Linwood Barclay - No Safe House

She’d loved him, too, back when they were seeing each other. God knows, she loved the sex. Between his shifts and hers, and the fact that he was living in Stamford and she in Milford, their times together were irregular and rushed. Sometimes they’d meet at motels in Fairfield or Norwalk, slip between the sheets, have a quick drink afterward, and off they’d go, their separate ways.

But then she found out she wasn’t the only one. Snooped through his cell phone once when he slipped out of the motel to buy them some cold beer. Found e-mails.

What could she say? She was a cop. It was in her nature. He should have known better than to leave his phone there.

And then, holy smokes, the phone rang. Right in her hand. Rona had debated whether to answer. What if it was work related? What if it was something really important?

“Hello?” Rona said.

A woman: “Oh, uh, I think I must have dialed wrong.”

“You looking for Heywood?” Rona asked.

“Um, no, I don’t think so.” She hung up.

The poor bastard didn’t know what hit him when he came back with that beer. Things went south after that, despite his protests that the other girl meant nothing to him. Rona refused to see him anymore. Before long, she’d met Lamont, and the love they had for each other was the real thing, no doubt about it, even if he was never quite the lover Heywood had been. They had the church wedding, the big reception, honeymoon in Vegas, the whole deal.

Then Lamont went to Iraq and came back a shell of a man.

It was months before he even spoke. But he was doing well now. She knew he’d never forget the things he saw, but she believed he was going to be okay.

Wedmore had a long sip of her milk shake. Still icy cold. She had to be careful not to drink it too quickly. She’d get a brain freeze.

She felt herself wanting to cry.

Rona Wedmore was not going to cry sitting on a park bench in the middle of the Milford Green.

But she wanted to. For Heywood. For Lamont.

For herself.

She watched three small children run past with balloons. A woman in her eighties walking her dog. A young couple on another bench having an argument. Too far away to hear the details.

Her cell phone buzzed.

Wedmore sighed inwardly. Took another sip of her milk shake, then rested the takeout cup on one of the park bench planks. She reached into her purse, found the phone, glanced at the screen, and saw that it was work calling. She put the phone to her ear.

“Wedmore.”

“It’s me.”

Spock.

“Yeah,” she said.

“I found the car — pretty sure it’s the same one — on one of the traffic cameras. Got a clear look at the plate.”

“Give it to me. I’ll run it down.”

“Way ahead of ya. Got a name and address here if you’ve got a pencil.”

Wedmore got out her notebook.

Vince called up to me from the study of my house, where an armed Reggie was babysitting him.

“You find it?” he asked. There was something in his voice. Was it... mischief?

“Yes,” I said, my body blocking Wyatt’s view of the guns that had been secreted under the attic insulation. There was a hint of light filtering its way around me from the opening in the ceiling and from my phone, set to the flashlight app, which Wyatt was holding up by the rafters.

“That’s good,” Vince asked.

Reggie called up, “Is there a vase?”

I was running my hands over the contents of the box, all the guns. I was guessing at least a couple dozen.

“I’m not sure yet,” I said. “I’m still feeling around.”

“How hard can it be to tell what you’re feeling?” she shouted.

Vince, of course, had to know what I was going to find up here. I remembered what he’d said to me.

If an opportunity presented itself, take it.

What was it he wanted me to do when I found these? Come out shooting? Kill Wyatt, then Reggie?

No, that made no sense. We had to find out where Jane was, and that wasn’t going to be easy if Reggie and Wyatt were dead. As if shooting a couple of people was even within my capabilities.

As I’d told Vince, I didn’t know a lot about firearms, but I was betting these weapons were Glocks, just like the gun in the glove box of Vince’s truck.

There is no safety.

So if these guns were loaded, all one had to do was point and pull the trigger. Maybe some were loaded, and others not. Kind of like playing the Connecticut lottery.

I glanced back over my shoulder at Wyatt. Phone in one hand, gun in the other.

I said, “I need to pass you some of this stuff — you can pass it through the hole down to them.”

He’d have to take a step closer and bend down to do that. Plus, he was going to have to put away either the phone or the gun, or both.

“Hang on a sec,” he said.

He chose the phone. He slid it into the front pocket of his pants and started to crouch down.

“Christ’s sake,” I said. “I can’t see a damn thing.”

He stood up again. “Okay, fine.” The phone came back out, the flashlight app reactivated. This time, Wyatt tucked his gun into the waistband of his pants. But as he started to kneel, he realized tucking it in front was pretty uncomfortable, so he shifted it around to the side.

He knelt down, fumbling with the phone, trying to shine the light where he thought I wanted it.

I swung around, squatting on my haunches, and touched the barrel of the gun to his temple.

I whispered, “Not. One. Word.”

Wyatt took a breath.

“If you move an inch I’ll pull the trigger,” I said.

And thought, Please don’t move .

“Vince,” I called out softly.

“Yeah, Terry?”

“Could you tell Reggie that our situation has changed up here?”

“What are you talking about?” she said.

“I’m guessin’,” Vince said, “the balance of power has shifted.”

“What are you talking about?” Reggie said again.

“That be fair to say, Terry?” Vince said.

“Yeah, that’s fair. I’ve got one of these Glocks pressed up against Wyatt’s head here.”

Wyatt twitched, like maybe he was thinking of going for his gun, but it would have been an awkward move for him to make, and not something he could do quickly, kneeling as he was.

Reggie said, “What? Wyatt?”

“It’s true,” he said. He’d set my phone, faceup, on the narrow side of a stud, the upward cast of light highlighting the droplets of sweat beading up on his forehead.

“How the hell’d that happen?” she asked. “Jesus! How’d he get your gun?”

“He didn’t! It was already up here.”

Vince said, “Hand your piece over, Reggie, or Wyatt’s brains become part of the insulation.”

“No! No way!” she shouted upward. “You take that gun off Wyatt, or I swear to God I’ll shoot your boss!”

Sweat was trickling down my forehead, too. A drop went into my eye and stung like the dickens. I blinked several times.

I said, “How would you like to handle this, Vince?”

Vince, directing his voice my way, said calmly, “Shoot him.”

“Wait!” Wyatt shouted. I couldn’t have been more grateful.

“No!” Reggie screamed. “I swear, if you do, I’ll shoot him one second later. You — you get your ass down here now, you fucker, and let my husband go, or I’ll kill Vince. You think I won’t? You want to try me?”

Vince said to her, “Go ahead. Shoot me. And then my friend will kill your husband. That’s what you stand to lose. Your husband . But all my friend’ll lose is an asshole boss he’s never liked much anyway. But if you hand over your piece, I can talk my friend into not putting a hole in Wyatt’s head.”