M Sellars - The Law Of Three

“Yes, let’s.”

The conversation had moved through a series of levels since it had begun. In my mind, I seemed to have accomplished the task given me by Agent McCoy, but he had yet to assume control of the phone. I decided I would just keep going until someone took the device away from me.

I wasn’t really interested in chitchatting with Porter, to be honest. There were several things I wanted to say, but they didn’t fall under the heading of pleasant conversation. I mentally scrolled through the list but realized quickly that the majority of them might very well undo what I had just accomplished.

I wasn’t sure what my next comment should be. I didn’t quite know how fragile the calm was that I had reached with Porter. I suppose what finally came out of my mouth was as much a surprise to me as it was to anyone else. What’s more, the calm with which I made the comment was actually startling.

“Come on out and get me, Eldon, I’m waiting right here.”

“With a small army,” he spat.

“Hey, you invited them when you kidnapped Millicent,” I chided. “Don’t lay that one at my feet.”

“I’m not coming out,” he replied.

“Okay, then what do you suggest we do about this?”

There was a heavy pause before his voice issued from the earpiece. “You come in here.”

“You see, now, Eldon, I’d love to do that,” I offered. “Really I would, but I don’t think the gang down here is going to allow it.”

“It’s heresy for them to protect you that way.”

“Protect me?” I responded with feigned surprise. “They aren’t protecting me. They’re protecting you. You see, Eldon, everyone down here knows that I have every intention of killing you.”

His next words came as an even hiss. “You come in, and I send the Witch out.”

As I’d been expecting, someone took the phone away. Not physically from my hand, but in a sense, the method was just as unceremonious. This time there was no warning click as there had been when I was back at the apartment. No rush of static. No beep. No nothing. The handset simply retreated into the all too familiar thickness of electronic death as the line was instantly severed by the HNT.

“Eldon, Mister Gant isn’t here to negotiate with you,” I heard Agent McCoy begin. “Now, I gave you something you wanted. It’s time for you to give something in return…”

I turned back to face the team and held the now-useless phone out in front of me. Agent Kavanaugh appeared by my side and took the device from my hand then settled it carefully into the large gadget box. When she had said I was her responsibility, she had apparently been serious.

“Don’t trust me?” I quipped, keeping my voice low.

“It’s not a trust issue, Mister Gant,” she returned.

I answered with a shake of my head, “Could’ve fooled me.”

She took me by the arm and began guiding me away from the group. “You’ve been very helpful, Mister Gant, and you did very well on the line. Especially using the hostage’s first name repeatedly.”

“Yeah, I read about that somewhere,” I replied. “But it won’t work with him. He doesn’t care about her identity.”

“That remains to be seen,” she returned. “As well as you did, however, I would question the wisdom of that last ploy.”

“You mean when I told him I was going to kill him?”

“Yes sir,” she acknowledged.

I glanced over at her as we walked, and I spoke with absolute sincerity, “Who says it was a ploy?”

“I know this is an unpleasant situation for you to be in, but we need to ask you for some more help,” Agent Kavanaugh told me.

We were sitting in the back of a large panel van, the inside of which looked like a compact conference room, communications center, and armory all rolled into one. I was holding a thermos cup that was half-filled with coffee. I had accepted it when it was offered but after a couple of sips, came to the conclusion that I didn’t really want it. Not that it was bad or anything, I was just far too wired to even think about drinking it.

As it was, the only reason I was still holding the container was that I didn’t seem to be able to find a place to put it down. Any space that appeared like it would fit the cup was already supporting something else far more important looking and in the case of the electronics, far more expensive.

“Forgive me for asking then,” I replied, fighting to keep the shortness from my voice, “but if you need my help, shouldn’t I be out there instead of in here?”

The entire day, right up to a very few moments ago, seemed to have been built around an ever-increasing urgency. Now, suddenly that imperative had slammed face first into an invisible wall. That barrier had presented itself in the form of the standard operating procedures for hostage negotiation.

“There’s no rush,” she told me. “This is standard procedure. It takes several hours at least before Stockholm Syndrome starts taking hold.”

“I already told you this wacko doesn’t care about her identity,” I remarked. “You aren’t going to get any Stockholm Syndrome. He doesn’t play by your pat psychological profile.”

“We know what we are doing, Mister Gant.”

“I’m sure you do under most circumstances, but you’re wrong this time.”

“How do you know that?”

“Long story. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

She looked back at me and frowned then absently drummed the end of a ballpoint pen on the notepad she was holding.

“Be that as it may, you’re safer in here,” she finally replied.

“From what, Agent Kavanaugh?” I asked as I motioned in what I thought was the general direction of the warehouse. “He’s hiding out in the building. What’s he going to do to me?”

She pointed toward the opposite corner of the van. “The building is that way.”

“Sorry,” I snapped. “It’s been a really freaking long day.”

“I understand that.” She nodded sympathetically. “But as I told you earlier, we don’t know for sure what Porter has in there with him, and now that the urgency of the moment has passed, we want you to stay out of sight.”

“Unless you expect him to throw loose bricks at me, I doubt you have anything to worry about.”

“Mister Gant,” she said. “Apparently, I am not making myself clear. While we do not know this for a fact, we do have every reason to believe that Porter is armed.”

“You mean with a gun?” I shook my head and asked the question with an overabundance of incredulity in my voice. “No way. That’s not his style.”

“Style or not, Mister Gant,” she contended. “The second victim this morning was shot once in the back of the head. That tells us he has a gun.”

It took a moment for what she had said to register. When it did, I’m sure the look of confusion on my face had to be textbook.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I waved my free hand at her. “Back up for a second. What second victim? What are you talking about?”

“At the scene on Locust where Mister Harper was found, a second body was discovered. The victim was male, approximately mid-sixties and apparently homeless. The current theory is that he entered the warehouse in search of shelter and stumbled upon Porter in the act of… Well, you know.”

“How do you know it was Porter who killed him?”

“Fingerprints on the body,” she returned matter-of-factly. “Porter apparently had Mister Harper’s blood on his hands already.”

The image of Randy’s corpse imprinted itself on my retinas, dancing in the air before me like a three-dimensional movie. I stopped for a moment and fought back a wave of nausea.

I shook my head again when the feeling passed. “No way. This doesn’t add up. Porter doesn’t use a gun, and besides he kills Witches not homeless people.”