by JoAnn Ross
“If you’re talking about my intentions, I don’t know.”
“What a screwup,” Finn muttered. “You take her to bed, have some hot sex—”
“World-class sex,” Nate clarified.
“You have sex,” Finn forged on in that doggedly determined way that had made him such a good serial killer hunter, “blurt out you love her—”
“Maybe. Possibly. Down the road.” He wasn’t about to admit it, but Nate was beginning to agree with them. He had screwed up by letting his mouth run away with his brain.
“Same thing,” Finn echoed Jack’s assertion. “And you bring the subject up when there’s no time to talk about it, because a teenage runaway kid has just arrived home from school. You ever think of coming up with a plan beforehand?”
“If I’d had a damn plan, I wouldn’t have said anything. I’ve always been up-front with women; it seemed like the thing to do at the time.” He wasn’t about to admit the woman had scrambled his brains. “Not all of us live our lives in rigid, controlled, planned-out A to Z fashion. Some of us like to go with the flow.”
“Meaning,” Jack suggested as he popped the tops on two bottles of Voodoo beer and handed one to Nate, “you don’t have any fuckin’ idea what you’re going to do next, you.”
Nate threw back his head and took a long swallow. “Not a clue.”
“It’s going to be okay,” Regan quietly assured Josh as they faced the gunman.
“Oh, dear Lord, he’s going to kill us,” Shannon, who was standing beside them, whispered back.
“No, he’s not.” Regan certainly hoped she could stop that from happening. “I’ve been in this situation before.” Her psychology degree had made her a natural for being called out during similar situations over the years.
“You moved out on me, bitch!” the man shouted at Shannon. His throat, his face, even the tips of his ears, were a brilliant, furious scarlet.
Shannon’s hand lifted unconsciously to her face. “I didn’t have any choice. You hit me.”
“Because you wouldn’t shut the fuck up!”
Regan thought she heard more pain than anger in his harsh voice. Which could be a good thing, so long as he didn’t start feeling so sorry for himself that he became suicidal, and decided to take his wife with him.
“I was only suggesting that maybe we move to town. Just for a little while.” Shannon Chauvet’s voice was little more than a whisper.
“I’d suffocate in the city. I’d rather die right here. Right now.”
Oh, shit.
“It’s not exactly the city, Mike.” Regan suspected he’d heard those coaxing words before. “Breaux Bridge only has about seven thousand people.”
“That’s ten times the number who live here. How the hell am I supposed to trap there?”
It sounded like they’d had this argument many times before. Regan decided it was time to inject herself into the conversation. “What do you trap?”
He looked toward her as if noticing her for the first time, then moved massive shoulders that would not have looked out of place on a pro linebacker. “Nutria. Gators. Crawfish.”
“This must be a good place for that line of work.”
“Not this year. Hell, if the crawfish get any scarcer, I’ll have to start trapping for cockroaches.”
“That’s why I thought you could work for my uncle,” Shannon said.
“I already told you, goddammit,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’d rather shoot myself atop the Huey P. Long Bridge than sell used cars.”
“He happens to make a very good living.”
“Selling junkers on the weekly pay plan, then repossessing them every Monday, ain’t living. It’s dyin’. Jus’ slower than most ways.”
He’d begun cradling the rifle like a security blanket, his fingers absently stroking the barrel. If they slid downward to the trigger, they were in real trouble.
Regan had learned in her negotiation training that all hostage takers had a reason for going off that went beyond just holding some innocent person at gunpoint. It was up to the negotiator to figure out what that reason was.
Mike Chauvet’s, she suspected, was about regaining control.
She vowed to make sure he didn’t.
They’d had a good time. Hadn’t caught any fish, but then again, Nate thought as he drove back to Beau Soleil, the morning hadn’t been about fishing. They were about five miles from the house when his cell phone rang.
He viewed the caller screen and flipped it open. “Hey, Dwayne. What’s up?” The deputy was talking so fast, Nate could only catch about one word out of four. “Slow down. Take a deep breath. And start again, okay?”
