The Negotiator

“My God, I don’t believe this…. My students…”

“I know, I know.” Lena’s attitude was sympathetic and calm. “I’ve already spoken to Mrs. Whitmire. Our information officer called Dr. Church, the school counselor, and she arrived some time ago. She’s with the kids right now, and so is our department psychologist, Dr. Worley. You should talk to the doctors, too. Not just tonight but in the coming days as well.”

Jennifer Barclay’s full lips were drawn in a narrow line across the bottom of her face. Beck could see traces of pale-pink lipstick she’d put on earlier that day. When her life had been normal. “I don’t need to do that.”

“You will.”

Her gaze shot to Beck as he spoke. Her look was controlled and measured. “What makes you think I’ll need help?”

“No one goes through something like this without needing to talk about it later. If you don’t, you’ll pay for it in ways you can’t even imagine.”

“I don’t have to imagine anything, Mr. Winters.” She held out her hands, palms forward, mimicking his earlier action. The smooth skin was sticky with blood and her fingers trembled even as she spoke. “Thanks to you, I’ve gone through the real thing. I think I’ll be able to handle the instant replays on my own.”

IT WAS AFTER midnight when they finished. The questions had been endless, and Jennifer had described the situation so many times, she almost felt as if she were telling a story. A story that had happened to someone else, not her. Dr. Church had counseled every one of children and had tried to talk to Jennifer, too. She’d nodded and told the woman she’d call, but she wouldn’t. There’d been a police psychologist, too. Another “professional.”

Pointless. Simply pointless.

Jennifer would go home, take a hot bath and get into bed. That’s what would help her, not talking with some half-baked psychologist. Maybe she’d call Wanda, too. If the other woman had heard what happened—and who wouldn’t?—she’d be worried sick.

The press had been satisfied with Betty Whitmire’s histrionics and thankfully had left thirty minutes before. Jennifer trudged through the now dark and empty parking lot to her car. She was glad she didn’t have to face the cameras and microphones because she didn’t think she could. Nothing seemed real to her. How could it? One man she’d known was dead and another was wounded. A second wash of shock came over as she recalled Lieutenant McKinney’s words during the debriefing.

“Mr. French said nothing to you about shooting Robert Dalmart? Nothing at all?”

“No. I—I had no idea….”

It must have been an accident. Howard wouldn’t have shot down Robert like some kind of animal. The police lieutenant had told Jennifer that Robert would probably survive, but he’d been injured badly.

The rush of a passing truck caught her attention and Jennifer glanced up in time to catch the white oval of the driver’s face. Where was he going? How could he pass by so casually? Didn’t he know lives had just been ruined?

She knew she was being ridiculous, but she didn’t care. Howard French had been shot before her very eyes. A man who had reminded her of her brother. A man who had trusted her. A man she only wanted to help, but had led to his death instead.

In the back of her mind, a silent voice countered her words. He’d promised no one would be hurt.

She reached her car and pulled out her keys but they wouldn’t go into the lock. Something was wrong. She struggled with them for a moment, then her hand began to shake and she dropped the ring, somewhere underneath the car door. It was the final straw. She laid her head against the roof of the vehicle and began to cry.

“Can I help?”

Jennifer turned at once. The body armor was gone, but its absence didn’t diminish Beck Winters’s size. In fact, he looked even taller and more commanding, looming over her car and staring down at her with his strange, cold eyes. A ripple of anger went through her, but she was too exhausted to even acknowledge it.

“I—I dropped my keys,” she said stupidly.

He knelt down, patted the ground beside her feet, then stood. She held out her hand, but he reached past her and slipped the key in. The sound of the door unlocking was unnaturally loud.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

There was nothing else to say, but neither of them moved. After a moment, he broke the silence. “Look, I know it’s hard to understand what happened back there and I sympathize because this man was your friend, but the team has to save lives—first and foremost. Surely you understand that.”

“I told Lieutenant McKinney what I understood,” she said. “I don’t think you and I need to go over it again.”

