Ruskin looked around. He sent one deputy, Jerry, to clear the houses across the street.
“Circle way ’round. Don’t present a target.”
“Sure, Pete.”
“And get upstairs in one of the houses. I want eyes inside if you can.”
The deputy jogged off.
“And keep your head down!”
Shaw asked George, “Whose car?” Nodding at the Camry.
“Ed Whitestone’s.”
Garner said, “Ed? I know him.” A frown. “Owns a farm near the interstate. Never been in trouble that I heard of. Might’ve been stolen.”
Ruskin said, “Bets, get back in the cruiser, go the long way ’round and seal off the street.”
The woman jogged back to the car and sped off.
Squinting, Ruskin rose and jockeyed around George’s car, trying to get a view. Shaw—not exactly out of harm’s way—was watching the windows. Not seeing movement.
Then the crack of a pistol shot rolled through the quiet street. The taker was shooting from a ground floor window toward, but not directly at, the cars. A blue recycling bin, on wheels, shuddered under the impact.
The crouching deputies crouched farther.
A man’s voice called, “Don’t you assholes try anything!”
Two other squad cars pulled into the street and stopped, well back. The two deputies, young white men with crew cuts, climbed out and jogged forward, keeping low.
They eyed both the house and, with curiosity, Shaw.
Ruskin deployed them, and they jogged to trees nearby and took cover.
The man’s hands clenched and unclenched. He looked around uncertainly. He said to Shaw, “Any thoughts, sir?”
“First, I’d secure the site better. That deputy you sent up the street? Make sure she can get a view behind the house. They could get out the back and into a boat.”
Ruskin called Harper and relayed the instructions.
Shaw continued, “And I’d say even if he fires our way, don’t return. We don’t know where the hostage is. If he comes out shooting, alone, that’s a different story. I’ll leave that up to your rules of engagement.”
A brief, humorless laugh from Ruskin. That phrase probably did not appear in the Cimarron County Sheriff’s Department handbook.
The deputy gave these orders to the others.
Another mad shout from the window. The law enforcers’ heads lowered. There were no more gunshots.
Ruskin looked toward the house. Shaw knew what was in the man’s heart. He wanted to act, to do something . . . He caught Shaw’s gaze—and understood the tacit question. He nodded.
Shaw said, “This is bare bones.”
“That’s okay. Go ahead.”
“It’s called the staircase approach—the FBI’s strategy with hostage taking.”
Shaw’s friend and occasional mountain-climbing companion, Tom Pepper, was a former FBI special agent. He’d coached Shaw in these skills.
“First, establish communication. Call back on the hostage’s phone. See if he picks up. If it’s the hostage, find out if he’s all right, who exactly is in there. If the taker’s nowhere near, see if he can get out a window. If he’s not, have him give the taker the phone.
“Introduce yourself. Not ‘deputy.’ Just your name. He’ll know you’re official. But you don’t want to make it sound that you’re asserting authority over him. Then just talk a little. How’s he doing? Is he hurt? What’s going on? Listen to him. Respond to what he says—doesn’t matter how odd or troubling. That’s called active listening. Find out where his mind is, what he wants. You’re one hundred percent sympathetic. If there’s silence, don’t jump in. Let him fill it. This is all about him. Don’t disagree.”
Ruskin and the two deputies nearby, Garner and T. Thornton, a grizzled former soldier, it was easy to see, were paying attention.
“So. Step one, listen. Step two, empathize. He may want to kill every immigrant in the country. He may hate Jews, hate his family, the president, spacemen from Mars. It may sound crazy or repulsive to you, but you put your feelings aside and appreciate his. Everything he says is valid.
“Three. You use the empathy to establish rapport. Make him feel that you really get him. Don’t say, ‘Sure, that’s a good idea,’ or he’ll see it as manipulation. Tell him that you understand what he’s saying . . . and what he’s feeling. You’re sorry it’s upsetting him.
