by Tara Mills
Maybe he’d have Sylvia make a roast chicken with garlic mashed potatoes. Comfort food, yeah, comfort food would be good tonight.
Taking both packages, along with his handheld signature capture unit, Wayne dropped to the pavement and strolled up the driveway. He recognized the car parked out front immediately and his face contorted with a grim smile. It did nothing to improve his mood.
The suburban neighborhood was quiet at this time of day. No doubt most of the residents were at work. The morons probably didn’t even know this place was here.
He walked up the steps and pressed the bell. A black woman peeked out and nodded to him, buzzing him inside.
She smiled when he walked in. “No Gary today?”
“He finally took vacation,” Wayne lied, not knowing or caring who the hell Gary was.
“Well, good,” she said, holding out her hand for the envelope.
Not giving her a chance to notice it wasn’t meant for her, he thrust the signature unit on top of it, diverting her attention away from the address. It worked like a charm.
She signed her name and asked, “So where’d he go?”
“What?”
She held the unit out to him but he didn’t take it. “Gary? Where’d he end up going?”
He scowled. “Bumbfuck, Indiana. How the hell should I know?”
An impressive amount of white showed around her brown irises. “What was that?”
Wayne slipped his hand into the bulky package and pulled out his gun, pointing it at her. “No, I think you mean what is this?”
She dropped the signature capture onto her desk and her hands shot into the air, her posture as rigid as a statue. “What’s going on?”
The woman he’d seen with his wife came out of the inner office with a frown. “Jackie?” She froze, her eyes locked on the gun pointed at her assistant. Then her eyes slid to him and she asked, “What do you want?”
Despising the woman on sight, his lip curled unpleasantly. “I want my wife and daughter. Where are they?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
He knew she’d lie. “Sylvia and Hope Coulter.”
She shook her head slowly. “I’m sorry, I don’t know.”
“Bullshit! I saw you with Sylvia. I followed you in your car. Now, where is she?”
“I honestly don’t know,” she repeated.
Frustrated, he squeezed the trigger, putting a bullet hole in the filing cabinet right next to her. Both women jumped and screamed like a couple of monkeys.
“Try again.”
Chapter 18
Lauren shrank back as the gun swung around on her.
“Who else is here?” the man snarled. “And don’t even think about fucking with me or I’ll put a hole right between your goddamned eyes next. I don’t have time for this shit.”
Lauren’s brain scrambled in all directions at once as she stared at the waving gun pointed her way. She was terrified it might go off again, and it didn’t matter if it happened accidentally or not. Clearly, the man had only a tenuous hold on his self-control on a good day, but seeing the reckless way he was brandishing his pistol, it took every ounce of strength she had not to dive for cover behind the desk.
Facing him down with more bravery than she felt, Lauren said, “There’s a woman and her little boy downstairs. That’s everyone, I swear.”
He swung the gun back at Jackie. “Get up.”
Using the gun, he waved Lauren over to Jackie’s side. His long, deliberate glare at Jackie was downright chilling. Not only was he a misogynist but apparently a racist as well. They stood rigid, shaking with fright while he walked backward and threw the deadbolt on the front door.
“Go on,” he ordered, driving them down the steps ahead of him.
Young Jeri Reynolds was on the floor trying to interest her toddler in blocks, but Simon was more interested in whatever made the most noise and he added to it with his voice. No wonder they didn’t hear the shot and screams upstairs.
Lauren and Jackie walked stiffly into the playroom. When Jeri saw their faces, her smile crumbled. She caught hold of her son’s arm and tugged him into her lap. Her eyes went wide at the sight of the gunman following Jackie and Lauren.
“Get down on the floor next to her,” the man ordered.
Jackie and Lauren sank to the carpet on either side of Jeri.
Coulter looked directly at Jeri, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Who else is down here with you?”
“I already told—” Lauren broke in, but his furious glare cut her off.
“Not you! How many?” he barked at Jeri.
