Чак Хоган - The Standoff

“Yes,” Brian said.

“That is your sole responsibility from here on in. Clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Brian said, nodding.

Agent Banish went out then, Brian didn’t question it. He didn’t even tell Agent Coyle. He just started dialing.

Fagin paced past Banish’s chair. Banish was sitting there with his head in his hands. The Indian sheriff was standing off to the side with his arms loosely crossed, leaning back against the wall.

This deathwatch was driving Fagin crazy. “What time is it now?” he said.

Perkins said behind him, “Four.”

Fagin said, “Mother fucker.”

“Watson.”

Banish was quick to react, switching on the mike. “Mr. Ables, are you coming down now?”

“I’m tired, Watson,” Ables said. He sounded weak. “I never been this tired.”

“Why don’t you come out, then. Come down and face your legal problems, Mr. Ables. Then you and your family can put this all behind you and get on with your lives.”

“Watson,” Ables said. He sighed then, or stifled a chuckle. “You have a forked tongue, Watson. I am charged with the murder of a federal official. I wouldn’t ever live to see the outside of one of your federal prisons.”

Even the sheriff stood off the back wall then. There couldn’t be any bigger flashing red light than that. Banish was sputtering. “Mr. Ables — I know it looks bleak in there — but out here there are no foregone conclusions. I guarantee that you will receive a fair trial—”

“In a federal court of law. The government establishment is looking forward to that. A legalized lynching. Or will your men save the taxpayers’ money, Watson?”

“Mr. Ables, listen to me.” Banish was leaning into the microphone. “You do not sound well.”

“Thorny-tongued... bastard,” Ables said. He was in-and-out like that, talking tired, taking deep breaths. “Who will you surrender to, Watson? Who will execute your sentence?”

“Mr. Ables,” Banish said. “Mr. Ables. Will you come down now?” He said it again, harder. “Will you come down?”

They waited, but that was it. Ables hung up and went away and Banish sat back in his chair. Fagin stepped up to him then, knowing what needed to be done. “He’s getting desperate,” Fagin told him. “We should go in there right now.”

“No,” Banish said without turning. He told the sound man, “Try and get him back.”

Fagin said, “Listen to me. He’s going fucking loopy up there, and growing more dangerous every second. We’re not so refreshed ourselves, but we’ve got speed, surprise, superior tactics—”

Banish turned on him then. “The kids, goddammit,” he said, getting to his feet. “What the hell do you think this” — he waved awkwardly — “this whole goddamn thing is all about? What do you think we came here for in the first place? We’re here to save lives, for Christ’s sake. Not take them. The kids, Fagin.”

Fagin looked up at the ceiling and nodded. He knew full well what the hell their job there was. What he was doing now was cutting down the odds.

The Indian sheriff spoke up behind him. “What if he’s baiting us?” he said. “What if he’s playing possum? We’re out here doing a number on him, how do we know he’s not in there doing the same on us?”

Banish shook his head at it all. “We wait,” he said. “Wait. Wait. Wait.”

He also seemed to be convincing himself. This was crunch time and it was all they could do to keep from climbing the walls. Banish went off and moved toward the other side of the crowded van, bumping elbows with Perkins and pulling back in anger.

There was a crackling in Fagin’s ear. He put his finger to the wire, then tapped on his radio. “He’ll be right there,” he said.

Banish glanced across at him. Fagin grinned wide. “You’re gonna love this,” he said.

Banish turned and studied the black-and-white monitors. Then he and the sheriff left. The rest of them stood there trying not to look at each other. Fagin smiled and shook his head, pacing slowly back and forth.

Blood got out of the government Jeep after Banish, halfway between the bottom of the road and the iron bridge. They faced a sea of protesters jammed in shoulder-to-shoulder, filling out the wide area beyond the bridge and extending out in both directions of the access road as far as the trees allowed Blood to see — all standing quiet and still. No speeches, no milling about. Standing silently in the dimness of the setting sun and watching the mountain, and waiting.

The only figures breaking rank were a dozen or more skinheads squatting shirtless on the jagged rocks to the right of the bridge. Large black swastika tattoos showed on their white skin, as did the yellow laces crisscrossing up their black boots. They were shaving their heads in the muddy creek. They crouched there in defiance, running disposable razors in clean strokes across the tops of their skulls and ladling out water and washing it over their smoothed heads.

A bridge marshal came up and gave his name as Orton. He reported to Banish that there had been a bomb scare earlier and the marshals had gone through and shaken down the crowd, and since then, this.

Banish instructed Orton and the roughly forty other marshals around the bridge to ready their riot equipment. He then reiterated his order that no civilians be fired upon under any circumstances.

Blood sensed heads turning. The gathered faithful were recognizing Banish, and the scandal of their discovery rippled, like a whisper, throughout the vast crowd.

Banish stood facing them. “We won’t win here,” he said quietly.

Blood turned and looked at him. “What?”

“We won’t win here,” Banish said, looking out over the mob. “It will not end well.”

“What do you mean?”

Banish did not answer. A few voices rose out of the horde then, hecklers, their voices growing louder. Banish listened as they taunted and cursed him. He remained there a while longer, seemingly accepting their vilification. Then he turned and climbed into the Jeep and they headed one last time back up the mountain.

Banish was floating in the black realm behind his closed eyes. He was waiting. His fevered brain had finally cooled. Peaceful there in the darkness, his eyes relaxed and still, soaked black.

He opened them. He was seated on the step of the side door of the van, head down, forehead held lightly in his hands, shoes planted flat on the weedy ground. He looked up. Kearney was standing in the twilight before him. Banish started to get to his feet.

“No answer,” Kearney said quickly, stopping him. “Still no answer. I just wanted to let you know I was still trying. I’ve been dialing nonstop.”

Banish sat back down on the metal step.

Kearney said, “They must be out somewhere.”

Banish nodded, tired. Kearney was looking at him.

“I’ll be getting right back to it,” Kearney said. “I just thought I should reassure you...” His words trailed off. “I’ll get back,” he said.

“I just need to speak to them,” said Banish.

Kearney nodded quickly. “I understand that.”

“I’m better now,” Banish said. “I need to get through to them to tell them that.”

Kearney nodded. “I understand families, sir.”

They looked at each other, then Kearney’s eyes fell to the dirt and he turned to start away.

“I—” Banish said, rather than “Hold on,” not imploringly but with the same effect. Kearney stopped and turned uncertainly, then came back a few steps. Banish shook his head. “Listen,” he said. “I don’t have many friends left. But I still know a few names at the Bureau. Some people there I could call.”