Kay David: The Negotiator

Looking at Howard once more, Jennifer spoke above the pounding of her heart. She made her words sound certain and composed, even though she was panicking inside. “Betty, please stay quiet. You’re not helping matters. Howard is not going to shoot you. Not you, not anyone. Isn’t that right, Howard? In fact, he’s going to turn you loose right now.”

He tightened his grip on Betty’s scalp, but then unexpectedly opened his fist. She cried out and fell down, unprepared for the sudden release. From the floor, she shot Jennifer a look of confusion mixed with gratitude, then she scrambled past her on all fours, heading for the children. Jennifer didn’t turn but she could hear the chairs scraping and the muffled voices as they moved to accommodate her.

Taking advantage of the confusion, Jennifer forced herself to move an inch nearer the man and the gun, a trickle of sweat forming along her shoulders then drawing a line down her back. She was lucky enough to have a phone in her room, but there was no way she could get to it and dial for help. Howard stood between her and the wall where it hung.

She truly was confident that Howard wouldn’t shoot. He just wasn’t that kind of man. When the class hamster had died, he’d cried more than any of the kids. If anything, he was too quiet and unassuming…and every time she looked at him, Jennifer saw her brother. Unlike Howard, Danny had been brilliant, but in their eyes lived the same haunted expression. It was filled with confusion, uncertainty and a complete lack of self-confidence. She’d been trying to help the janitor since the day she’d met him. A penance, she knew.

Even still, a thousand thoughts crowded Jennifer’s head. Could she grab the gun? Should she even try? What would happen if she didn’t? Her forward movement finally registered and Howard yanked the weapon up, tucking the stock under his arm.

“Don’t come no closer, Miss Jennifer. I mean it. I’m serious.”

Her mouth felt full of beach sand, but she held out her hands and spoke in an appeasing way. “Okay, okay, I’ll stay right here. But talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

The air seemed to go out of his body and he slumped against her desk. The black, empty barrel of the rifle remained pointed at Jennifer’s chest. “I’m in trouble,” he said again. “Big, big trouble.”

Another child started to cry. “Let the kids go, Howard,” she whispered. “Let Mrs. Whitmire take them out and then you and I can talk. You can tell me what happened.”

He shook his head morosely. “I can’t let ’em go,” he said. “I can’t. It’s too late.”

“Too late for what?”

He shook his head and said nothing. The bore of the weapon dropped an inch.

“How can I help you if you won’t tell me what’s going on?” she asked. “Let them go. I’ll stay. I promise.”

“Won’t do no good. Not now. Everbody hates me and they all think I’m stupid. It’s too late.” He dipped his head and shook it again, the picture of total dejection. “They hate me. All of ’em.”

The gun slipped a second inch lower. Jennifer licked her lips, swallowed hard then took a quiet step forward. Another foot and she could touch the barrel, grab it, twist it away from him. She held her breath, trapping it inside her chest and holding it captive, afraid to even breathe. Slowly, so slowly the movement was practically imperceptible, she began to raise her right hand. Howard continued to talk.

“It’s all wrong,” he mumbled. “All wrong. I’m not that way. I’m a nice person. I really am.”

Without any warning, he looked up. Jennifer stopped instantly, her hand halfway up her side. He didn’t even seem to notice. “I’m a nice person,” he cried. “I’m nice!”

“I know that,” she said soothingly. “I know you are, Howard.” Her shoulders tightened, a reflexive action. “But nice people don’t point guns. So why don’t you hand it over and we’ll talk?” She took another step and reached out, her fingers brushing the cold, hard metal of the barrel.

She didn’t know what happened first—the ringing phone or Howard’s reaction—but an instant later, the opportunity was lost. Wild-eyed, he grabbed her and pulled her close.

“THEY’RE NOT ANSWERING.” Beck turned to Lena and shook his head, the phone pressed to his ear. They were inside the War Wagon, a modified Winnebago motor home stocked with the equipment and supplies that would be required during any situation. Parked down the block from the school, he could see the side of the building, an older structure with tilt-out windows facing a worn playground. They were less than a mile from some of the most expensive real estate in Florida, but no one would know it from looking at the school. There was a world of difference between its run-down appearance and the elegant high-rises that dotted the sparkling beaches.

“Are you sure the phone’s right there in her classroom? We never had phones inside the rooms when I was in school. Maybe I should drag out the bullhorn.”

Lena stared at him, her gray eyes impatient and stormy as usual. “Wake up, Beck. This is the computer age. A lot of the classrooms have their own phones now. Besides that, the guys are already in place in the hallway and they can hear it ringing. It’s the right phone.”

“Maybe he took ’em somewhere else.”

“They’re there. A teacher saw the suspect grab a member of the school board who happened to be in the hall and drag her inside a classroom. She’s pretty sure she saw a gun, but isn’t positive. The responding officers didn’t even try to go in. They just called us.”

“How many are inside?”

“We don’t know yet. Another teacher was having a meeting with some of the students. Fourth graders. Their teacher’s name is Jennifer Barclay.”

He gripped the phone tightly. He’d faced countless calls like this one since he’d joined the team, but Beck never did it without nervousness sucker punching him in the gut, especially if there were kids involved. He knew too much, he thought all at once. When he was less experienced and more reckless, he hadn’t understood what was on the line.

Now he understood all too well.

He forced himself to focus. “Any background info yet?”

“Sarah’s working on it, but she hasn’t found a lot yet.”

Beck nodded. The only nontactical member of the team, Sarah Greenberg served as the information officer. She labored just as hard and was just as sharp as any of the other cops. Her job was to gather any details they might need to resolve a situation. Next to time, information was key.

“Who’s in there?”

Lena spoke as she brought a pair of high-powered binoculars to her eyes. “Cal and Jason are inside at one end of the hallway, and the rest of the gang’s at the other end. We don’t have much recon yet—can’t see inside. The perp pulled the shade on the window in the door and apparently they’re nowhere near the only window in the classroom. I’ve got the floor plans to the school and the guys have those already. Randy’s across the street.”

“Where?”

She nodded toward the row of the small frame houses opposite the school. “There, the fifth one down with the green shutters, the two-story with the oleanders in front. The owners are gone. Neighbor had a key and she let us in the back door.” She handed Beck the glasses. “He’s in the upstairs corner window.”

Beck stared through the lenses and the head of Randy Tamirisa, the team’s countersniper, leapt into focus. He was lying motionless behind his weapon, the sight trained on the school. Beck couldn’t see his face, but he didn’t need to. Black hair and even blacker eyes, Randy was an enigma to Beck, the exact opposite of most snipers. They’d never gotten along; hotheaded and heavy-handed, Randy didn’t have the discipline Beck felt was necessary to be on the team, but Lena disagreed and she was the boss. Randy’s perfect shooting range score didn’t hurt, either.