“Four, you influence him. Put the rapport to use. Very subtle. Maybe get him to accept some food and drink—whatever he really likes, though no alcohol. See if there’s somebody he’d like to talk to. Never try to get him to do anything he doesn’t want, but if you see a chance to guide him in a direction you think he might be inclined to go, then do it. Positive reinforcement.
“Finally, try to change his behavior—that’s the big one. Getting him to surrender. You don’t do it by saying he’s wrong. Tell him that it’ll be for his own good. It’s the best way to get him to pursue his vision—whatever that is.
“One more thing: use the first name of the hostage a lot. It humanizes them. Makes the taker reluctant to kill.”
“Lot to think on,” Ruskin said.
“It is . . . But you look like you’ve got it.”
The deputy inhaled.
“A radio call came in.”
“Pete. Jerry.”
The officer who’d cleared the houses across the street.
“Go ahead.”
“Everybody over here’s safe. A couple let me upstairs. I can see through windows of the rental. Curtains partly drawn but I got a white male, late forties. Handgun, revolver, I think. He’s pacing. Seems to be talking to somebody else. Can’t see him.”
Another call.
“Pete, it’s Sally. I checked with the broker. Rented to a Richard Lansing. From New York. A weeklong rental, starting a couple days ago. Fishing package. Paying extra for the boat and tackle.”
“How many people?”
“Broker said two.”
“Roger. Where’s the sheriff?”
“ETA probably half hour, State tac team, forty minutes.”
“’K.”
Ruskin glanced at Shaw, who nodded. Meaning: go on.
The deputy asked Sally for the number of the phone the hostage had called 911 on. She gave it to him twice. He memorized it.
Ruskin stared at the house, unmoving, like a pitcher sizing up a batter. Then he tapped in the number and hit speaker.
Two rings, three.
“Who’s this?”
“Hey there. My name’s Pete. Can I ask who this is?”
“You don’t know that from my car? You couldn’t read the license plate?”
“Might’ve been stolen or borrowed.”
“Ed Whitestone.”
Never been in trouble . . .
Ruskin said, “I think I know you.”
Whitestone didn’t respond.
The deputy was about to speak. Shaw shook his head.
Don’t fill the silence . . .
The taker said, “No, you don’t know me. Nobody knows me. Nobody understands. And you don’t give a shit.”
Shaw gestured his okay.
Ruskin said, “I do care, Ed. I want to hear what you have to say. Really. We’ve got a situation here and I want to know what you’re about. So we can work something out. We don’t want anybody to get hurt. That’s the last thing we want, right?”
Silence.
“How’s a man supposed to live, how’s a man supposed to care for his family?”
“You having a hard time now, Ed?”
“Hard time? You don’t know what hard times is. All this economy crap doesn’t affect you. Me? Nobody buying my crops! I got surplus rotting. But do I have to pay the mortgage, do I have to pay the taxes? Hell, yes, I do.”
“I was reading about that, Ed. What’s happening to the farms. It’s terrible, man. Totally unfair.”
Shaw nodded. He was doing a good job.
Again. Nothing for a moment.
“If I sell the land, then what’m I going to do? What kind of job could I get?”
“That’s tough, Ed. Damn. Hey, you need water, food or anything?”
No answer.
“Anything else? Want you to be comfortable, Ed. I mean it.”
“Do you really?” the taker said sarcastically.
Ruskin said firmly, “I do.” Then: “I know there’s somebody in there with you. Richard, I think. How’s he doing?”
“Fat cat from New York? He’s doing just fine, but fuck the rest of us.”
“I hear you. You mind if I talk to Richard?”
A debate.
“You’re not going to fuck me over, are you, Pete?”
“Oh, no way, Ed. Really. Just my job to make sure everybody’s okay. You and Richard.”
A long pause.
Then a different male voice came over the phone. Timid. “Yes?”
