Robert Crais - Hostage

The Watchman raised his finger, as if he was offering a lesson.

“I know exactly what I’m talking about. You have a coordinated mixed scene now with your people-the Bristo Police Department-and the Sheriffs. In a couple of hours, a group of my people are going to arrive at York Estates. You will tell everyone involved that they are an FBI tactical team. They’ll look the part, and they know how to act the part. You see where I’m going with this?”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. I can’t control any of this. I can’t control what happens in that house.”

“You better get up to speed fast, then. Your wife and kid are counting on you.”

Talley didn’t know what to say. He worked his fingers under his thighs, trying to think.

“What do you want me to do?”

“You get my people set up, then you stand by and wait to hear from me.”

The Watchman handed Talley the cell phone.

“When this phone rings, you answer. It’ll be me. I’ll tell you what to do.”

Talley stared at the phone.

“When it comes time to go in the house, my people will be the first in. Nothing, and I mean nothing , will be removed from that house except by my people. Do you get that?”

“I can’t control what those kids do. They could be giving up right now. They could start shooting. The Sheriffs might be going inside right now.”

The Watchman slapped him, a hard straight push hitting him square in the forehead with his open palm. Talley’s head rocked back.

“Don’t panic, Talley. You should know . SWAT guys know . Panic kills.” Talley gripped the phone with both hands.

“Okay. All right.”

“You’re going to be thinking, What can I do? Here you are, a policeman, you’re going to think about calling the FBI or bringing the Sheriffs in, about getting me before something happens to your wife and child, but, Chief, think about this: I have people right there in York Estates, right under your nose, reporting everything that happens. If you bring anyone in, if you do anything other than what I am telling you to do, you’ll get your wife and kid back in the mail. Are we clear on that?”

“Yes.”

“When I have what I want, your wife and daughter will be released. We’re cool with that. They don’t know who has them just like you don’t know who we are. Ignorance is bliss.”

“What is it you want? Disks? Like computer disks? Where are they, where in the house?”

“Two disks, bigger than normal disks. They’re called Zip disks, labeled Disk One and Disk Two. We won’t know where they are until we find them, but Smith will know.”

The Watchman opened the door, paused before leaving, his glance flicking to the phone.

“Answer when it rings, Chief.”

The keys were dropped into Talley’s lap. Doors opened, closed, and Talley was alone there in the alley behind the minimall in the middle of nowhere. The Mustang pulled away. The second car roared away, backward. Talley sat behind the wheel, breathing, unable to move, feeling apart from his own body as if this had just happened to someone else.

He clawed for the keys, started his car, and spun the wheel hard, flooring it, fishtailing gravel. He hit his lights and siren, rolling code three, blasting straight back to his condo, never bothered to pull into a spot, just left the car like that in the parking lot, lights popping, and ran inside, almost as if they might be sitting there, all of this some hallucination.

The condo was empty, the silence of it outrageously loud. He called for them anyway, not knowing what else to do.

“Jane! Amanda!”

Their only sign was the keys to Jane’s car, sitting plainly on the dining room table, small and hard, left there as a threat.

Talley put Jane’s keys in his pocket. He went upstairs to the little desk in his bedroom where he stared at the photographs. Jane and Amanda, much younger then, stared back in a picture taken at Disneyland, Jane sitting at one of those outdoor restaurants in Adventureland, her arms wrapped around Amanda, both of them showing more white teeth than a piano. They had eaten tostadas or tacos, one, with some salsa that was so mild that they’d laughed about it, the three native Angelenos, salsa with all the kick of Campbell’s tomato soup, something that only people from Minnesota or Wisconsin would find spicy. Talley choked a sob in his chest. He took the picture from the frame, put it in his pocket with the keys. He went to his closet for the blue nylon gym bag on the top shelf, and brought the bag to his bed. He took out the pistol that he had carried during his SWAT days, a Colt .45 Model 1911 that had been tuned by the SWAT armorer for accuracy and reliability. It was big, ugly, and supremely dangerous. It held only seven bullets, but SWAT used the .45 as their combat pistol because just one of those big heavy bullets could knock a large man off his feet. A .38 or a 9mm couldn’t promise that, but the .45 could. It was a killer.

Talley ejected the empty magazine, filled it with seven bullets, then reseated it. He dug through the gym bag for the black ballistic nylon holster. He took off his uniform, then put on blue jeans and tennis shoes. He fitted the holster onto his belt at his side, then covered it with a black sweatshirt. He clipped his badge to his belt.

The cell phone that the Watchman gave him was sitting on his desk. Talley stared at it. What if it rang? What if the Watchman ordered him into Walter Smith’s house right now and the people inside that house were killed? What if he answered that phone to hear Jane and Amanda screaming as they were murdered?

Talley sat on the edge of the bed thinking that he was a fool. He should go directly to both the Sheriff’s Detective Bureau and the FBI; even the Watchman knew it. That would be the smart way to play this mess, and that was what he would have done except that he believed that the Watchman was telling the truth about having someone at York Estates, and would kill his family. Talley was scared; it’s easy to say what someone should do when they’re not you; when it’s you, it’s a nightmare. He told himself to be careful. The Watchman was right about something else, too: Panic kills. That same message had hung on the wall at the Special Weapons and Tactics School: Panic kills. The instructors had hammered it into them. It didn’t matter how urgent the situation, you had to think; act quickly but efficiently. A mind is a terrible thing to waste, and nothing wastes your mind faster than getting your ass shot off.

Think.

Talley put the Watchman’s phone in his pocket and drove to his office.

The Bristo Camino Police Department was a two-story space in the mall that used to be a toy store. Talley’s officers jokingly called it “the crib.” This time of night, the mall parking lot was empty; only one radio car was out front, along with the personal cars belonging to his officers. Talley left his car at the curb. The second floor contained a single holding cell, a ready room for briefings, a bathroom, and a locker room. The most serious criminals it had held were two sixteen-year-old car thieves who had driven a stolen Porsche up from Santa Monica only to wrap it around a palm tree; mostly, the cell was used to let drunk drivers sleep off their buzz. Office space for Sarah filled most of the ground floor, with the front desk being designated for the duty officer of the watch, though Sarah, herself not a sworn officer, served that post whenever she wasn’t ensconced in the communications bay. Talley’s office sat in the rear, but his own computer wasn’t tied into the National Law Enforcement Telecommunication System; only one computer in the office could access the NLETS, and that was up front by Sarah.

Kenner, sitting at the front desk, raised his eyebrows in surprise when Talley entered.