Cody McFadyen: The Face of Death

I give him my best sucking-lemons sour-face. "Thanks."

He gets serious. "You gotta wear body armor and have your weapon out and ready to fire." He cocks his head at me, interest sparking in his gray eyes. "You're some kind of super shooter, right?"

"Annie Oakley," I reply.

He looks doubtful.

"She can put out candle flames and shoot holes through quarters, honey-love," Callie says to him. "I've seen her do it."

"Me too," Alan growls.

I'm not trying to brag, and this is not bravado. I have a unique relationship with handguns. I really can shoot out candle flames, and I really have shot holes through quarters thrown into the air. I don't know where this gift came from--no one in my family even liked guns. Dad was gentle and easygoing. Mom had an Irish temper, but she still covered her eyes during the violent parts of movies. When I was seven, a friend of my father's took me and my dad to a shooting range. I was able to hit what I wanted with minimal instruction, even then. I'd been in love with guns ever since.

"Okay, I believe you," Dawes says, raising his unencumbered hand in a gesture of surrender. His face grows serious. His eyes get a little distant. "Targets are one thing. Have you ever shot a person?"

I'm not offended by him asking this. Since I have shot and killed another human being, I understand why he asks, and know that he's right to ask. It is different, and you can't know just how different until you've done it.

"Yes," I respond.

I think the fact that I don't offer any further details convinces him most. He's killed too, and knows it's not something you feel like bragging about. Or talking about. Or thinking about if you can help it.

"Right. So . . . body armor on, gun out, and if it comes down to a choice between you and her, do what you gotta do. Hopefully, you can talk her down."

"Hopefully." I turn to Alan. "Do we have any idea--at all--why she's asked for me?"

He shakes his head. "Nope."

"What about her--any details on who she is?"

"Not much. People here are into the 'good fences make good neighbors' philosophy. The old guy, Jenkins, did say that she was adopted."

"Really?"

"Yeah. About a year ago. He's not close with the family, but he and the dad talked to each other from their driveways every now and then. That's how he knew who the girl was."

"Interesting. She could be the doer."

"It's possible. No one else had anything substantial to offer. The Kingsleys were good neighbors, meaning they were quiet and minded their own business."

I sigh and look toward the house. What had started out as a beautiful day was turning into a bad one fast. I turn to Dawes.

"If I'm acting as negotiator, that means I have command for now. Any problems with that?"

"No, ma'am."

"I don't want anyone getting trigger-happy, Dawes. No matter how long it takes. Don't go behind my back and start rappelling from the roof or anything cute."

Dawes smiles at me. He's not offended. This is standard fare. "I've been to a few of these, Agent Barrett. Contrary to popular belief, my guys aren't itching to shoot someone."

"I've worked with our own SWAT, Lieutenant. I know all about getting pumped up for a call."

"Even so."

I study him. Believe him. Nod.

"In that case--do you have some body armor I can borrow?"

"You don't have your own?"

"I did, but it was recalled. Mine and four hundred others in the same lot--faulty composition resulting in them being overly brittle, or something like that. I'm waiting for a replacement."

"Ouch. Good catch on their part then, I guess."

"Except that I had reason to wear it three times before they figured out that it might not actually stop a bullet."

He shrugs. "Vest won't protect you from a head shot, anyway. It's all a roll of the dice."

With that encouraging observation, Dawes goes off to get my Kevlar.

"He seems calm enough," Alan observes.

"Keep an eye on things anyway."

"They'll have to go through both of us," Callie says. "I'll flash them a little leg, Alan will terrify them, end of problem."

"Just worry about what to do once you're inside," Alan says. "You ever done any negotiation?"

"I've taken the class. But no, I've never dealt with a 'situation.' "

"Key is to listen. No lies unless you're sure you can get away with them. It's about rapport, so lies are a deal breaker. Watch for emotional triggers and give them a nice, wide berth."

"Sure, simple."

"Oh yeah, and don't die."

"Very funny."

Dawes reappears with a vest. "I got this off a female detective." He holds it up, looks at me, frowns. "It's going to be big."

"They all are unless I get them custom."

He grins. "No height requirement, I take it, Agent Barrett?"

I grab the vest from him with a scowl. "That's Special Agent Barrett to you, Dawes."

The grin fades. "Well, be careful in there, Special Agent Barrett."

"If I was going to be careful, I wouldn't go in there at all."

"Even so."

Even so, I think. What a great turn of phrase. Short and sweet, but fraught (another great word) with meaning.

You could die in there.

Even so.

8

I'M STANDING IN FRONT OF THE HOME'S OPEN FRONT DOOR. I'Msweating and scratchy in the ill-fitting body armor I've thrown over my shirt. I have my Glock out and ready. The day is moving toward dusk, shadows are starting to stretch, and my heart is pounding like a drummer on speed.

I glance back at the law-enforcement presence behind me. Barricades have been erected in front of the home, starting at the street. I count four patrol cars and the SWAT van. The uniforms are standing guard at the barricades, ready to speak one phrase, and one phrase only: "Go away." The SWAT team waits inside the perimeter, a deadly group of six, black helmets gleaming. The lights on the patrol cars are all on, and they're trained on the house. On me.

Law enforcement is a dirty job. It's about body fluids, decay, and people at their worst. It's about life and death decisions made with too little information. The most trained cop or agent is still never trained enough to deal with everything. When crisis comes (and it always comes), it's often solved the way we're solving it now: an agent with a two-week class in hostage negotiation, called away from her vacation, wearing a loose-fitting Kevlar vest, doubting her ability to do what she's about to do. In other words, we do our best with what we have.

I shut it all out and peer through the door.

A few drops of sweat pop out on my forehead. Salty pearls. It's a newer home for this area, a two-story with a stucco and wood exterior, topped by a clay-tile roof. Classic Southern California. It looks well cared for, possibly repainted in the last few years. Not huge, the owners weren't rich, but nice enough. A middle-class family home not trying to be anything else.

"Sarah?" I call in. "It's Smoky Barrett, honey. You asked to see me, and I'm here."

No answer.

"I'm going to come in to see you, Sarah. I just want to talk to you. To find out what's going on." I pause. "I know you have a gun, honey. I need you to know that I have one too, and that I'm going to have it out. Don't be scared when you see it. I'm not going to shoot you."

I wait, and again, there's no answer.

I sigh and curse and try to think of a reason to keep from walking into this house. Nothing comes to mind. Some part of me doesn't want anything to come to mind. This is a not-so-secret truth of law enforcement: These moments are terrifying, but they are also when you feel most alive. I feel it now, adrenaline and endorphins, fear and euphoria. Wonderful and awful and addictive.

"I'm coming in now, Sarah. Don't shoot me or yourself, okay?" I'm going for light humor, I come off sounding nervous. Which I am. I squeeze the gun butt, take a deep breath, and walk through the front door.