“Of course,” he said stiffly. “I just thought…”

The medic had checked Jennifer and pronounced her all right, but she wondered briefly if he hadn’t missed an unseen injury. A painful stab flared in her chest as the cop before her spoke.

“No, you didn’t think,” she snapped back. “That’s the problem with men like you. You put on your uniforms and grab your guns and run out the door to fight. The people left behind are the ones who have to pick up the pieces, but you never consider them!”

As soon as the words were out her mouth, Jennifer regretted them. They weren’t fair and she knew it—they came from a place deep in her past that had nothing to do with the man standing before her—but she was beyond caring. She was completely drained and empty of all logic and reason. She opened her mouth to say so but he stopped her.

“You’re right,” he said. “But you’re wrong, too. The ones left behind do have to pick up the pieces, but I always think about them. Believe me, Miss Barclay, they’re the reason I do what I do. Seeing someone killed in a situation like this is the last thing I want.”

He was telling the truth; she could see it in those strange, clear eyes.

“Then what happened in there tonight?” Her voice cracked. “Why was Howard shot?”

“He raised the gun and we thought he was going to shoot the boy,” he said raggedly. “Having a sniper in place is standard operating procedure and when he perceived imminent danger to the child, he took the shot.”

Something in his voice alerted her. She jerked her head up and stared into the blue ice of his gaze, her stomach churning with the gut feeling that came from hearing the truth mixed with a lie. She wasn’t getting the whole story.

She shook her head slowly and stared at him. “I don’t believe you. I want the truth. Something went wrong, didn’t it? You didn’t want him killed, did you?”

“Let me take you home,” he said gently. “I can call a uniform and catch a ride back up here to get my car. You’re in no shape to drive to Fort Walton.”

“I’m a teacher, Officer Winters. Diversions don’t work with me.”

“I’m not trying to divert you. I’m trying to help you. You’re wrung out, and you need to get home and take care of yourself.”

“So I won’t bother you anymore with my questions?”

“No.” He paused and took a breath. Was he stalling as he searched for a more satisfying explanation or simply exhausted as she was? “So you won’t torture yourself with what-ifs,” he said finally. “You did everything you could back there and we did, too. It was a bad end, yes, but it wasn’t our fault…or yours.”

“He didn’t need to be killed,” she said stubbornly.

He shocked her by his answer. “Maybe, but we’ll never know for sure. Only one thing’s certain. We can’t go back and play it a different way. We have to take what happened and deal with it.”

“Then just tell me the truth. Tell me what really happened—what I did—then let me deal with that.”

From beneath his matted hair, he stared at her, his eyes almost glowing. For a second she caught a fleeting glimpse of something in their cold depths, but she wasn’t sure. She was so tired she was imagining it. She had to be.

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head, his expression closing against itself. “But I can’t tell you more. You’ll have to be satisfied with that.”

THE MESSAGE LIGHT on her answering machine was blinking furiously when Jennifer finally reached her condo. She hit the play button and closed her eyes.

“I heard about the shooting, and I’m real worried. You call me as soon as you get in. I don’t care what time it is, you just call.”

Wanda’s Southern accent filled the small living room. Normally Jennifer would have picked up the phone and called immediately, but she couldn’t make her fingers reach for the receiver. They were as tired as the rest of her, and what little energy she had left, she wanted to use getting clean. She peeled off her clothing, right there in the middle of the den, and walked into the kitchen. Retrieving a paper sack from the pantry, she dropped everything in it and rolled the edges tightly together. Tomorrow she’d burn them.

Naked and shivering in the air-conditioning, she opened the refrigerator. The strongest drink she could find was a bottle of Coors left over from a pizza party some time back. She grabbed it, opened the bottle, and downed the beer. She didn’t lower the bottle until it was empty, then she stumbled into her bathroom and opened the shower door. When she stepped out twenty minutes later, her skin was red and raw—whether from the heat of the steaming water or the scrubbing she didn’t know.

