Debra Webb - No Darker Place

Bobbie snatched her cell from her belt and offered it to him. “Go ahead, Miller. Call the chief. He’s in my favorites list under Uncle Teddy.”

“Enough of that nonsense,” York growled, his fierce gaze focused on Miller.

Since Miller didn’t take her up on her offer, Bobbie snapped her phone back onto her belt. “I’m going in.”

“Think about what you’re doing, Bobbie,” York called after her. Next to him, Miller made good on his threat and put through the call on his own cell.

Bobbie didn’t look back. She headed across the street. If any hope whatsoever existed that Evans would let those children go, she was willing to take the risk. A twinge of pain twisted in her right leg and started to keep time with the throb in her head. She ignored it. She would do some extra stretches tonight before her run.

Assuming she was still alive. As long as she got those kids out of there little else mattered.

If you get yourself killed, who’s going to get him then?

She hushed the nagging voice as she hustled up the sidewalk. At the end of the block, television cameras and the eagle eyes of reporters would be straining to see what Montgomery’s most damaged detective was doing next. Let them gawk. She didn’t care what they wrote about her.

Shouldering the weight of York, Miller and the rest watching, she opened the front door and slipped into the living room. The interior was as quiet as a tomb. One would never know that half a dozen MPD cruisers, a SWAT van and crisis negotiation vehicle, along with a horde of reporters, were on the street. Not to mention two ambulances prepared to provide medical care if the shit hit the fan.

As she crossed the living room and entered the hall, she called out to the man responsible for all the excitement this sweltering summer morning. “Mr. Evans, it’s Detective Gentry.”

She paused at the door to the first bedroom on the left. Oddly, the man had chosen a bedroom at the front of the house, giving SWAT a reasonably clean view between the slats of the partially open blinds. Had he planned on committing suicide by cop and chickened out at the last minute?

Never take a gun in your hand unless you’ve got the guts to use it. The words of wisdom her father had shared so often after she announced her intent to follow in his career-cop footsteps echoed inside her. If they were all lucky, Evans lacked the courage to use the weapon he’d waved around at his wife. Shielding himself with the children was certainly the act of a coward.

“I’m here to talk, like you asked,” she reminded him when Evans failed to respond. She wiped her sweating palms against her trousers and braced for his move.

The doorknob turned, and Bobbie held very still, her breath stalling just shy of her lungs. The steel of the backup piece strapped to her ankle suddenly felt hot as blazes and far too heavy.

A small face peered up at her from the narrow crack made by the barely open door. Bobbie’s heart fractured as memories of another child she couldn’t bear to think about attempted to intrude. Seeing this little boy’s face sent a jolt of urgency through her. What was this guy doing? How could he risk the lives of his own children?

Like you have room to talk.

“Come in,” Evans called, “and I’ll send the children out.”

The little boy drew the door open wider, and she stepped into the bedroom. She confirmed the four children—three girls and one boy, all still dressed in their pajamas, trembling and red-faced from crying—appeared to be uninjured. Her tension eased marginally. The walls of the room were a soft pink. The twin beds were unmade, cartoon character bedcovers hanging this way and that. Dolls and a plastic tea set littered the floor. In the center of the room, between the two beds, the children stood in that ominous circle around their father. She easily spotted the daughter with the health issue; she was thinner and paler than the others. After numerous rounds of cancer treatments, she’d lost her hair, but it was growing back now and was almost as long as her little brother’s. Poor kid. Evans should be ashamed of himself for putting her through this kind of bullshit.

Booting aside her anger for the moment, Bobbie lifted the sides of her jacket from her torso. “I’m unarmed just like you requested, Mr. Evans.”

The small boy, three or four years old maybe, who’d opened the door stood next to the huddle, staring at Bobbie. She purposely kept her attention away from him. Those memories of another little boy, not much younger, kept whispering through her mind.

Can’t look. Can’t look.

When Evans said nothing, she gently prompted, “It’s time to make good on your promise and let the children go, Mr. Evans.” It would go a long way in turning this crappy day around if the guy stuck by his word. She might even be able to breathe again, and maybe the world would stop expecting her to fail every time the pressure was on.

Ten endless seconds passed before he spoke. “First, close the blinds,” he ordered.

Bobbie walked to the window and did as he asked. Miller would go ballistic and the no-more-negotiations clock would start ticking louder. She hoped like hell Evans understood he was on borrowed time.

“What now?” Careful to keep her hands up, Bobbie readied to tackle Evans. So far she hadn’t spotted his weapon.

“Go outside and wait with your mother,” he said to the children.

The older girl reached for the small boy’s hand and herded the others out the door. When the sound of the front door slamming behind them echoed through the house, Bobbie felt as if an elephant had been lifted off her chest. Sensing the shift in her tension, Evans lifted the .38 clutched in his right hand and aimed it at her.

Take it slow. Get him talking. “How can I help you, Mr. Evans? We all want to see a favorable resolution to this situation. Your wife and children need you.”

Carl Evans was a tall, thin man. He sat cross-legged on the floor in his T-shirt and boxers. His face was pasty from the long hours at the office; his shoulders sagged from slumping over a desk. As if he felt the weight of her assessment, he sank back against the bed behind him. What had taken this forty-three-year-old number cruncher down this ugly path?

He shook his head. “It’s too late for happily-ever-afters, Detective.”

“It’s never too late, Mr.—”

“Just listen,” he cut her off. “I don’t have much time. What I did was...wrong.”

No shit. “Tell me what happened, and maybe I can help.”

“You need to listen!” He jerked at the loud sound of his own voice reverberating in the small room.

Bobbie’s tension cranked up a few more notches. “Okay. Okay. I’m listening.”

“It was necessary.” He shook his head, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I didn’t stop to consider how it would end.”

The muzzle of the weapon angled downward as he spoke, his attention shifting inward. All she had to do was keep him talking, and when his aim strayed far enough, she would make a move. Less than four feet separated them. Keep talking, pal.

“I did what I had to do,” he said, his voice resolute even as his hands shook. “I would do it again. Anything to save my little girl.” He fell silent for another moment. “I didn’t think you would be hurt—not really, I mean. I had no idea...”

Bobbie’s attention swung from the muzzle to the man’s face. “Me?”

His lips quivered. “I was desperate. The treatments for my daughter had taken everything. My credit options were maxed out. The house is already triple mortgaged. I couldn’t pay for the new treatments, and my family was going to be homeless.” His head moved from side to side with a weariness and resignation that were palpable. “The insurance company claimed the new treatments—the ones that might save her life—are experimental, so they won’t pay. I would have done anything.” He searched her face as if looking for understanding, his eyes glimmering with emotion. “I had no choice.”