“No one,” she said softly.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Damn it!” He fell silent for a moment, looking at the three women with hostile skepticism in his eyes. Then he turned to consider the boy. “What’s the kid’s name?”
No one spoke and Coulter’s face flushed deep red. “I asked you fucking cunts who this is!” he bellowed furiously.
“Simon,” Jeri answered, her voice breaking with a sob. Her arms tightened around his little body but Coulter was already stalking over to him. His hand clamped onto the boy’s upper arm and he jerked Simon away from his mother, hard enough to hurt the child. All three women echoed the boy’s shrill scream.
“Shut up!” Coulter screamed back at them.
Just like that, even Simon fell silent. There must be some instinct, both visceral and terrifying, that warned the boy not to test the unhinged man.
Coulter squatted down and stuck his whiskered face right in front of Simon’s. “Simon, do you know what this is?” He showed him the pistol. “You probably like these, don’t you? Bet you have a toy gun too. But this one here is the real thing. I might even decide to show you how it works. What do you say?”
Simon sniffled. It was the only sound he made.
Coulter’s lip curled sourly and he turned and sneered at the women, still speaking to the boy. “Well, don’t you worry about it, Simon. We’ll let your mom and these two worry, okay?”
Pinning Lauren with his unnerving gaze, he put the gun to Simon’s temple and asked again, quite reasonably for a man who was losing his mind. “Where’s my wife Sylvia?”
Lauren swallowed, her eyes flitting back and forth between the boy and the gun and the man with the crazy eyes. Poor Jeri was sobbing openly.
Jackie spoke up. “She went to pick up Hope from preschool.”
“Hope doesn’t go to preschool.”
“She does now.”
He mulled it over. “When will she be back?”
No one spoke. He poked the gun against the boy’s temple hard enough to move his head. “I asked when will Sylvia be back?”
The boy was crying again but not nearly as hard as his mother. Lauren reached out and gripped Jeri’s hand.
“I don’t know,” Lauren snapped, frustrated and angry herself. “It’s not like we have a time clock for the residents here.”
He let go of the boy’s arm and sat down on the edge of the easy chair with the gun resting on his knees, though still trained on them. “Then I guess we wait.”
Simon fled to his mother’s lap and she crushed him to her.
Lauren burned with impotent rage. This shouldn’t have happened. Somehow she’d failed to protect these two from a monster like this.
* * * *
Wes hung up the phone with a frown. He looked across the desk at Chuck. “That’s weird. I can’t get a hold of Lauren.”
Chuck snorted, his thick fingers tapping away. He didn’t glance up from the screen. “Pussy whipped. You, my friend, are so pussy whipped.”
Wes couldn’t pull off the usual sneer because his smile was simply too wide. It was pretty hard to argue with the truth.
“Ah, screw you,” he said instead. “All I wanted to do was take her to lunch. I figure it’s the least I can do after all the pressure I put on her to skip the hearing today.”
“It was the right call.”<
br />
“Well, Lauren doesn’t see it that way.”
“She’ll get over it.” Tap, tap, tap.
“A nice lunch would help.”
Chuck’s eyes flicked up for a moment. “And it would be a hell of a lot cheaper than that other lame-ass idea you’ve got bouncing around in your lunatic brain.”
Wes laughed. “That’s still on, but lunch just got bumped ahead on the list.”
“So call the office. Maybe her cell is turned off. Damn!” he said, stabbing the backspace repeatedly to correct his typos.
Wes punched in the number. Something felt off. He couldn’t say what it was but it troubled him. “No answer at the shelter number either,” he said, setting down the phone.
“You probably just caught them at the wrong time. Maybe they’re outside. Try again and let it ring longer. How hard is that?” Chuck was back to two-finger typing and grumbling about paperwork under his breath.
An uneasy feeling swept over Wes as he redialed the shelter. This time he’d let the phone ring however long it took for someone to finally pick up.
