Michael Connelly - The Poet

"Keys to what?"

"The goddamn store."

"Take it easy. I don't work here."

"Then who does?"

He turned the gun on Coombs.

"In my pocket. The keys are in my pocket."

"Go lock that front door. You try to run through and I'll shoot you down like the camera."

"Yes, sir."

Coombs did as he was told and then Gladden ordered both of us to the back of the showroom and told us to sit on the floor against the door to the rear storage room, blocking anybody from charging through. He then turned over both desks so they would act as blinds and maybe even barriers against bullets from outside the front windows. He crouched down behind the desk where Thorson had been.

I could see Thorson's body from my position. Most of his previously white shirt was soaked in blood. There was no movement and his eyes were half closed and fixed. The handle of a knife still protruded from his throat. I shuddered at the sight, realizing that a moment ago the man was alive and that whether I liked him or not, I knew him. Now he was dead.

The thought occurred to me then that Backus must be panicked. With the video out, he might not know Thorson's status. If he believed Thorson was alive and there was a chance he could be saved, I could expect the critical response team to start coming through with stun grenades and everything else at any moment. If they believed Thorson to be dead, I might as well settle in for what could be a long night.

"You don't work here," Gladden said to me. "Who are you? Do I know you?"

I hesitated. Who was I? Did I tell this man the truth?

"You're FBI."

"No. I'm not FBI. I'm a reporter."

"A reporter? You came for my story, is that it?"

"If you want to give it. If you want to talk to the FBI, put that phone over there on the floor back on its hook. They'll call on that line."

He looked over at the phone that had come apart on the floor when he had overturned the desk. Just then it began emitting the sharp tone signaling it was off the hook. He could reach the line without moving out of cover. He dragged the phone over and hung it up. He looked at me.

"I recognize you," he said. "You-"

The phone rang and he picked it up.

"Talk," he commanded.

There was a long silence until he finally responded to whatever had been said.

"Well, well, Agent Backus, good to make your acquaintance again. I have learned a lot about you since we last met in Florida. And Dad, of course. Read his book, I always hoped we would talk again… You and I… No, you see, that would be impossible because I have these two hostages here. You fuck with me, Bob, and I fuck with them in ways you won't believe when you come in here. You remember Attica? Think about that, Agent Backus. Think about how Dad would handle this. I gotta go."

He hung up and looked at me. He pulled the wig off and threw it angrily across the showroom.

"How the hell did you get in here, reporter? The FBI doesn't let-"

"You killed my brother. That's what got me in."

Gladden looked at me a long moment.

"I didn't kill anyone."

"They've got you cold. No matter what you do to us, they've got you, Gladden. And they're not going to let you out of here. They-"

"All right, shut the fuck up! I don't have to listen to that."

Gladden picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"Let me talk to Krasner, it's an emergency… William Gladden… Yeah, that one."

We looked at each other while he waited for the lawyer to pick up. I tried to show a calm exterior but inside my brain was racing. I didn't see any way out of this without somebody else dying. Gladden didn't seem like the type who could be talked into raising his hands and giving up so he could be strapped into the electric chair or the gas chamber in a few years, depending on which state got the first shot at him.

Krasner apparently came on the line and for the next ten minutes Gladden heatedly reviewed the situation for him, getting angry at whatever course of action Krasner suggested he take. Finally, he slammed the phone down.

"Fuck that."

I kept quiet. I figured that every minute that went by was in my favor. The FBI had to be formulating something out there. The sharpshooters, the surgical entry team.

The light was dimming outside. I looked through the front plate-glass window and to the plaza shopping center across the street. My eyes followed the roofline but I saw no figures, not even the telltale barrel of a sniper's rife. Not yet.

I looked away and then quickly back. I realized there was no traffic going by on Pico. They had closed the road. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen soon. I looked over at Coombs, wondering if there was some way of letting him know to brace himself.

Coombs had sweated through his shirt. The knot of his tie, the recipient of all the sweat sliding down his cheeks and neck, was soaked. He looked like someone who had just spent the better part of an hour throwing up. He was sick.

"Gladden, show ' em something. Let Mr. Coombs go. He doesn't have anything to do with this."

"No, I don't think so."

The phone rang, and he picked it up and listened without saying anything. Then he softly placed the receiver down on the hook. The phone rang again in a few moments and he answered and quickly pushed the hold button. He punched the key for picking up the other line and put that on hold as well. Now no one could call in.

"You're fucking up," I said. "Let them talk to you, they'll figure something out."

"Listen, when I want your advice I'll beat it out of you. Now, shut the fuck up!"

"Okay."

"I said shut up!"

I raised my hands in an I-give-up gesture.

"You fucking media assholes never know what you're talking about anyway. You-what's your name, anyway?"

"Jack McEvoy."

"You got ID?"

"In my pocket."

"Throw it over here."

I slowly pulled my wallet out and slid it across the rug to him. He opened it and looked through the press passes.

"I thought you-Denver? What the fuck you doing in L.A.?"

"I told you. My brother."

"Yeah, and I told you. I didn't kill anybody."

"What about him?"

I nodded toward Thorson's still insert body. Gladden looked at the body and then back at me.

"He made the play. I finished it. Rules of the game."

"The guy's dead. It's no fucking game."

Gladden raised the gun and pointed it at my face.

"If I say it's a game, then it's a game."

I said nothing in response.

"Please," Coombs said. "Please…"

"Please what? Just shut the fuck up. You… uh, paperboy, what are you going to write when this is over? Assuming you can still write."

I thought for at least a minute and he let me.

"I'll tell why if you want me to," I said finally. "It's always the most interesting question. Why did you do it? I'd tell that. Is it because of that guy in Florida? Beltran?"

He snorted in derision, more in displeasure that I had mentioned the name, not that I knew it.

"This isn't an interview. And if it is, no fucking comment."

Gladden looked down at the gun in his hands for what seemed like a long time. I think at that point he felt the futility of the situation pressing down on him. He knew he wasn't going anywhere and I got the sense that he'd known his trail would eventually end in a scene like this. It seemed he was at a weak point and I tried again.

"You should pick up that phone and tell them you want to speak to Rachel Walling," I said. "Tell 'em you'll talk to her. She's an agent. You remember her? She came to you at Raiford. She knows all about you, Gladden, and she'd help."

He shook his head no.

"I had to kill your brother," he said softly, without looking at me. "I had to do it."

I waited and that was all he said.

"Why?"