by Rick Mofina
“We’re sending the RV to the extreme edge, where he can see it, to draw him out for a takedown,” Stinton said.
Reed, Sydowski, McDaniel, Ira Doyle, and a small number of federal, state, and county emergency officials observed.
The Highway Patrol had sealed an outer perimeter, setting up roadblocks to keep back the press and the rubberneckers who were gathering at the far boundaries, straining to see something.
Inside the barn, where temperatures were nearing ninety degrees, the SWAT radio crackled with a report from one of Stinton’s scouts.
“We see him inside.”
“What about hostages? See anything?”
“Nothing.”
Stinton shook his head.
Reed shut his eyes. What did Engler do with her? They’d found Tribe, the chain around the tree, the blood, the clothing strewn about. Jesus. Reed stepped out of the barn and ran a hand over his sweating face. Sydowski followed him.
“Tom, we don’t know anything until we can get in there.”
The soft radio talk of Stinton’s team leader spilled from the barn. Sydowski and Reed listened as one of the scouts said, “Okay, the RV’s just edged up to the far end.”
Stinton waited. His team relayed more whispered updates.
“There’s movement. He sees it. Hasn’t drawn him out yet. Wait, there’s movement. Yup, here we go. He’s stepping out to meet the RV. He’s armed. Looks like an AK. Repeat, suspect is armed.”
“Head’s up, everybody.” Stinton told his snipers to line up a clear shot.
SEVENTY-SIX
Engler couldn’t take his eyes from the RV. A white twenty-five-footer cab-over bed, roof AC. Looked like a rental. Tinted glass.
The tall grass and overgrowth reached his waist. He grew weary as he walked, resting the AK-47’s barrel on his shoulder, thinking how Angel was such an asshole sitting out there.
“This is Sergeant Paul Harris—”
The bullhorn shattered the quiet. Engler dropped to the ground.
“—of the Texas Department of Public Safety—” Police. Goddammit. Angel set him up. The farmhouse was some thirty yards away. Engler began crawling back on his stomach as fast as he could, cursing Zelaya.
“Halt! Release your weapons and raise your hands—” Engler’s sweating fingers tightened on his AK-47. He rolled and fired several rounds toward the sound of the cop’s voice. Engler was twenty yards from the farmhouse when police returned fire, rounds whip-snipping through the grass, thudding into the earth, soil erupting near his head.
“Halt!”
Fifteen yards now. Engler heard the RV’s engine start. More gunfire. The truck pursued him. Engler rolled to his back again and let go three staccato bursts, the RV’s windshield blossomed, chrome peeled, the engine growled as rounds plunked into metal, popping headlights, shattering windows.
Engler crawled five yards more as the RV’s engine roared and it retreated, vanishing backward into the forest.
“You mothers!” he screamed into the dusk. “You son-of-a-bitching mothers!” Engler squirmed in the tall grass, unloading a spray of automatic fire in all directions, before returning unscathed into the farmhouse.
Stinton ordered his team to cease firing and called for status reports.
They came back fast. No hits. No casualties. Stinton puffed his cheeks and exhaled, embracing a degree of relief that was short-lived.
“Sir,” a scout said over the radio, “from here, it looks like he’s got the place trip-wired with grenades. We can’t get tight on the house.”
Damn! Stinton rubbed a hand over his spiky brush cut. Damn!
His squad leader’s voice came over the radio: “Gas him?”
“Not yet. Everyone get comfortable, make sure you got cover. Get the negotiator on the bullhorn. Let’s try talking to him.”
Reed paced just outside the small barn, his jaw dropping at the RV limping back to the command post, bumping along flattened rear tires, remnants of punctured glass tinkling from metal dangling like war wounds. The vehicle stopped and half a dozen heavily armed SWAT members in camouflage and body armor stepped from it.
Near the farmhouse a bullhorn crackled from the forest. “John Engler, this is Sergeant Ralph Langer. Are you hurt, John? Can we get you anything?”
