P Deutermann - The Cat Dancers

“The feds might not be disappointed in that outcome,” Cam said.

The sheriff shook his head. “No, I can’t believe that. They’ll want to control this, but not cover it up.”

“These guys have made contact. We need to move, not wait for any more meetings. Mary Ellen is in deep shit. I can’t sit still for that.”

“Wrong pronoun, Lieutenant, but I don’t disagree. The professional thing for me to do right now is sideline you and get someone else to run this-precisely because of who the hostage is.”

Cam nodded, then thought of something. “Okay, suspend me. Tell me to go home and stay there. Then I might just disobey an order or two. If it all goes south, you can say I was suspended but went out of control.”

“Listen to you,” Bobby Lee said with a wry grin. “Look, this is the Manceford County Sheriff’s Office. We’ve got us a problem. We’re gonna take care of it, as always. Go check your messages, gather up your team, then get your ass back down here.”

“We’re not waiting for the feds?”

“What’s that Manceford County Sheriff’s Office motto-the one I’m not supposed to know anything about?”

“Mess with the Best and Die Like the Rest?”

“That’s the one.”

Cam asked the sheriff to forward the E-mail with the embedded video to him, then went upstairs and checked his voice mail. Nothing. To his surprise, he found the entire team waiting up in the MCAT offices. Word had somehow gotten out that something big was shaking, and his guys’ antennas were apparently as sharp as ever. Cam flipped on his computer and then went to sit at the head of the conference table.

“Okay,” he said. “Kenny Cox.” Everyone waited. He took them through the whole story, finishing with a detailed description of what had happened up in the mountains. At the end, he passed around the photographs of Kenny’s final encounter with a mountain lion. Rolling a chair over to his computer, he opened the most recent video and let them all watch it.

“They’ll give her back in return for these?” Tony asked, pointing at the pictures. “I mean, they have to know we’ll keep copies.”

“Only if I deliver them,” Cam said, and everyone understood immediately.

The phone rang. “Building security says a messenger just brought in what looks like a letter bomb for you, Lieutenant,” the duty officer announced brightly.

“Say again?”

“Well, it’s a FedEx letterpack-size package, all wrapped in brown mailing tape. Address is hand-lettered; return address has the name I. M. Jones, and we recognized the street address-it’s the Triboro city jail.”

“All right, do the drill,” Cam told him.

An hour later, after the obligatory, if officially confined, commotion, the chief of the explosives-disposal unit appeared in Cam’s office and handed him a clear plastic evidence pouch containing a plain white envelope. “Your bomb, sir,” he said with a grin.

“Better safe than sorry,” Cam replied, taking the pouch.

“You bet,” the lieutenant said, and left.

A picture and a hand-printed note were inside the envelope. The picture was of Mary Ellen Goode, without the hood this time, sitting in the electric chair. Her hands, arms, and legs were immobilized. There was a cell phone sitting in her lap, from which a white wire trailed beyond the frame. The note said “Your place. Tonight. Late. Face for a face. We see backup, the cell phone starts the fun.”

“If we moved right now,” Tony said, “we could get guys in position before it gets too late.”

“This is a cell, Tony,” Cam said. “More than one guy. They have to be watching. That’s why they made this thing look like a letter bomb. As soon as they saw the bomb-squad robot carry the letter out of the building, they’d knew I’d get their message.”

“You can’t go out there alone, boss,” said Horace.

“How about a Trojan horse?” Pardee said. “You go home alone in a big ole Suburban. ’Cept there’re three guys hidden under some stuff in the back of the truck. Pull it into the garage, shut the garage door, get out, and go inside. Three SWAT shooters already in the house-better odds.”

“Or,” said Billy Mays, “we leak some shit to the media wipes, get ’em out front, bring you out in cuffs for a highly visible perp walk, then haul you off in a cruiser. Get it on the TV for the eleven o’clock follies. Then send out a three-pack and pretend to toss your house. Except we send in a dozen guys, bring out nine. Then the next day, we turn you loose, restart the game.”

“Nice try, guys,” Cam said, smiling. “But we’re forgetting something: These are cops, and probably federal agents. Think of what they can do in terms of listening to our comms, knowing when we’re BSing. Hell, for all we know, one of those three SWAT shooters you want in my house could be in the cell.”

“You can’t go out there alone, boss,” Horace said again.

Cam sighed. “This time, I think I have to. I got that woman into this. I need to get her out. I’ve already lost Kenny.”

He searched their faces, watched them sort it out. They understood exactly what he was talking about.

Cam decided to go home to wait for the call. The team, all of whom were SWAT-qualified, went to find out where they were going to assemble.

Mary Ellen Goode had trusted him. She knew nothing that was terribly important, and it was all secondhand at that. And now she was dead meat unless everything worked out perfectly. How likely was that? This is all my damned fault, Cam told himself. He swore as he went out the door, startling some people coming in.

He fed the shepherds when he got home and then checked his voice mail and E-mail. Nothing. He made coffee. The sheriff called. The SWAT team was set up at the law-enforcement center downtown. McLain had called back and said he’d asked for the FBI’s hostage-rescue team but was told that would take twenty-fours to set up. He’d canceled it and said he’d have a tactical team up in Triboro by 11:00 P.M. He’d also offered the services of their latest nightsurveillance aircraft, Owl.

“Okay, I give up. What’s Owl?” Cam asked the sheriff.

“A glider with a small jet engine. It can operate at night, carries a pilot and one agent with some pretty sophisticated night-vision gear. They can get on top of a situation, stay there as long as there’s wind aloft, and they are soundless. Unlike our helos.”

“First they have to call,” Cam said.

“Don’t sit in front of any windows,” Bobby Lee told him.

“I’ve got my mutts,” Cam said, looking at the two shepherds, who were sitting on either side of him, fully aware that something was up.

He went around and turned off all unnecessary lights in his house, then activated the roof spots. The dogs followed him from room to room. He cleaned his Sig. 45 and laid out his tactical gear. He had some more coffee. It was only ten o’clock when the phone rang.

But instead of bad guys, the call was from Jay-Kay.

“I’m on Fifty-two from Charlotte,” she said. “What’s the best way to get to your house?”

“What the fuck, Jay-Kay?” Cam said.

“It’s worse than you think,” she said. “Give me directions, please.”

Forty-five minutes later, she was sitting in his living room. He’d showered and changed into his tactical gear. She was wearing a pantsuit. He offered her coffee, but she declined.

“How did it happen?” he asked her.

“I don’t know. I went out for some take-away right after my secretary left for the day; her son had a soccer game, so she left early. I left Ranger Goode in the apartment, and when I got back, she was gone.”

“And your security systems?”