* * * *
“There’s that fucking phone again!” Wayne turned his glare on the women, and all three of them drew back as he shot to his feet. “Is there an extension down here?” he asked Lauren.
“No.”
“Then we go upstairs. Any of you three move…” He looked at Jackie, Jeri, and Simon. “And she suffers. Got it?”
He waved Lauren to her feet and followed her to the stairs.
“Just answer the goddamned phone and don’t pull any stupid stunts.”
Her kneecaps were bouncing like two yo-yos while she climbed with the gun pressed against her spine. She thought about him tripping behind her or maybe just unconsciously flexing his finger on the trigger and finding herself confined to a wheelchair for the rest of her life. Her eyes welled at the thought of losing what she’d just gained with Wes. Never feeling his body pressed to hers again, never experiencing another climax, and never able to manage her bodily functions without assistance. Torture, the mere possibility was absolute torture.
She stopped at Jackie’s desk and picked up the phone. Her voice trembled so much she could hardly say the words, “Gloria Fields.”
“Lauren, finally, I was really starting to worry.”
Wes! She needed to alert him somehow.
“Mary, hi,” she said, forcing herself to sound chipper. “I’m so sorry, but this isn’t a good time. Will just stopped by so I’m going to have to call you back. I’ll call you later, okay? Bye.” Lauren hung up, her heart pounding.
“Who’s Will?” Coulter asked suspiciously.
“My boyfriend.” She felt sick to her stomach just saying those words. “Mary will understand.”
The gunman looked at her uncertainly but in the end, pointed at the answering machine. “Turn it on.”
She flipped the button and he motioned her back downstairs.
Lauren took it one step at a time, hoping Sylvia and Hope stayed far away, and knowing she had a big whopping this is what I was talking about coming from Wes.
* * * *
Wes pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it in confusion. “What the hell?”
Chuck’s chin came up. “Say again?”
Wes redialed and this time his call went right to a recorded message. He slammed the phone down and rolled his chair back, bounding to his feet.
Alarmed by the expression on his partner’s face, Chuck barked impatiently, “What’s going on?”
“We have a situation at the shelter.”
Chapter 19
Sylvia Coulter held her daughter’s hand, smiling as Hope told her all about her morning at preschool. The little girl was carrying a very pretty construction paper picture destined for the refrigerator. It rained glitter on the sidewalk and left sparkles clinging to their legs. The colorful swirls of yarn were only partially glued on, yet Sylvia fawned over the masterpiece, thrilled her daughter was blossoming in the new environment.
So was she, come to think of it. When was the last time she’d laughed like this, or even smiled for that matter? She felt euphoric, practically quivering with every spontaneous burst of happiness that washed over her. What a difference distance could make. She was ready, eager to put all this behind her and go home to Ohio.
Sylvia felt transported by the vivid green grass and fluttering leaves on the trees as they cut through the park. The air was fragrant, alive, the smell of freshly cut grass interwoven with the scent of flowers. She welcomed all the peaceful childhood memories it brought with it.
“Mommy, can we stop and play?” Hope asked, her eyes falling on the playground equipment, particularly the slide. Hope loved the long slide.
Sylvia squeezed her hand. “Tell you what, sunshine, why don’t we take your picture home first and I’ll make us a nice picnic lunch, and then we can come back and you can swing and slide as much as you want. How about that?”
“For real?” asked Hope, her little face alight.
“For real.”
They rounded the corner at the end of the street and Sylvia’s heart plunged into her stomach. There was a Durban Express Courier van parked in front of the shelter. She jerked her daughter back by the hand, feeling sick and shaking with panic.
She was probably overreacting. There were lots of DEC vans driving around the city. It didn’t necessarily mean Wayne was there. Still, it wasn’t a good idea to risk being recognized by one of his coworkers either.
“Come on, honey, I changed my mind. Let’s go back to the park now.” Sylvia led her daughter away, keeping a wary eye on the delivery truck.
