Kitabı oku: «The Negotiator», sayfa 3

CHAPTER FOUR

JENNIFER HAD ALWAYS heard time slowed in a moment of crisis.

Not true.

One minute she was standing beside the window, Howard’s hand painfully gripping her arm, and the next instant Juan’s sturdy ten-year-old frame was flying through the air to knock her unexpectedly to the ground. In less time than could be counted, the two of them pitched to the linoleum, a shower of breaking glass somehow accompanying their fall. Jennifer could think of only one thing: the child in her arms. She had to protect him.

The impact between the hard floor and her shoulder sent pain streaking up her arm then down her spine, but she barely felt it. She forced it away so she could deal with everything else. Raining glass, screaming children, a strange pop she couldn’t identify at all.

Jennifer lifted her head and stared at Howard. He was standing, exactly where they’d been a second before, but something wasn’t right. A small red circle had appeared at the base of his throat. Above this spot, their gazes collided violently then he began to sway. A second later, his mouth became a silent O of surprised betrayal. The rest of his face simply collapsed—a balloon with the air suddenly released. He fell to the floor beside them, and as he landed with a heavy, dull thud, the back of his head disappeared in an exploding red mist.

Jennifer screamed and covered Juan’s face with both her hands, but the movement was useless. The child had seen it just as she had—the moment of Howard’s death.

She told herself to move, to get up, to do something but the odor of cordite hung in the air, sharp and biting, pinning her down. She wanted to gag, but she couldn’t do that, either. She couldn’t do anything. He’d promised, was all she could think. He’d promised no one would be hurt….

Juan’s urgent voice, crying out in Spanish from somewhere beneath her, finally jarred her. “Señorita Barclay? ¿Qué pasa? ¿Cómo está usted? Are you okay?”

She rolled off the child and he jumped up, his shocked gaze going instantly to Howard. He covered his mouth with his hand and pointed toward the man, still clutching his rifle. “¡M-madre de Dios!”

Jennifer scrambled to her feet. Maybe he wasn’t really dead. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe she could do something…. Before she could think of what, the door to the classroom opened with a loud bang. Adrenaline surged and she grabbed Juan again. Shoving him behind her red-flecked skirt, she faced the door.

Men spilled into the room. They were dressed in black, a barrage of noise and brutal action coming with them as they surged inside. They divided by some prearranged, silent signal; one group fanned across the classroom, obviously searching for more danger. Their guns held out before them, they quickly covered every corner and empty space. A second, smaller group raced toward Jennifer and Juan while a third team rushed to the back where the children were screaming.

“Are you all right? You weren’t hit, were you? The kids okay?”

A black-garbed figure paused at Jennifer’s feet, putting a hand on Howard’s neck. Only when she spoke, quickly but with composure, did Jennifer realize the officer was a woman. “W-we’re fine,” Jennifer answered.

Standing up, the woman nodded then pulled Juan from behind Jennifer and pushed him toward a man waiting behind her. Holding Howard’s rifle, he quickly turned away from the body to lead Juan to the back of the room.

“I-is he?”

Though lean and muscular, the woman in black had soft gray eyes and a sweet face. She looked out of place, especially when she said calmly, “He’s dead.”

A thick fog descended over Jennifer, blanketing all her emotions but two. Disbelief and betrayal. “He’s dead,” she repeated numbly.

The woman nodded again, then barked an order to the men surrounding them. To Jennifer, what she said didn’t even register but it was obviously an all-clear sign. The words passed through the group like a wave, and in its wake, another figure pushed to the front.

In a daze, Jennifer stared as the man approached. Everything was over—the damage had been done—why now, she thought almost trancelike. Why did time stop now?

He was huge, well over six feet, his chest a blur of black as he moved, his legs so long they covered the distance between the door and the window in three strides. Adults always looked bigger in the classroom where everything was reduced in scale, but this man absolutely towered over the child-size desks and bookcases. Reaching Jennifer’s side, he ripped off a black helmet to reveal thick blond hair. It was plastered to his scalp, but the pale strands gleamed, and she realized—illogically at that moment—that the lights were back on. He was intimidating and all at once, she understood the true definition of authority. It was none of this, however, that made her feel the clock had stopped.

His eyes did that.

In the fluorescent glare overhead, his cold blue stare leapt out at her. She might have thought the color unnatural, it was so disturbing, but she knew immediately it wasn’t. No one in their right mind would actually buy contacts that shade. The color was too unnerving, too strange.

