit sky with no sign of a moon and he almost gasped at the ooze of mud between his toes.
He could see the Tiffany lamp through the window, casting a patchwork of greens and reds against the kitchen wall and the Roman blind with its gray and white stripes.
No, Flynn, they are Oakmoss green. Don’t you know anything?
He stopped and stared. Gray-green place mats on the table and two glasses filled with wine. The familiarity of the place was disturbing in the same way that he could no longer see Tarian, or hear the pounding base.
There was someone else in the kitchen now.
FORTY-SEVEN
If only he could have turned back the clock ten years, Temeke would have done things differently. It was an impossible thought but he knew he had built his own prison and it slowly dawned on him that it had all been his fault. Numbness spread from his thighs to his knees and he slumped back into the driver’s seat and turned on the ignition.
His one o’clock check-up had gone well. Everything was jiving and he wasn’t going loopy. He had peed a trickle of black slurry into a cup and the doctor had tutted and mumbled something about how the sample was probably well over the legal limit for nicotine. Did he exercise? No. Would he care to drink clear liquids? No. Would he like a bed in oncology because that’s where he was headed if he didn’t shape up?
“So what are you?” the doc had said. Temeke wanted to say British; a hundred percent proof. But the doc answered the question for him. “Stubborn.”
Stubborn? Temeke had never thought of himself as stubborn. Persistent and determined, and agile for his age. In fact, he prided himself on the abs he had and the weight he hadn’t. Many of his peers had become bay windowed and out of breath before they were forty.
He cruised through the parking lot and saw a yellow Scion IQ three spaces from the front door of the Physician’s Building. Loud and proud with a rosary hanging from the rear view mirror and a light blue centennial license plate. He didn’t need to run those plates. The car belonged to Serena. But on a Saturday? He braked to a stop and just stared at it, willing his cell phone to buzz because sooner or later it would vibrate with a number he recognized.
So far, one out-of-state number, two private and one solicitor calling with excellent burial rates and low prices on mahogany. He’d left Serena a message before leaving the house, something casual like lunch tomorrow. But she hadn’t replied.
He rummaged through the pharmacy bag on the passenger seat and pulled out a box of nicotine patches. A discrete once a day application, it said. A proven way to reduce cravings, it promised. He peeled one off and slapped it on his arm wondering how long it would take to make a difference.
The radio crackled into life and a female voice from dispatch asked him if he was still on 10-61. Temeke advised that his lunch break had ended and what could she possibly want on a quiet Saturday afternoon. The roads were clear, the skies were blue. The voice came back cold and sharp. Someone called Hamster had been trying to raise Temeke from a Walmart payphone and would Temeke kindly tell his personal friends to stop clogging up the 911 switchboard.
“Better get down here now,” Hammond said when Temeke finally got through. “Hampton Inn on Iliff. Your guy has just got back into town. Meet me next door at the Quality Inn, a block down the street.”
Bang goes surveillance at Clemency Baptist Church, Temeke told himself as he screeched out of the parking lot, veering dangerously in front of a semi on Westside Boulevard. Golf Course was packed but Coors was light all the way to I-40. He called it in to dispatch and asked them to raise Lieutenant Luis Alvarez who was headed to the Church with Malin. The funeral was due to start at four o’clock with a picnic in the park and a candlelight vigil after the sun had gone down. Talk about making an afternoon of it.
McCann had not been formerly accused of a violent felony crime and there was no proof he’d done anything except take the vacation his boss suggested.
Luis took only a minute to call him back and Temeke asked him where he was. “Clemency Baptist Church,” came the reply.
“Got a good seat, bro?”
“We should be so lucky,” Luis said. “Place is packed. The Walley-Bennetts are already inside and the crowds are getting antsy. Someone’s holding a sign saying Nail McCann. SWAT’s in place.”
“That bad?”
“Exceptional circumstances,” Luis confirmed.
Temeke was thankful SWAT were playing defensive back, although nothing about law enforcement was a game. “Do they honestly think McCann’s going to walk right in?”
“No, they think we’re bringing him in. Cuffs and prison scrubs.”
“What if he’s not there? I’m headed to Iliff and I-40. Got a feeling McCann might have checked-in to one of the hotels along the freeway. Mr. Jesky’s truck’s outside.”
“A feeling?”
“A reliable source. Mr. McCann could be armed. Mr. Jesky could be a hostage.”
“10-4.” Luis hung up.
Temeke found Hammond in the rear parking lot of a hotel next door to the Hampton Inn. He was well hidden behind a stand of trees on the south side, driver’s window open to accommodate a zoom lens. Temeke parked his unit three spaces down and walked over to the Cutlass, which on closer examination had suffered a gunshot decoration to the side fender.