There was a deep gulping breath on the other end of the line as Dwayne did as instructed.
“It’s that lady, Ms. Hart.”
Nate felt his blood turn to ice when he learned that Regan was locked inside the library with Shannon, Josh, and a drunk, angry, and armed Mike Chauvet.
Telling himself that there’d be time to be terrified later, once she was safe, Nate punched the gas.
* * *
Regan heard the squeal of brakes outside.
“Don’t move,” Mike warned them. “Or you’re toast.” Still aiming the lethal rifle at them, he went over to the window. “Shit. It’s the state cops.”
Regan had been wondering if anyone knew they were in there; someone must have seen Chauvet coming into the courthouse with a rifle. So much for Blue Bayou being a peaceful little town. She’d been in town less than a week and had already unearthed one murder and landed in a hostage situation.
Since domestic situations could be particularly volatile, Regan wasn’t wild about having a team she didn’t know out there working the standoff—the last thing they needed was a SWAT team arriving on the scene like a bunch of road warriors.
“We haven’t been formally introduced,” she said. “I’m Regan Hart.”
“Yeah. I heard about you. You’re the cop from California who’s going to be the new sheriff.”
“I’m a detective. And that’s a mistaken rumor goin’ around, about me becomin’ sheriff.” Strange, now she was dropping her own g’ s. Nerves, Regan told herself.
“What kinda detective?”
There was no way she was going to give him any ideas he might not have already thought of himself by telling him she worked homicide. “I’ve handled all sorts of cases over the years. Sometimes I’ve helped out guys who have found themselves in your situation.”
“I don’t need any friggin’ help from a woman.”
“Well, now, Mike—that is your name, right? Mike?”
“Yeah. So what?”
“I was just asking. That’s one of my favorite names.”
“Yeah. Sure.” His response dripped with acid sarcasm. “I know what you’re doing. You’re playing me, trying to get on my good side.”
“No fooling you, Mike,” Regan said easily. “That’s pretty much what I’m trying to do, but you know, I really am on your side.”
His response was brief and vulgar.
“The thing is,” she continued on an even tone meant to calm him, “we’ve got ourselves a little situation here. Right now, it’s not too bad. Everyone gets frustrated from time to time, and we all need to let off a little steam. I can understand that. But the one thing we don’t want is for things to get out of hand.”
His laugh held no humor. “Just my luck there’d be a cop in here today. Cop killing’s probably a one-way ticket to death row. Do not pass Go; do not collect your fucking two hundred dollars.” His eyes crawled over her in an asexual way that nevertheless made her flesh crawl. “You carrying?”
“No.” She certainly hadn’t expected to need her pistol when she’d left the inn this morning.
“Lift up your arms, turn around, and put your hands on the wall so I can frisk you and make sure.”
At the moment, Regan had a wide wooden table between them. There was no way she was going to give that up. And while he might p
ut down the rifle to frisk her, she wasn’t prepared to take the chance.
“It’s got to be difficult, frisking someone with one hand. I don’t think I could do it.”
“Good try, but I’m not putting this down. I got another idea. Take off your top.”
“What?”
“Are you deaf, lady? Take off the shirt!”
She opened her mouth to try to shift his thoughts to something else when there was an earsplitting squawk from outside.
“Mike Chauvet,” the voice shouted. “Throw out your weapon and come out with your hands up.”
Terrific. That’s all she needed, some guy on an electronic bullhorn entering the picture. Hostage negotiation was all about personalizing the situation. There was nothing personal about a bullhorn.
“Take it off.” He shifted the gun a few inches. “Or the kid’s gonna be one knee short.”
“Go ahead, sucker,” Josh sneered. “Make my day.”
Damn! That’s all she needed, for Josh to recover his stupid teen attitude.
“You don’t have to do that, Mike.” She’d been taught to speak calmly and empathetically to hostage takers. Unfortunately, the guy standing behind the white cruiser continued to shout out orders.