His eerie gaze swept over her bloody clothing then came to a stop on her face. She forced herself into stillness and looked directly at him. When he spoke her name, she recognized his voice.

She knew without asking that this was Beck Winters.

SHE WAS COVERED in blood and bits and pieces of something else Beck noted but didn’t need to analyze. For one inane moment, he wanted to pull her into his arms and tell her everything was going to be all right, but he’d be lying if he did. It wouldn’t be all right. Not for a very long time—if ever. Not for her, not for the kids, certainly not for Howard French. For the survivors, a hostage incident didn’t end when the team busted in.

In fact, Jennifer Barclay’s wide brown eyes told him shock had inched its way in, leeching the color from her face and forcing into her eyes the kind of glazed disbelief he’d seen too many times. She’d been stronger than most, but that was over.

It was a mistake of monumental proportions and he knew it, but Beck decided he didn’t care. He reached out for her.

She stepped back so quickly she almost slipped and fell. Grabbing the windowsill behind her, her eyes blazing, she spoke from between gritted teeth. “You bastard!”

Immediately Beck’s mask fell into place. Her words weren’t what he’d expected, but different people reacted in different ways. He’d once rescued a woman who’d slapped him as he’d carried her out under fire. Jennifer Barclay’s anger was a coping technique. She’d been holding her emotions in check for hours and now she was going to erupt.

At him.

Beck took a step away from her and held up his hands, palms out. “Calm down, Miss Barclay, please…. It’s over now. You’re safe—”

She blinked, and he saw some measure of relief in her expression, something that seemed to loosen for a moment, but she put the response behind her so fast, he almost missed it. Her voice was low but scathing as she lashed out at him. “You lied to me! You promised—promised—no one would be hurt.” She flicked her eyes downward to where Howard lay. “He’s dead!

“You don’t understand—”

“You’re damned right I don’t understand!” She pushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. They were red and rimmed with exhaustion, her face contorted with the obvious anguish she was feeling. “He wouldn’t have killed anyone—”

“He raised his gun at that child.”

“He wasn’t going to shoot! He was trying to stop Juan from grabbing the gun—”

“That’s not how it looked to us.”

“But he wouldn’t have shot! He wouldn’t have done that.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I know him, that’s how!” Her gaze filled with angry tears. “My God, I told him to go that window and then you shot him! What happened? I can’t believe this….”

Beck watched the emotions cross her face. She made no attempt to hide them, but it wouldn’t have mattered if she had. He understood better than she did what she was feeling.

I feel guilty because I couldn’t stop this.

I feel guilty because I survived.

I feel guilty because I helped.

Before he could say more, Lena broke in. Introducing herself formally, she put her hand on Jennifer’s arm and spoke gently. “Miss Barclay, why don’t you come with me now? We’ll get you cleaned up, then we need to talk to you. Everyone in the room will have to speak to an officer and give their version of what happened.”

Jennifer turned her back to Beck and answered Lena quickly, her voice filled with dismay. “Of course…but not the kids—”

She wanted to protect them above all, Beck realized. That was the only thing that mattered to her.

“I’m afraid they’ll have to. It’s standard, but it’s necessary, too. Especially after a shooting.”

“My God, I don’t believe this…. My students…”

“I know, I know.” Lena’s attitude was sympathetic and calm. “I’ve already spoken to Mrs. Whitmire. Our information officer called Dr. Church, the school counselor, and she arrived some time ago. She’s with the kids right now, and so is our department psychologist, Dr. Worley. You should talk to the doctors, too. Not just tonight but in the coming days as well.”

Jennifer Barclay’s full lips were drawn in a narrow line across the bottom of her face. Beck could see traces of pale-pink lipstick she’d put on earlier that day. When her life had been normal. “I don’t need to do that.”

“You will.”

Her gaze shot to Beck as he spoke. Her look was controlled and measured. “What makes you think I’ll need help?”

“No one goes through something like this without needing to talk about it later. If you don’t, you’ll pay for it in ways you can’t even imagine.”

“I don’t have to imagine anything, Mr. Winters.” She held out her hands, palms forward, mimicking his earlier action. The smooth skin was sticky with blood and her fingers trembled even as she spoke. “Thanks to you, I’ve gone through the real thing. I think I’ll be able to handle the instant replays on my own.”

