Robert Crais - Hostage

“This is fucking great. I’ve got the mafia outside and fucking Freddy Krueger in the house.” Martin watched him calmly.

“This changes things.”

“I know it changes things, Captain! I’m trying to save my wife and daughter, but I have to get those kids out of that house.”

“Because of Krupchek? They’ve been in there all day with him, Talley. Another few hours won’t matter.”

“It matters. All of this matters.”

Talley left Martin at the command van and found Jones briefing his people at their vans. Jones saw Talley approaching, and separated from the others. Talley noted that Jones appeared apprehensive, resting a hand on the MP5 slung from his shoulder.

“What’s up, Chief?”

“We have a problem. One of the three subjects in the house isn’t who we thought. Krupchek. His true name is Alvin Marshall Bonnier. He’s wanted for multiple homicides in Oregon.”

Jones smiled tightly, like Talley was making an unfunny joke.

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“You’re going to be swimmin’ in shit when you hear this: The real FBI are on their way. This isn’t bullshit, Jones or whatever your name is. The Sheriffs pulled a palm print from the minimart these assholes robbed. They got a VICAP hit. You know what that is?”

Jones wasn’t smiling anymore, but he didn’t look concerned, either.

“I know.”

Talley explained that detectives from the Sheriff’s Homicide Bureau were presently at Krupchek’s home awaiting the arrival of FBI agents from the LA field office.

“They’ll visit that house, then they’ll come here, and they won’t leave. By morning, this place is going to be covered with FBI, including a real FBI SWAT team.”

“We’ll be gone by then. We’re breaching the house as soon as I hear back from the man.”

“I want to go in now.”

Jones shook his head.

“Not until I get the call.”

Talley couldn’t tell if Jones was suspicious or simply didn’t understand.

“Listen to me. It’s different now. This isn’t just three turds holding a family hostage anymore. Those kids are in there with a lunatic.”

“It’ll be fine, Talley.”

“We’re talking about a man wanted for multiple homicide, Jones. He cut off his own mother’s head and keeps it in the freezer.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

“He’s psychotic. Psychotics decompensate in stressful situations, and this guy has been in a pressure cooker all day. If that happens, he might do anything.”

Jones was unmoved.

“We’ll breach when I get the call. It won’t be long.”

“Fuck you.”

“After the call.”

Talley walked away. He saw Martin watching from the command van, but didn’t know what to say to her. He recalled his conversations with Rooney, and decided that Rooney did not know that Krupchek was really Alvin Marshall Bonnier. If Rooney was knowingly associating with a serial killer, it would mean he derived a vicarious pleasure from Bonnier’s company. Rooney’s need to be seen as special would have forced him to drop hints of Bonnier’s identity in hopes of impressing Talley, but Rooney had not done that. Rooney didn’t know, which meant that Rooney might as easily end up Bonnier’s victim as the rest of them.

Talley glanced back at Jones. He and his men were waiting together at the rear of their van. Waiting for the call.

Talley decided that he couldn’t wait any longer. He had to warn Rooney and Thomas, and he had to get those kids out of there.

Then he heard screaming from the house.

DENNIS

Dennis reached for the Stoli bottle and fell off the couch, landing on his face and knees in a pool of vodka. His ass was in the air, pointing toward the front of the house, toward the cops who filled the cul-de-sac.

Dennis patted his ass, and giggled.

“Too bad you cops can’t see this! You can kiss my skinny white ass right here.”

Dennis collected the bottle and pushed to his feet. He caught himself on the sofa arm to keep from tipping over, then took his pistol from his waist. Holding it made him feel better. The television showed a woman on her knees, pushing a rolling platform back and forth on the floor. Her abdominal muscles were so beautifully defined that she looked like an anatomy chart. Dennis watched her with a sense of profound loss, then raised the pistol to his own head.

“Bang.”

He lowered the gun.

“Shit.”

Dennis dropped his gun onto the couch, then considered the money. Stacks of hundred-dollar bills lined the coffee table. He fished the remaining packs of cash from his pockets and fanned the bills like a deck of cards. He had tried every way he could think of to keep the money, but failed. He had tried to get a car and a helicopter, and he had tried to buy Talley, and all of that had failed. He had tried to find a route out of the house, but the cops had him locked down. Dennis Rooney had run out of ideas, and now he was thinking that maybe his parents and teachers had been right all along: He was stupid. He was a small-time loser, who would always be a loser, living on dreams. A panicked urge to run with a bag of cash, sprinting through the shadows in a final lame attempt to get away swept over him, but he believed in his heart that the cops would kill him and he did not want to die. He didn’t have the balls for it. As much as he wanted this money, Dennis Rooney admitted to himself that he was a chickenshit. His eyes filled with tears of regret and shame. Kevin was right. It was time to quit.

Dennis wiped the snot from his nose, and pulled himself together.

“I guess that’s it, then.”

He tossed the money into the air, watched the fluttering green bills fall around him, then called Kevin.

“Kev!”

Kevin didn’t answer.

“Mars!”

Nothing.

“Shit!”

Dennis lurched to the hall and made his way to the kitchen. It was still wrapped in shadows, lit only by the glare from the police lights shining in through the French doors. He wanted a glass of water, and then he would call Talley. He thought he might be able to trade one of the kids for a conversation with an attorney, then see what kind of deal he could cut for himself before surrendering.

“Kevin, goddamnit, where are you?!”

Here the sonofabitch had begged to surrender, and now that Dennis was ready, the wimpy puss wasn’t around.

“Mars!”

The voice from the other side of the kitchen startled him.

“What are you doing, Dennis?”

Dennis wheeled around like a tall ship under sail, squinting into the shadows.

“Where’s Kevin?”

“He’s not here.”

“Where is he? I need to see him.”

Dennis wanted to get things straight with Kevin before telling Mars. Part of him was afraid that Mars might try to stop him.

Mars took shape in the light. Dennis thought he must have been in the pantry, or maybe the garage.

“Kevin left.”

Dennis grew irritated, not understanding.

“That doesn’t help me, Mars. Is he in the security room, the office, what? I’ve got to talk to him.”

“He didn’t want to stay here anymore. He left.”

Dennis stared at Mars, understanding, but not believing it, telling himself that Kevin could not have deserted him.

“Waitaminute. Are you telling me that he left , as in went out the door and surrendered to the cops?”

“I overheard him talking to the girl.”

“SHIT! That FUCK!”

“I’m sorry, Dennis. I came down to find you.”

Dennis felt sick. If Kevin had surrendered and taken the kids with him, he had taken Dennis’s last chance to cut a deal with Talley.

“Did he take those kids with him?”

“I don’t know.”