Some cops, she thought darkly, watched way too much television.
Nate slammed on the brakes when he came around the corner and saw the phalanx of state cops and cars. Tires squealed but didn’t skid on the damp cobblestones. Jack and Finn were out of the SUV before he’d fully stopped; he caught up with them seconds later, frustrated when some giant cop wouldn’t let him pass.
“Hey, Nate.” A trooper ambled up to him as if it was just another rainy afternoon.
He looked familiar, and reading the name tag pinned to his uniform shirt, Nate recognized him: Steve Tandau had played third base for the South Terrebonne Gators the year the Blue Bayou Buccaneers had won the state 4-A finals. He’d been a long ball hitter, and a helluva defensive player who’d gone on to play for LSU, spending two years in the Atlanta farm system before a bad knee from Little League days had caught up with him.
“What the hell’s going on?” Nate demanded.
“We’ve got a domestic situation going on. Remember Mike Chauvet?”
“Sure. He was arrested for domestic abuse the other day.”
“Well, he’s out now.”
“Shannon withdrew the charges?” He’d been so sure he’d gotten through to her. If either Regan or Josh were hurt because he’d been arrogant enough to think he could talk her into doing what her therapist couldn’t, he’d never forgive himself.
“Naw. The way I heard it, he’s out on bail.”
“Shit.” He listened to the cop yelling on the electronic bullhorn. Though he didn’t have any police experience, he didn’t believe that shouting out orders like some marine drill sergeant was a good idea.
“Have you tried just calling him?”
“Yep. Phones aren’t working. It’s my guess he either tore them out of the wall or cut the wire.”
“How about tear gas?”
“That’s too dangerous.” Finn, who knew about such things firsthand, entered the conversation. “Tear gas doesn’t work all that well on drunks, and it’d be my guess the guy’s been drinking.”
“Bobby, down at the Mud Dog, said Mike’s been drinking Dixie and Johnny Walker boilermakers all morning,” Dwayne Johnson said. The deputy’s expression managed to be both serious and excited all at the same time. It was obvious this was a helluva lot more adventure than he’d been expecting when he’d joined the force. Personally, Nate would rather have him dealing with mailbox bashing.
“Besides,” Jack said, “the stronger stuff is pyrotechnic. You don’t want to risk setting the place on fire with Regan and Josh in there.”
If Mike did one thing to harm one hair on either Regan’s or Josh’s head, he’d damn well better kill himself, or Nate would do it for him. “So, what do we do now?”
“He’s not going anywhere,” the former third baseman said. “So, what we do is wait. Try to get him to listen to us. Hope that cop inside can convince him to surrender.”
If anyone could, it’d be Regan. But Nate wasn’t in a waiting mood. “And if he doesn’t?”
“Then we’ll just have to hope he wanders into the kill range.”
Nate followed his gaze to the roof of the building next door and felt his heart stop when he saw the sniper rifle.
“Most often they come out, though,” Tandau assured him.
“How long do you wait?”
“As long as it takes.”
Well, that told him a helluva lot. Nate glanced at Finn.
“It all depends,” Finn said with a reluctant shrug. “I’ve seen guys cave after thirty minutes.”
“We’re already past that. What’s the longest you’ve ever seen?”
There was a significant pause. “Ever hear of Ruby Ridge? Waco?”
“Screw that.” Before either of his brothers or the cops could stop him, Nate started walking toward the courthouse. He paused to touch Jackson Callahan’s horse’s nose, then headed up the steps.
26
Regan believed she was getting to him. Chauvet may not have put the gun down yet, but he was no longer pointing it directly at them.
She was about to suggest again that he allow his wife to leave, when the courthouse door opened. Mike spun around, pinning the newcomer in his sights.
“What the hell are you doing here? And how did you get in? I locked that sumbitch door.”