* * * *
Wes stood over his lieutenant’s desk with the man’s phone turned toward him. Pushing the speaker button, Wes dialed the shelter number for the group assembling behind him. It went directly to a recording.
“And why do you think there’s trouble?” the lieutenant asked as Wes disconnected the call.
“A few reasons. Lauren sounded tense and strained when she finally answered the phone. Then she called me Mary and told me Will was there and she’d have to call me back. She distinctly said it was a bad time.” Smart.
“And you’re sure she knew it was you?”
“Positive, and Will was a warning, a message, something she knew I’d pick up on.”
“Who’s Will?” someone asked from the doorway.
Wes turned his head slightly so he’d be heard by those behind him. “Will Stovall, Lauren’s brother-in-law. He was convicted of murdering her sister and nephew. He’s got a parole hearing today.”
“Where?” asked Lieutenant Reuter.
“Beaumont.”
“Daisy, call the Beaumont courthouse and make sure he’s there.”
“Right.” The woman left.
Reuter looked past Wes. “Briers, let’s get a car over to the shelter, have them check it out.”
“On it.”
Chuck clapped a supportive hand on Wes’s shoulder.
* * * *
Twenty minutes later Sylvia and Hope ventured back to the corner to see if the van was still parked down the street. It was. All the hair on Sylvia’s body stood on end and she felt an ominous chill despite the warm sunny day.
“Come on, back to the park, sweetheart.”
* * * *
Daisy poked her head in the lieutenant’s door. “There’s a William H. Stovall on the docket for two o’clock today. He’s currently in custody.”
Wes expelled a sigh of relief but it was short lived.
Briers called from his desk, “Lieutenant, we’ve got a Sylvia Coulter on the line. I think you want to take this.”
“Patch her through.” He left it on speaker. “This is Lieutenant Reuter.”
An uncertain voice spoke to the room. “My name is Sylvia Coulter. I’ve been staying at Gloria Fields recently, and I’m afraid my husband is there right now.”
“Why do you think that?”
“He drives for Durba
n Express Couriers, and one of their vans is parked out front. It hasn’t moved in twenty minutes, probably more.” The distress in her voice came through loud and clear.
All eyes shifted around the room at the news.
“Does your husband own a gun, Mrs. Coulter?”
“Yes,” she said softly.
“What’s his name?”
“Wayne Lee Coulter.”
Lieutenant Reuter pointed to one of his officers. “Run him and have dispatch tell the officers responding to hold back.” He held up a finger, halting the man before he left.
“Ma’am, where are you now? Are you somewhere safe?”
“My daughter and I are at the park on Fremont, two blocks away.”
The lieutenant looked at the officer. “Redirect the car to the park. Get them in here.” As the officer hurried out Lieutenant Reuter returned to the phone. “Ma’am, we’re sending a squad car to get you.”
“Thank you.”
She hung up and the lieutenant cut the dial tone on his end. His face was grave when he looked up at Wes. “Assemble your team.”
* * * *
Coulter paced the room from one end to the other, his gun flailing wildly while he ranted inside his head.
Now what? Fuck. What a mess. Nothing was going according to plan. Five minutes, ten tops, was all he expected it to take to put his family back together, but the stupid bitch wasn’t even here and it didn’t seem likely she’d come back with the fucking van parked out front. Shit! She was supposed to be here. He spun and retraced his steps, hardly sparing a glance at the three women and young kid on the couch. The way they watched him was starting to get on his nerves. He felt like screaming in their faces to make them stop. Maybe he should blindfold them…something.
All he wanted to do was to get his household back in order, eat a decent meal, and pull on a clean pair of shorts for Christ’s sake. Was that too much to ask? Fucking Sylvia, always screwing up his life. She drove him to this, and now he had hostages on his hands. Hostages! He didn’t know his next move. He couldn’t leave and pretend nothing happened here, and no way could he let them go now. They knew his name. The cops would come looking for him. He wasn’t going to jail.