“Am I glad to see your sorry-ass.” Temeke stuck his hand through the driver’s window and caught a whiff of Listerine. Narrow eyes stared over a pair of steel framed glasses and brown hair fell over one eye.
“Good to see you too.”
“You look tired.”
“Bushed. I could do with a few volts from your stun gun. Couldn’t get my contacts in this morning.”
“How long have you been here?” Temeke asked.
“Long enough to see Piglet fly by. That’s his truck on the southeast corner. Called you the minute it arrived but you’re a hard man to pin down.”
Temeke studied Jesky’s truck. It seemed to be listing a little to one side. “Did you see them go in?”
Hammond looked off into space and responded in a steady voice. “Yep and they haven’t come out either ’cause they’re chomping down on Buffalo wings.”
“How long ago was that?”
/> Hammond look at his watch. “Ten minutes before you arrived. Now what?”
Temeke stared through the trees and wondered now what. Hammond could only see the front porch from here and not the fire exits on the west side. What if they had already bolted into the desert? Unlikely if they were eating lunch. “When you followed them on the off ramp, did they see you?” Temeke asked.
“Nah, and they didn’t see me poking around the truck after they arrived. I thought the tire pressure was on the high side. Is there going to be a shoot-out?”
Temeke wasn’t going to assume the tilt on the truck was an act of random vandalism. “It won’t be a pansy-ass search, that’s for sure. My guess is Lieutenant Alvarez will contact the tactical commander to see if this is SWAT-worthy. When field supervisors, K-9 handlers and patrol officers arrive within the next hour, they’ll have a few precious minutes to decide who’s supervising. That would be a good time to make yourself scarce. Don’t be parking across the street at La Quinta Inn for a ringside seat. Gunfire can be a wild thing.”
“It’ll take them an hour?” Hammond took out a piece of tissue from an overflowing glove box and blew his nose in a single trumpet blast. “Will they get a bomb squad robot?”
“Once everyone’s been given the command to assemble, patrol should be trickling in any minute. On-duty SWAT are probably doing background checks on the suspect and area layout. When they get here they’ll have enough surveillance equipment to see Uranus.”
“Who’s the old guy with McCann?”
“Stepdad. Suspects always turn to someone for help, someone they feel safe with. Even though he was driving that truck we can’t assume he’s not a hostage and we can’t assume he isn’t armed.” Temeke took a deep breath and glanced up the street at the front façade of the Hampton Inn. “I’ve seen it before. You can have the best tactics and perimeter containment. Even a breacher to find the quickest access point. But if the perimeter isn’t secure McCann will be out and gone without blowing a kiss goodbye.”
“They’re in there,” Hammond said. “And no, I didn’t go check with the front desk.”
Temeke was glad to hear it. “No one else was in the lot when you arrived? You didn’t see any cars driving away?”
“No. Who are we waiting for? Apart from a tactical team and a few dogs.”
“We?” Temeke saw a couple of units pull in two blocks down waiting for supervision.
“So, what are you going to tell Detective Cornwell?” Hammond said, turning the key in the ignition. “’Cause she’ll want to know how you knew McCann was here.”
“Hackett uses a psychic when he wants to know where somebody is. Including his staff. This could be one of those moments.”
Temeke watched Hammond hightail it down Iliff as he walked back to his unit. He relayed his position to dispatch again and it was Suzi’s voice he heard over the airwaves this time. They had sighted McCann in the crowd outside the church and that’s where they were staying. They had also arrested two men armed with knives and so the show went on.
“You heard there’s been a few sightings of McCann over here,” Temeke confirmed. “Reliable witness.”
The airwaves livened up after that. Even that dozy cow Suzi Cornwell perked up and told Temeke she was calling CNT. She told him to stay where he was—all evening and well into the night if that’s what it took.
Temeke wondered if it was a little late for the Crisis Negotiation Team. He swallowed before stepping out of the unit. It had been more than an hour now and something in his subconscious bristled.
FORTY-EIGHT
Daylight streamed through the blinds when Flynn heard a gravelly voice. He looked over at Jesky, saw him standing by the window looking down at the parking lot.
“Better get going,” Jesky said.
“Where to?” Flynn scratched his head, felt a hint of hazy contentedness. Freedom was a drug he hadn’t taken in a while and he felt a flash of sadness. “We only just got here.”
“Looks like the truck’s got a flat, son, and I need to get you somewhere safe.”
“Shall I get a cab?” Flynn felt as if he’d finally turned the last page of a mystery novel and now he was feeling empty again.
“Nah. I got a better idea,” Jesky said, stuffing his clothes into a bag.
Flynn grabbed his backpack, aware of a scent that wafted under his nostrils and stuck there. It was Jesky patting his cheeks with cologne because he hadn’t had time to take a shower. Said it was called Mustang For Men, only it smelled like oxtail soup.