“I’m the mayor. This is the courthouse, where the mayor’s official office is. I may not show up in it all that often, but I do have a key. As for what I’m doing here—”
Nate held out his arms, revealing he had nothing up his short sleeves. “I come offering a trade. Let the women and kid go, Mike. I’ll stay. We’ll talk.”
“I got nothin’ to say to you.”
“Well, that’s too bad, because I’ve got something to say to you, and you better damn well listen. I like you, Mike.” Okay, so it was a lie. “I want to help you out here, but you’ve got to understand that there are a lot of guys with guns outside, who won’t be real eager to cut you any slack while you’ve got these hostages in here.”
Mike shot a nervous look out the window. Hopefully he couldn’t see the sniper, but there was no way he could have missed all those State Police cars.
“Let ’em go, Mike. If nothing else, it’ll be easier on you, not having to worry about keeping an eye on three people. You’ll only have me to focus on.”
“Why should I listen to anything you have to say?”
“Because Brittany Callais is the presiding family court judge.”
“So?”
“So, she and I went steady back in high school, and I dated her some when I first got back from Tulane. Now, I wouldn’t want to brag, but when we were working on the food committee for tomorrow’s Fat Tuesday festivities, I got the impression she’s still sweet on me.”
Mike’s wide brow furrowed. He reminded Nate of a slow-witted mastodon as he tried to process this piece of information. “You saying you can get her to cut a deal?”
Nate didn’t dare look at Regan. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
There was more slow, rusty grinding of mental gears. “Okay,” Mike said finally. “The cop and the kid can go.” He pressed the barrel of the rifle against Nate’s chest. “But you and Shannon are stayin’ put.”
Nate saw Regan sit down on the table and cross those long legs he’d spent a great deal of time fantasizing about. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Josh, damn the crazy kid, stood next to her and crossed his arms. “Me neither.”
Terrific. Just goddamn terrific.
Nate was trying to come up with an alternative game plan when the door behind him opened.
“Shit,” Mike groaned when Jack and Finn came in, deflating like a balloon with a slow leak. “One Callahan is bad enough. No way I need three in my life.” H
e held the rifle out, the wooden stock toward Regan. “I effin’ give up.”
“I still can’t believe you did that,” Regan complained later that afternoon. They’d all gathered in the kitchen at Beau Soleil, where Jack, who was the cook in the Callahan family, had fixed platters of baked stuffed oysters and smothered chicken over rice.
Dani had broken out the coconut pralines she’d baked for tomorrow’s festivities. Matt, Dani and Jack’s eight-year-old, was upstairs watching The Lord of the Rings for what Dani swore was the hundredth time; and Holly, Ben, and Josh, who seemed to be no worse off for his threatening experience, were engaged in a noisy game of horse on the basketball court Jack had built out back. “You had no business just walking into the courthouse like that.”
“I’m mayor. What happens in Blue Bayou is my business.”
“You could have been killed, you idiot.”
He grinned and leaned over and gave her a quick kiss. “Would you have missed me, chère?”
“It was irresponsible,” she repeated for the umpteenth time.
“It worked,” Nate repeated, as he had every time she’d brought it up. “Besides, I had backup.”
Jack and Finn returned his satisfied grin, as if what had happened earlier was no more serious than the shootouts they used to have when they were kids.
“At least now the mystery of where Josh came from and why he left is solved.” Considering all he’d been through, she was not overly surprised that he appeared to have survived today’s excitement with no ill effects.
“Helluva thing, what his mother’s boyfriend did,” Jack said. “Snatching the kid on his way home from school.”
Between their conversation with Josh, and calls to the Florida State Police and the Department of Children and Families, they’d determined that the teen had been placed in a foster home after his mother had died of an overdose. Her boyfriend, angry at having lost the income she’d made hooking, had decided if he didn’t have the mother, he might as well make some bucks off her kid.
“He must have been terrified all this time,” Dani murmured, shaking her head. “Believing that he could be arrested for having killed that monster.”