Inside, Engler was panting, shaking his head as if hearing a joke. His hands trembled as he loaded his weapons, strapping them to his body, stuffing his handguns into his waistband. Let’s see, I’m good for homicides in California and Texas. Death penalty states. Just fired on police. What could they possibly offer me? A cheeseburger and an execution date.
“John?” Langer called. “Why don’t you come out, son?”
Son? The guy sounded twenty and he was calling him son. Christ. Engler had spent more time in a cell than this guy had spent on the planet.
“Are you hungry? We can send in some food. Why don’t you release anybody you got there with you? How about a trade, John?”
Engler stomped toward the window.
“I’ve got Ann Reed with me! The next shot fired at me means the second one goes into her head! Understand?”
“Take it easy, John. I understand.”
Engler scanned the woods but it was futile. He saw no police but felt them all around, sensed their breathing, their hearts pounding, their fingers on the triggers, itching, craving to take him out, to be the hero.
“I’m never going back to prison!”
“John, how about you let me hear Ann as a sign of good faith, that she’s with you and she’s okay? Can you let me see her or hear her?”
Engler rubbed his lips. Studying the jewels, now useless to him. His breathing quickened. He took stock of his arsenal, his options, his sorry life.
“John? How ’bout it, partner, you going to let me talk to Ann?”
Engler turned.
“Get Reed. Her husband, Tom Reed. I know he’s around. I heard him on the news. You get him, I want to talk to him.”
SEVENTY-SEVEN
Stinton hated the situation.
“What do you think?” He turned to his two sergeants advising him at the command post. “If I let him talk to Reed, it could turn to crap in a heartbeat.”
“Could antagonize him further,” Bolander said.
“He’s already fired on us, I’d say he’s beyond that,” Rikker said.
Stinton gritted his teeth, hating the notion of having a civilian this close and now possibly involved. It could all go to hell. He had to study every option. He stepped outside the barn and approached Reed.
“If I allow it, would you want to talk to Engler, over the bullhorn under our supervision?”
“I’ll do whatever it takes.”
Stinton chewed on the possibility before returning to the barn and conferring quietly with his sergeants. “This is not consistent with policy and procedure,” Stinton said, “but it’s my scene and I’m exercising discretion. What if she’s in there wounded? We can’t waste time.”
“You’re thinking on letting the husband talk to him?” Rikker said.
“It might be all we need to distract the suspect,” Stinton said. “To draw him out or provide a kill shot. We make no deals. We can’t fire on the house in case she’s inside. We want a clear shot. This may be our only way.”
The sergeants agreed. Under the circumstances it was the best option.
At the command post SWAT team members put body armor and a helmet on Reed as Stinton briefed him.
“Just keep him talking. Make no promises. Urge him to surrender.”
Reed, exchanged a glance with Sydowski, nodded to Stinton, then went with the team members. They led him on foot down the roadway to the farmhouse. Reed double-timed it with his escort. They moved in silence. Reed’s pulse quickened as they neared the perimeter edge where Sergeant Langer was crouched behind an unmarked patrol car. Not far away, Reed saw two snipers covered with branches. Their rifle scopes were trained on the farmhouse.
It was weatherworn, its wooden
frame was gray and leaning from age. It rose like an ancient ghost house amid a sea of overgrown grass and bush.
“Mr. Reed, Ralph Langer. Negotiator.” He extended his hand.
The bullhorn rested on the hood of the car; connected to it was a remote handheld microphone that allowed Reed to crouch down behind the fender, out of the line of fire. Langer demonstrated. He passed the remote microphone to Reed.
“Real simple to use, press here, keep your mouth about two inches back, and talk in a normal tone.”
Reed nodded.
“Talk to him. Keep him calm. You can’t make any promises. That’s up to us. Okay?”
“Yes.”
“You’re good to go, Tom.”
Reed raised it to his mouth, depressed the switch.
“John, it’s Tom Reed. “ His voice carried over the silence. Night was falling. The house darkened.
“Hey, asshole,” Engler called back, “bet you thought you’d never hear from me again.”