“Who’s this? Richard?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Deputy Ruskin with the sheriff’s department.”
“My buddy, that I’m here with? He’s out, buying beer and some food.”
“We’ll look out for him. We’ve got the street covered. You okay?”
“Yeah. Sorta.”
“Anybody else in the house?”
“No. I—”
Ed’s voice raged, “Enough of that. Gimme.” Then the taker was speaking directly into the phone: “I think you’re trying to fuck with me, Pete.”
“No, sir, never.”
“I could hear you, you know? Asking how many people’re in here. You going to try something.”
“No, Ed. I promise. I really do. I’m just trying to do the best I can to see what you’re up against.”
Shaw whispered, “We should get Ed’s family here.’
The deputy nodded. “Ed, how’d you like your wife to come out? Can we call her?”
Garner whispered, “Daughter. Twelve.”
“And your daughter. She’s about in middle school now, isn’t she?”
Ed seemed to be muttering to himself.
“Ed, your family?”
A hollow voice. “They left me. They couldn’t take it. She’s flied off to be with her momma in Boise. This morning. She took Sandy too. That’s how loyalty is, right?”
“Oh, man. On top of everything else. I’m sorry.”
Ruskin mouthed to Garner, “Call her.”
Garner stepped aside, unholstering his phone.
“Listen, Ed, what do you think we could do for you?”
Shaw nodded his approval.
Garner held up the phone and shook his head. He mouthed, “Right to voice mail.”
“You can’t do shit for me, Pete. But there’s somebody who can.”
“Who’d that be?”
A pause again. Then Ed said harshly, “Who do you think?”
“I don’t know, Ed. Tell me. I want to know.”
“A fucking banker, who else? They’re forgiving all those student loans. Why should farmers be treated worse than punk kids?”
“That’s a good question, Ed.”
“I want somebody from my bank here. They can forgive my debt. I worked hard all my life. Not like those fucking students, learning shit that’s useless. And they get their loans forgave? It’s not fair . . . You want a clue what the problem is? Do you?”
“Sure, Ed. I want to know. What’s the clue?”
“It’s this saying us farmers have. You want to hear it?”
“I do, Ed.”
“It’s ‘Happiness eludes land-working people.’ Me and my family . . . we don’t deserve being treated like this.” He repeated the line solemnly: “‘Happiness eludes land-working people.’” Then he said, “You ever hear that?”
“No, Ed, I didn’t. But I want to hear more about your situation. See what we can do.”
He fell silent. They could hear indiscernible muttering.
“Ed? Tell me some more—”
“I don’t want to tell you anything more,” was the snide response. “I want a First Union Trust vice president here in a half hour. If not, this prick dies.”
The phone went silent.
Four
The Lexus, late model, sparkling white, skidded to a stop behind Ruskin’s squad car. Two deputies stepped out of its way, fast.
The driver was big—tall and round and broad—and sported a gunslinger mustache. He hair was thick, salt and pepper. A small scar crescented his right cheek. His uniform was the same as the others: tan slacks and dark green shirt. There was one accessory variation, though. He wore a shiny round badge bearing SHERIFF. It was gold and matched the half-pound Rolex on his wrist. His name plate reported: R. DOBBINS.
The younger deputies glanced his way with a particular look in their eyes. It bordered on evasive. Scared.
The man strode forward to Ruskin and crouched behind the cruiser. He did so stiffly. Shaw put his age at early fifties.
“Sheriff. Let me tell you where we are. Ed Whitestone—”
“Yeah, I know him. Got that farm. Why’s he doing this? Not like him.”
“It’s like he snapped. Money problems and his wife and daughter left this morning.”
“Left like in a shopping trip, or left like in left him?”
“Him. Went to her mother’s.”
“You call ’em?”
Garner said, “I did, Sheriff. Went to voice mail. Ed’s gotta be pretty gone. Man’s a good Christian and he’s using words I don’t think he’s ever said before.”