IT WAS AFTER midnight when they finished. The questions had been endless, and Jennifer had described the situation so many times, she almost felt as if she were telling a story. A story that had happened to someone else, not her. Dr. Church had counseled every one of children and had tried to talk to Jennifer, too. She’d nodded and told the woman she’d call, but she wouldn’t. There’d been a police psychologist, too. Another “professional.”

Pointless. Simply pointless.

Jennifer would go home, take a hot bath and get into bed. That’s what would help her, not talking with some half-baked psychologist. Maybe she’d call Wanda, too. If the other woman had heard what happened—and who wouldn’t?—she’d be worried sick.

The press had been satisfied with Betty Whitmire’s histrionics and thankfully had left thirty minutes before. Jennifer trudged through the now dark and empty parking lot to her car. She was glad she didn’t have to face the cameras and microphones because she didn’t think she could. Nothing seemed real to her. How could it? One man she’d known was dead and another was wounded. A second wash of shock came over as she recalled Lieutenant McKinney’s words during the debriefing.

“Mr. French said nothing to you about shooting Robert Dalmart? Nothing at all?”

“No. I—I had no idea….”

It must have been an accident. Howard wouldn’t have shot down Robert like some kind of animal. The police lieutenant had told Jennifer that Robert would probably survive, but he’d been injured badly.

The rush of a passing truck caught her attention and Jennifer glanced up in time to catch the white oval of the driver’s face. Where was he going? How could he pass by so casually? Didn’t he know lives had just been ruined?

She knew she was being ridiculous, but she didn’t care. Howard French had been shot before her very eyes. A man who had reminded her of her brother. A man who had trusted her. A man she only wanted to help, but had led to his death instead.

In the back of her mind, a silent voice countered her words. He’d promised no one would be hurt.

She reached her car and pulled out her keys but they wouldn’t go into the lock. Something was wrong. She struggled with them for a moment, then her hand began to shake and she dropped the ring, somewhere underneath the car door. It was the final straw. She laid her head against the roof of the vehicle and began to cry.

“Can I help?”

Jennifer turned at once. The body armor was gone, but its absence didn’t diminish Beck Winters’s size. In fact, he looked even taller and more commanding, looming over her car and staring down at her with his strange, cold eyes. A ripple of anger went through her, but she was too exhausted to even acknowledge it.

“I—I dropped my keys,” she said stupidly.

He knelt down, patted the ground beside her feet, then stood. She held out her hand, but he reached past her and slipped the key in. The sound of the door unlocking was unnaturally loud.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

There was nothing else to say, but neither of them moved. After a moment, he broke the silence. “Look, I know it’s hard to understand what happened back there and I sympathize because this man was your friend, but the team has to save lives—first and foremost. Surely you understand that.”

“I told Lieutenant McKinney what I understood,” she said. “I don’t think you and I need to go over it again.”

“Of course,” he said stiffly. “I just thought…”

The medic had checked Jennifer and pronounced her all right, but she wondered briefly if he hadn’t missed an unseen injury. A painful stab flared in her chest as the cop before her spoke.

“No, you didn’t think,” she snapped back. “That’s the problem with men like you. You put on your uniforms and grab your guns and run out the door to fight. The people left behind are the ones who have to pick up the pieces, but you never consider them!”

As soon as the words were out her mouth, Jennifer regretted them. They weren’t fair and she knew it—they came from a place deep in her past that had nothing to do with the man standing before her—but she was beyond caring. She was completely drained and empty of all logic and reason. She opened her mouth to say so but he stopped her.

“You’re right,” he said. “But you’re wrong, too. The ones left behind do have to pick up the pieces, but I always think about them. Believe me, Miss Barclay, they’re the reason I do what I do. Seeing someone killed in a situation like this is the last thing I want.”

He was telling the truth; she could see it in those strange, clear eyes.

“Then what happened in there tonight?” Her voice cracked. “Why was Howard shot?”

“He raised the gun and we thought he was going to shoot the boy,” he said raggedly. “Having a sniper in place is standard operating procedure and when he perceived imminent danger to the child, he took the shot.”

Something in his voice alerted her. She jerked her head up and stared into the blue ice of his gaze, her stomach churning with the gut feeling that came from hearing the truth mixed with a lie. She wasn’t getting the whole story.

She shook her head slowly and stared at him. “I don’t believe you. I want the truth. Something went wrong, didn’t it? You didn’t want him killed, did you?”