“Where’s Ann?”
“Not even a hello, how are you?”
“John, I can’t change your past.”
“You twisted it.”
“John, where’s my wife?”
“Your wife? Where’s my wife?”
Reed looked at the ground as if he’d find an answer there. “Take me, John.” In the command post Stinton winced, then got on his radio to Langer, who waved a hand to Reed indicating that was the wrong thing to say. Reed ignored him. “Let Ann go. She’s never harmed you. It was me. I was wrong. Your fight’s with me. Take me.”
Nothing came from the darkness for a long moment.
“I don’t want you, Reed. I’m happy with your wife. We make a good couple. She’s a looker. You know why I had to kill Tribe? You know what he is and what he did to her?” Reed’s knuckles whitened on the microphone.
At the command post, Stinton was whispering radio calls to team members tight on the house. While Engler was distracted with Reed at the front, they’d been working on one of the trip wires at the rear.
“We might be able to go tear gas, flash-bangs, and a full-bore assault, Captain.”
“One step at a time. He may have a hostage.”
At the rear, the bomb tech was disarming the trip wires while out front Reed was nearing his breaking point. “John,” Reed’s voice echoed, “what do you want?”
“I want you to atone for what you did to me.”
“I’m sorry for what you went through.”
“No, Reed, that’s not enough—that’s not—”
Tear gas smashed through the windows followed by a flash-bang as two SWAT team members stormed the rear and released gunfire in short bursts. Engler pivoted, spraying the doorway with AK-47 fire. The officers retreated as Engler advanced, tossing the tear gas back, throwing his own grenades and unleashing a volley of gunfire.
“Mothers, son-of-a-bitch!”
In the chaos, the lantern smashed against a wall and within seconds, flames licked up aged crisp wallpaper. In moments, half the living room was engulfed. Engler worked in vain to smother the fire with curtains but it ripped through the tinder-dry frame building. Engler coughed, touched something wet on his chest. He tore his shirt to see the two bleeding bullet wounds above his heart.
Outside, Reed’s eyes widened.
Firefighters and paramedics at the command post were alerted.
“Hold your fire,” Stinton ordered. “Drop back, hold your fire!”
Nearly one-quarter of the building was ablaze.
“Ann!” Reed called on the bullhorn standing. “Ann!”
“Tom, get down! Get down!” Langer said.
Reed fought off the arms pulling him and ran to the burning house.
Langer alerted Stinton, who alerted the SWAT team.
“Hold your fire. We have a civilian breach from the south.” Stinton turned. “Son of a goddamned bitch!”
Reed ran faster than he’d ever run in his life, not feeling, hearing, or fearing anything, thinking only of entering the house to find Ann. He came up fast, surprising SWAT members aiding a downed partner whose body armor had taken one of Engler’s shots. Yelling, one of them tried stopping Reed but he broke free and entered the blazing house.
The heat began baking Reed’s skin, the lack of oxygen was suffocating, he dropped to his hands and knees, squinting in the smoke and debris. He scanned the small house, searching tiny smoke-filled rooms, finding no one, seeing nothing.
“Ann! Ann!”
Reed came to Engler, lying on the floor, blood flowing from his wounds. Reed grabbed him. “Where is she?”
Engler stared into Reed’s face and started to grin.
“I’m not going back to prison. I was out and you put me back. I’m not going to die an old man in a cage.”
“Where’s Ann?”
“You’ll know my pain, Reed. You’ll never find her.”
“Tell me!”
Engler’s eyes fluttered.
“John! Tell me! God, help me!”
Hands gripped Reed’s shoulders, dragging him just as the roof gave way in an explosion of fire that collapsed on Engler.
“You’ll never find her!”
SWAT members and firefighters pulled Reed clear of the inferno. No one could save Engler. Reed’s rescuers carried him over fifty yards from the house. Gasping, he looked into the sweaty faces of police, firefighters, and paramedics gathered around him.
“Did you find her?”
No one answered as he searched their eyes for a flicker of hope.