“Hostages?”
“Couple of guys on a fishing trip. Only one of ’em’s in the house. He—”
The sheriff waved him silent. “Who’s that?”
“Name is Colter . . . wait, right?”
A nod.
“Colter Shaw. He was in town looking for a runaway from Topeka. He’s had—”
“You law?”
“No, private.”
“You can’t be at the scene.”
“Mr. Shaw was helping us. He’s been involved in hostage takings before.”
Dobbins had squinty eyes. “So you were law.” Suggesting Shaw had been lying.
“No.” He explained briefly about the rewards.
Dobbins grunted, trying to fathom his career.
“He was helpful, Sheriff,” Ruskin said. “Some negotiation things.”
“Things.” Like he was spitting.
This was yet another reminder of why Shaw liked his freelance work. As the son of a survivalist, he’d spent much time by himself in the wilderness around his family’s spread near the Sierra Nevada foothills. He’d settled into his rewards-seeking profession because he was beholden to no one. A reward is a unilateral contract; you’re not obligated to find the missing person or the escaped prisoner. You can walk away at any time.
“Better you clear out. Liability.”
“He doesn’t have a car, Sheriff.”
Dobbins cocked his head, as he peered at Ruskin. “Oh. You let him drive to a scene with you? Secured in the back of your vehicle?”
“Umm. No, Sheriff.”
The man rolled his eyes. “Get up the street,” he said impatiently to Shaw. “Now.”
Shaw walked a half block up the shoulder—no sidewalks in this neighborhood—and then circled back into the lake house’s parking lot. This side was solid clapboard, no windows. He got as close as he could to Ruskin, Garner and Sheriff Dobbins without being seen. Shaw crouched and peered through a thick stand of camellia bushes, dark green leaves, lovely red flowers. He had a good vi
ew of the law enforcers. Ruskin was saying, “ . . . no, not at anything in particular. The yard and the trash bin.”
The sheriff studied the house. “When’re the state boys going to get here?”
“’Bout thirty, thirty-five minutes, I make it.”
Dobbins grumbled, “You got anybody in that house there, across the street? Or the one next door?”
“Yessir. It’s Jerry. He’s got eyes inside.”
“If he’s got eyes inside he can get a slug inside. Boy’s a good shot. Been hunting with him. You have too. You gave him a long gun, didn’t you?”
Ruskin didn’t answer right away. “Sheriff, I think we’re a ways from shooting. We just started talking, Ed and me. He’s upset, that’s the truth. But he’s not targeting people. And we’re talking. He’s responding.”
“Responding.”
The word was a sneer.
“Did he threaten to kill the hostage?”
“He . . . yes.”
“George?”
“Sheriff?”
“There’s a Winchester in my trunk. Get it up to Jerry.” The sheriff popped the trunk lid remotely. “You scratch that stock, I’ll have your hide.”
“Yessir, Sheriff. I’ll be careful.”
The deputy scurried to the car.
Ruskin inhaled long. “All respect, Sheriff, we’ve got a dialogue going.”
“Oh? What’s he want?”
“Bank to forgive his loans.”
“Who the fuck doesn’t? George! What’re you doing? Hustle, like you never did with the Tigers.”
“I scored four times in a single game, Sheriff.”
“Move!”
The young deputy got the rifle out of the trunk carefully and unbagged it. It was a no-nonsense hunting gun. No blade sight at the muzzle. The Nikon telescopic sight was all that would direct the bullet to its target but it would do so with perfect efficiency.
The sheriff sighed. “Don’t forget the important part.”
The officer stared blankly at his boss.
“Ammunition, son. Bullets. Rounds. Slugs. I have to think of everything here?”
“Oh. Sure.” George grabbed several boxes, then hustled along the same safe route as Jerry had used to shoo the neighbors off to safety.
The sheriff nodded toward Pete’s phone. “You got his number in there?”
The Second Hostage Page 2