“Let me take you home,” he said gently. “I can call a uniform and catch a ride back up here to get my car. You’re in no shape to drive to Fort Walton.”

“I’m a teacher, Officer Winters. Diversions don’t work with me.”

“I’m not trying to divert you. I’m trying to help you. You’re wrung out, and you need to get home and take care of yourself.”

“So I won’t bother you anymore with my questions?”

“No.” He paused and took a breath. Was he stalling as he searched for a more satisfying explanation or simply exhausted as she was? “So you won’t torture yourself with what-ifs,” he said finally. “You did everything you could back there and we did, too. It was a bad end, yes, but it wasn’t our fault…or yours.”

“He didn’t need to be killed,” she said stubbornly.

He shocked her by his answer. “Maybe, but we’ll never know for sure. Only one thing’s certain. We can’t go back and play it a different way. We have to take what happened and deal with it.”

“Then just tell me the truth. Tell me what really happened—what I did—then let me deal with that.”

From beneath his matted hair, he stared at her, his eyes almost glowing. For a second she caught a fleeting glimpse of something in their cold depths, but she wasn’t sure. She was so tired she was imagining it. She had to be.

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head, his expression closing against itself. “But I can’t tell you more. You’ll have to be satisfied with that.”

THE MESSAGE LIGHT on her answering machine was blinking furiously when Jennifer finally reached her condo. She hit the play button and closed her eyes.

“I heard about the shooting, and I’m real worried. You call me as soon as you get in. I don’t care what time it is, you just call.”

Wanda’s Southern accent filled the small living room. Normally Jennifer would have picked up the phone and called immediately, but she couldn’t make her fingers reach for the receiver. They were as tired as the rest of her, and what little energy she had left, she wanted to use getting clean. She peeled off her clothing, right there in the middle of the den, and walked into the kitchen. Retrieving a paper sack from the pantry, she dropped everything in it and rolled the edges tightly together. Tomorrow she’d burn them.

Naked and shivering in the air-conditioning, she opened the refrigerator. The strongest drink she could find was a bottle of Coors left over from a pizza party some time back. She grabbed it, opened the bottle, and downed the beer. She didn’t lower the bottle until it was empty, then she stumbled into her bathroom and opened the shower door. When she stepped out twenty minutes later, her skin was red and raw—whether from the heat of the steaming water or the scrubbing she didn’t know.

Her stomach in knots, she knew the only way she could get to sleep was to eat something first. Somewhere between scrambling the eggs and getting the grape jelly out of the refrigerator, she began to cry. The tears ran down her cheeks, but she just ignored them. They weren’t going to stop and there was nothing she could do about it so she let them come.

God, how had it happened? One minute she’d been standing beside Howard and the next she’d ordered him to go to that window. No wonder he’d grabbed her—she’d scared him half to death. Then Beck had finished him off.

And she’d trusted him!

He’d sounded so sympathetic over the phone, so caring and warm. In reality, he reminded her of a photograph she’d seen in a sixth-grade world history textbook of a Nordic trapper. He had the same cold, blond looks and size, plus a face like a stony mask. All that was missing were the dogs and sled.

The ringing phone startled her out of her thoughts and her heart thudded in answer against her chest. It took a second for her to regain her composure. Would she ever hear a phone sound again and not jump? Wanda’s worried voice could be heard on the answering machine, her drawl even thicker than usual.

“Are you there, girl? What’s going on—”

“I’m here, Wanda.” Clutching her robe, Jennifer grabbed the phone. “I just got in. I—I’m fine.”

“Praise the Lord! I’ve been worried sick. I heard about what happened at the school, and…well, good grief, honey, are you okay?”

That was all it took. Jennifer began to sob again and several minutes filled with Wanda’s “That’s okay, now, darlin”’ and “C’mon, sugar” passed before her tears subsided. When she hiccuped to a stop, she explained what had happened.

“Oh, my God!” Wanda’s concern echoed over the line. She didn’t know him but she’d listened to Jennifer’s Howard stories time and time again. “And they killed him?”

“Y-yes. Right in front of us. It was terrible, Wanda. I—I can’t believe it actually happened. And I helped!”

“But, honey, he might have murdered every one of y’all.”

“Wanda! You’ve heard me talk about him! Do you really think he would have shot us?”

“He shot that poor other man.”

“It must have been an accident! Howard wouldn’t have just walked up and done it in cold blood. He wasn’t like that.”