“Anyone? Did you find her? Did you find anything?”
Each of them shook their head as the blaze crackled and helicopters circled.
Reed choked on his anguish as flames lit the night sky.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
Sparks and ash whirled to the stars as the old farmhouse burned.
Firefighters were kept back because it was not known how many live rounds or unexploded grenades were among the ruins. Cartridges popped amid the red-hot debris.
Reed stood there all night watching the black-gray smoke rise from the coals, carrying the stench of soot and charred flesh over the pine woods. Radios clattered with cross talk as emergency lights strobed.
Stinton, the SWAT commander, approached Reed. Two county fire officials joined him, faces sweaty and sooty under their ball caps.
“I’m sorry, Tom,” Stinton said. “We got to let it burn out. It’s too dangerous to get close. If there was any other damn way...”
Reed’s eyes never left the ruins.
He felt nothing. Not the heat. Not the night. Not the earth under his feet. Sounds faded, his mind swam, taking him far into a dark, calm surreal sea. Was he dreaming? Was this shock? Again and again in the blackness, he met Engler’s eyes, his words stabbing his heart.
“You’ll know my pain, Reed. You’ll never find her.”
His memory took him back to that night in the newsroom, the warning from his friend the religion editor, “Don’t get too close...”
All through the night, Reed kept vigil over the smoldering ruins like a mourner at a funeral pyre. They offered him coffee. He refused. They offered him water. He refused. They offered him a sandwich. Reed shook his head.
He wanted Ann.
Over the years she’d grown fearful of his obsession with crime stories, his addiction to get closer and closer. She’d agonized over the toll it was exacting, his drinking, fracturing their lives. How she’d begged him to quit. How, after the last close call with Zach, he’d finally agreed, and how he’d intended to retire the day she was taken. Intended. Hell is full of good intentions. Oh, Jesus. Ann, I’m so sorry.
A breeze sent smoke into his eyes. All he could see were images of Ann, on the campus, their first date, in her wedding dress, opening her first store, holding Zach in her arms minutes after he was born. He thought of Ann’s mother, Doris. God was a goddamned deal breaker.
And Zach.
“She can’t be dead because she’s my mom.”<
br />
Reed’s body shook as dawn broke. The fire was out. He heard people murmuring and turned to see several dozen news reporters with notepads, microphones, and cameras crowded against yellow plastic scene tape, some forty yards away. Police had bowed to their protests to get closer.
Sydowski, McDaniel, and Doyle took him aside.
“We can put you in a vehicle out of sight if you want, Tom.”
He shook his head, watching firefighters douse the ruins to cool them.
“As soon as it’s safe, they’ll send the ca—” Sydowski stopped himself and said, “They’ll send the dog in.”
Reed knew he’d meant to say cadaver dog, the dog that can detect the scent emitted by human remains.
“The arson guys and SWAT guys saw women’s clothing in the ruins, Tom. I know this is goddamned awful, but you’ve got to—” Sydowski swallowed, put his hand on Reed’s shoulder. “You’ve got to brace yourself.”
Reed looked up at the sky.
“How do I tell my son, Walt? How do I explain this?”
Sydowski was a veteran of four hundred homicides and a widower. “There are no answers, Tom. You have to love him and tell him the truth, hang on to those around you and live each day as best you can.”
Reed’s knees gave out and he slipped to the ground.
The news cameras clicked and whirred recording the moment pulling close on his anguish. The twenty-four-hour networks carried it live.
Sydowski bent down to comfort Reed, putting his arm around his shoulder, staying with him as they watched the cadaver dog poke its snout amid the aftermath. Networks split the screen, juxtaposing the dog with Reed’s reaction.
A DPS helicopter thundered as it circled, while higher up, news choppers took shots from the sky. The dog located Engler’s remains, a blackened boot stuck up from a tangle of a rippled window frame. The cameras pulled in. Then police radios crackled. A sheriff’s deputy jogged to Reed and Sydowski, keys jangling on his utility belt.