Her stomach in knots, she knew the only way she could get to sleep was to eat something first. Somewhere between scrambling the eggs and getting the grape jelly out of the refrigerator, she began to cry. The tears ran down her cheeks, but she just ignored them. They weren’t going to stop and there was nothing she could do about it so she let them come.

God, how had it happened? One minute she’d been standing beside Howard and the next she’d ordered him to go to that window. No wonder he’d grabbed her—she’d scared him half to death. Then Beck had finished him off.

And she’d trusted him!

He’d sounded so sympathetic over the phone, so caring and warm. In reality, he reminded her of a photograph she’d seen in a sixth-grade world history textbook of a Nordic trapper. He had the same cold, blond looks and size, plus a face like a stony mask. All that was missing were the dogs and sled.

The ringing phone startled her out of her thoughts and her heart thudded in answer against her chest. It took a second for her to regain her composure. Would she ever hear a phone sound again and not jump? Wanda’s worried voice could be heard on the answering machine, her drawl even thicker than usual.

“Are you there, girl? What’s going on—”

“I’m here, Wanda.” Clutching her robe, Jennifer grabbed the phone. “I just got in. I—I’m fine.”

“Praise the Lord! I’ve been worried sick. I heard about what happened at the school, and…well, good grief, honey, are you okay?”

That was all it took. Jennifer began to sob again and several minutes filled with Wanda’s “That’s okay, now, darlin”’ and “C’mon, sugar” passed before her tears subsided. When she hiccuped to a stop, she explained what had happened.

“Oh, my God!” Wanda’s concern echoed over the line. She didn’t know him but she’d listened to Jennifer’s Howard stories time and time again. “And they killed him?”

“Y-yes. Right in front of us. It was terrible, Wanda. I—I can’t believe it actually happened. And I helped!”

“But, honey, he might have murdered every one of y’all.”

“Wanda! You’ve heard me talk about him! Do you really think he would have shot us?”

“He shot that poor other man.”

“It must have been an accident! Howard wouldn’t have just walked up and done it in cold blood. He wasn’t like that.”

“But you said he raised the gun when Juan ran over.”

“He did but he was trying to keep it away from Juan. When he saw Howard dragging me to the window, Juan thought I was in danger. He ran over to grab the gun.”

“Are you sure? Absolutely positive?”

In the background, Jennifer could hear canned laughter coming from Wanda’s television. She lived alone and when she was home, it was on.

“How do you know Howard was just keepin’ that gun away from the boy?” Wanda continued, cutting off Jennifer’s potential answer. “He could have been bringin’ it up to shoot. You don’t know! You just don’t know.”

“No.” Jennifer replied immediately. “I’m sure he wasn’t—”

“Why? What makes you so sure? Haven’t you ever been wrong before, Jennifer? I certainly have and I can’t imagine that you haven’t been in all your thirty-six years.”

Despite her Southern ways, Wanda never minced words. Jennifer swallowed, her throat tight. “I have been wrong before, certainly.”

“We never know what’s in another person’s mind, sugar.” The nurse’s voice softened. “We just don’t know. You could be mistaken. Howard French was a strange duck. He coulda been liftin’ that rifle to shoot that poor little boy. You better think long and hard before you set what you think in stone.”

They talked a few more minutes after that, Wanda reassuring Jennifer her mother was fine. “We turned off the TV so she wouldn’t hear all the news. She seemed pretty foggy today, but you never know what’s soakin’ in and what isn’t.”

“Thanks for watching out for her.”

“Oh, honey, you’re welcome. You just don’t worry about her. I know you won’t listen to me, but you take care of yourself…and if you wanna talk some more, you call me, hear?”

Walking to the balcony off her living room a few minutes later, Jennifer stood and looked at the sky. There was no moon and only the twinkling lights from a few houses here and there alleviated the dark. She wasn’t close enough to the beach to hear the ocean, but if she leaned all the way to the left at one end of the narrow patio, she could catch a glimpse of the water. She did so now, but all she saw was blackness.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

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