“But you said he raised the gun when Juan ran over.”

“He did but he was trying to keep it away from Juan. When he saw Howard dragging me to the window, Juan thought I was in danger. He ran over to grab the gun.”

“Are you sure? Absolutely positive?”

In the background, Jennifer could hear canned laughter coming from Wanda’s television. She lived alone and when she was home, it was on.

“How do you know Howard was just keepin’ that gun away from the boy?” Wanda continued, cutting off Jennifer’s potential answer. “He could have been bringin’ it up to shoot. You don’t know! You just don’t know.”

“No.” Jennifer replied immediately. “I’m sure he wasn’t—”

“Why? What makes you so sure? Haven’t you ever been wrong before, Jennifer? I certainly have and I can’t imagine that you haven’t been in all your thirty-six years.”

Despite her Southern ways, Wanda never minced words. Jennifer swallowed, her throat tight. “I have been wrong before, certainly.”

“We never know what’s in another person’s mind, sugar.” The nurse’s voice softened. “We just don’t know. You could be mistaken. Howard French was a strange duck. He coulda been liftin’ that rifle to shoot that poor little boy. You better think long and hard before you set what you think in stone.”

They talked a few more minutes after that, Wanda reassuring Jennifer her mother was fine. “We turned off the TV so she wouldn’t hear all the news. She seemed pretty foggy today, but you never know what’s soakin’ in and what isn’t.”

“Thanks for watching out for her.”

“Oh, honey, you’re welcome. You just don’t worry about her. I know you won’t listen to me, but you take care of yourself…and if you wanna talk some more, you call me, hear?”

Walking to the balcony off her living room a few minutes later, Jennifer stood and looked at the sky. There was no moon and only the twinkling lights from a few houses here and there alleviated the dark. She wasn’t close enough to the beach to hear the ocean, but if she leaned all the way to the left at one end of the narrow patio, she could catch a glimpse of the water. She did so now, but all she saw was blackness.

We never know what’s in another person’s mind.

Wanda was right. You couldn’t tell for sure what someone else was thinking, but some things you just knew. And Jennifer knew—for sure—that Howard French would never have shot Juan Canales in cold blood. She just knew.

Beck Winters had made a terrible mistake.

And she’d helped him.

“GO AHEAD,” her father taunted. “Do it. Do it.”

Holding her breath, her ten-year-old lungs about to burst, Jennifer watched in horror as Danny peered up at the twenty-five-foot pole. Her brother’s fingers tightened on the rope, and his eyes grew even larger.

“You aren’t man enough to do it, are you?” William Barclay’s voice was as sharp as his words, cruel and unforgiving. “You can’t do anything right. You can’t even climb a pole! Hell, kid, your scrawny little sister can make it up that damned stick. Why the hell can’t you? You can’t do anything but mess around with that damn paintbrush of yours!”

Jennifer opened her mouth to cry out, but her warning was trapped, somewhere deep inside her. She managed to make some kind of sound, and her brother glanced in her direction. That’s when his face changed into Howard’s.

Jennifer tried to scream, but still no sound came. She lifted her fingers to her mouth and understood why. Her lips were sewn shut.

Horrified, she jerked her head in her father’s direction, knowing without asking, he’d been the one to make her silent. But her father wasn’t there anymore. Betty Whitmire stood where he’d been.

“It doesn’t take a brain surgeon!” she cried. “Just mop the floors, French. Mop the floors!” Standing at Betty’s side was Dr. Church and another woman. She didn’t immediately recognize her, but Jennifer knew who she was anyway. Dr. Worley, the police psychologist. As Jennifer watched, they turned, very slowly and deliberately, until their backs were to what was happening.

Jennifer whipped her head around to where Howard stood. The rope had changed into a mop, but as she watched, Howard lifted it and fired. The bullet came out in slow motion and finally, when it hit the target, Jennifer was able to scream.

Betty had turned into Danny. “Help me,” he cried, clutching his chest. “Help me, Jennifer! You’re the only one who can….”

Gasping for breath, she called out Danny’s name then she woke up, choking. For one terrifying second a stabbing pain burned in her own chest. Clenching her nightgown with both hands, she rose up on her knees, tangling herself in the covers she’d been fighting, swaying and almost falling. Then suddenly it was over. Her mind took control of her body, and she gasped, cold, sweet air rushing painfully into her lungs.

Covered in sweat, Jennifer collapsed on the bed and began to cry.