Flynn noticed how the old man hunched forward, ear slightly angled toward the door at the sound of a suitcase being dragged down the corridor outside, voices murmuring in the distance. The phone shuddered on the nightstand and gave Flynn a start. He angled it just enough to see the number. A text from Rosie asking where he was.
Flynn’s stomach was already having a seizure. He typed, Almost there.
“Ready?” Jesky flapped a hand to speed things up a bit, pulled the charger from the wall, eyes scouring the empty take-out boxes on the nightstand.
On their way down the back stairs, Flynn couldn’t help thinking about Detective Temeke. He cut an intimidating presence with his black, angular features and sturdy frame, and he seemed to look at Flynn as if he was the most twisted of all the psychopaths he’d ever met.
“The detective,” Flynn said, “the one working this case, he’s British. Ever met one of those?”
“My old boss was British. Said ‘familiarity breeds contempt’ and kept barking on about how yanks had a nasty habit of hugging too much. You can’t tell what they’re thinking and they sound bored all the time. But there’s a lot going on behind the eyes.”
The eyes? Yes, purposeful, methodical, I-know-exactly-what-you’re-thinking eyes. It bothered Flynn no end.
Jesky stopped at the back door under the exit sign, took a long hard look at the rear parking lot through the glass. His eyes roamed between that and the infrared camera above which watched everything with a pejorative field of view.
He touched Flynn’s arm and said, “Stay here.”
Flynn didn’t move, just waited as long as it took for Jesky to saunter down the corridor to the front desk, return the keys. Only he kept looking at his watch because the old man was taking his time.
Edging down the corridor, he passed five guest rooms and a banqueting hall before he saw Jesky’s back. His face was turned sideways, wrinkles squeezed together on a tanned forehead. Huddled up against a wall, he was peering at three police officers who were standing twenty feet away at the front desk. They were asking questions and flashing badges and it hit Flynn in the gut so hard he knew it would be a matter of time before they found him.
He came up level to Jesky, didn’t have to tap him on the arm, the old man already knew he was there. The clunk of the elevator doors told Flynn two cops were headed for the second floor, while the third officer stood in the glare of sunlight from the front door, talking into the radio with his back to them.
Flynn saw Jesky’s tight nod and flapping hand and they backed down the corridor the way they had come.
“They’re going up to the room, son,” Jesky whispered, “and they’ve got the damn truck.”
There was only one way out as far as Flynn could see, but if the police were as smart as he knew they were that exit was already covered. He felt Jesky’s hand on his shoulder, saw a sparkle in his eye and his stomach did a flip. He’d seen that look before.
“Whatever you’re thinking, we don’t have time, Jesk.”
Jesky led the way to the vending machine, a small room behind the main lobby with a fire exit leading to the front parking lot.
“I’ve always wanted to do this,” he said, taking out a cigarette from his top pocket. “Seen it in the movies. Always works.”
He lit up and blew a large cloud at the smoke detector. It took two more huffs before the haze triggered a high pitched whistle and a solid red glow. A sprinkler sputtered into life dowsing the glas
s of the vending machine and a small microwave.
“Follow the herd,” Jesky said, fingers trembling around that cigarette before he dropped it.
Guests began running down the corridor toward the north side of the hotel, doors slamming, staff shouting. Flynn followed Jesky through a tussle of children hoping the old man knew what he was doing. Outside the police were herding guests into groups, families standing in a tight little line. Stragglers looked bewildered and teenagers scowled at being dragged away from the TV. There must have been well over a hundred people in the rear parking lot, all talking at once.
Flynn followed Jesky as he duck-walked behind the crowds, stopping occasionally to catch the whiff of an approaching siren and the squeal of brakes. There were more police officers already on the scene, most of which were abandoning their units outside the east façade.
They slipped around the west wall where trees bordered the hotel from a stretch of wasteland running parallel to the freeway. Flynn couldn’t help thinking how agile Jesky was for a man of his age, pressing on through the sand and sage and stabbing his thumb up at a large rig which seemed to be braking before the slip road. To Flynn’s amazement the truck ground to a halt and asked them where they were headed. Jesky shouted Coors Bypass north and the man beckoned them on board.
Flynn knew the police were itching to take him down and decorate his face with a few Band-Aids. But they had no idea where he was and that gave him the upper hand.
FORTY-NINE
The scene had been turned over to SWAT who had split off into two teams. As far as Temeke could hear they were determining how the teams would enter and what ordinance would be used. Temeke found himself watching a group of patrol officers fanning out from behind the trees and disappearing around the south side of the Hampton Inn. He could almost see red tell-tale motes darting up and down the walls—sight beads thrown from a rifle in the hands of an expert sniper.
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