"Of course," I told him, remembering how Pyle sauntered into my house.
We confirmed our date for dinner. We'd take the kids somewhere special to celebrate our somewhat tentative reconciliation.
Kerri and Branden were thrilled we were trying to work things out. They had said as much over pizza the night before. The kids and I reinforced the bond formed during the Orlando trip.
With that happy thought in mind, I pushed aside my fears, dutifully peering into the yard through locked windows. I punched in the code to turn off the alarm system and followed Sunshine out to attend to business.
I sensed something was amiss when I stepped back inside the screen porch. I didn't feel alone. Sunshine charged into the Florida Room ahead of me. I looked around, didn't see anything out of place, and decided I was being overly cautious. Sunshine, on the other hand, barked wildly, which was unusual behavior for him. Then I felt something hard and cold against my neck. I knew even before he spoke that it was a gun wielded by Jake Ervin.
"Where's Stone?"
Déjà vu, almost.
Ervin shoved his hand into the small of my back, propelling me forward a couple of feet. When I realized he was no longer immediately behind me, I turned around.
Ervin looked as if he hadn't shaved in a week. His once full cheeks were concave, and his eyes appeared to have receded into their sockets. He was a man on the edge.
I was a woman in trouble. "How'd you get in here?" I asked, making an effort to keep my voice steady and not telegraph my terror.
He dangled a set of picks similar to my own. "You don't think you're the only one who can use these, do you?"
"No." I didn't pursue how he knew I picked his lock.
"Where's Stone?"
"He doesn't live here anymore."
He pointed. "That there big TV is just for little-ol'-you's enjoyment? Fat chance."
"I admit it has testosterone written all over it, and it's Ray's. He took everything else and moved out." I regretted my smart mouth, but Ervin didn't appear to notice.
"Where'd he go?" Ervin asked.
"Don't know." I glanced at my watch. "You can catch him at the station in an hour. We had a fight. We're not an item any more."
"I saw him follow you home last night."
"He wanted to check the house. Make sure I was okay. He was worried about you coming here. He considers you his problem, not mine."
"Son of a bitch has a way of being wrong. You're the one who's been calling around my hometown, asking questions about me, and stirrin' things that don't need stirrin'. Now I'm going to shut you up."
"They'll know it was you. Ray told me you left Parkview and you hurt your daughter and murdered your ex-wife and her boy." I looked in his direction without staring at him. Sunshine crowded my legs. I picked him up, balancing his weight on my left hip.
Ervin didn't say anything for a while, and I took the time to look him over. Shaking hands. Nails bitten to the quick. Beads of perspiration across his brow. Maybe he was wavering, changing his mind.
But when Ervin spoke, he sounded decisive. "Call him. Tell him I'm here waitin' on him. Tell him if he wants to see you, he'd better quickstep on over. Tell the asshole he needs to march to the beat of my drummer now. Tell him I've a plane to catch, and he needs to help me catch it by two o'clock."
It appeared Ervin planned to hold me hostage rather than kill me. I had forced his hand, and now, perhaps, Ray would rescue me.
Remembering my hostage situation training at work—EDs are high-risk places—I decided to be cooperative. I'd had exposure to similar training situations in the academy and in drills while I was on the police force.
I called Ray on his cell phone, probably getting him in transit to the PD. "Ervin's here with me. He has a gun."
"Damn."
"I was careful."
Ervin grabbed the telephone out of my hand. "I told you to tell him to get me a plane by two." He pushed me out of the way. "Stone, if you want to see your little tramp again, get me an airplane ride out of here by two o'clock."
Ervin wasn't holding the receiver tight to his ear. I heard Ray's response.
"Ervin, you know these kinds of things never work. Why don't I come over there? We can sit down and talk about this mess, officer to officer?"
"Just get the friggin' plane."
"Sit tight. I'll see what I can do." There was a pause. "When I get there, I'd better find Sophia unharmed."
"Or what?" Ervin disconnected the call without giving Ray a chance to respond.
I sat on the kitchen stool to wait on fate, which it seemed I might be meeting by two.
I reflected on the differences between Pyle's behavior in this same situation and Ervin's. Pyle had been calm, cordial, even friendly, and I had known he posed no real threat. Ervin was different. I noticed the .38 Smith and Wesson sticking out of his belt, and he fingered a long pocketknife, similar to the one I had thrown into the junk pile behind the barn outside Parkview. I thought about the drawer full of knives on the other side of the counter.
Believing I might be able to slip into the dining room and hoping distance would temper the element of surprise, I stood and walked around the room. Maybe I'd get the opportunity to make a break for it, run into the master bedroom, slam the door, then barricade myself in the bathroom, which happened to have a door to the outside.
Ervin's eyes followed me as I put Sunshine in his crate and gave him a treat. I walked across the Florida room to the kitchen area. When I started to leave the room, he glared at me, removing the gun from his belt, and pointing it at me. I sat on the kitchen stool instead. The limits of my imprisonment were established.
"Don't go any further, and don't get any ideas." He laid the Smith and Wesson on the arm of the sofa.
Not wanting to anger the man with the knife and gun, I didn't say anything. He didn't talk either. He stared at me with a look I'd become familiar with during my psychiatric rotation in nursing school. It made my skin crawl then, and my skin crawled now.
My grandfather clock ticked away, bonging six-thirty, six forty-five, seven, and on, punctuating the time left in my life with an off-pitch rendition of Westminster. At seven-forty, the phone rang. Ervin nodded his permission, and I answered the wall phone in the kitchen.
"This is Bernard Bloom. Put Chief Ervin on the phone, please."
Bloom, the chief hostage negotiator at the PD for several years, had a reputation for his cool manner and ability to resolve a situation without a crimson spill. I was glad to hear his voice, fearing the bloodshed today would be mine.
Ervin grabbed the portable phone from the base and switched on the speaker. I thought it was too bad he chose the portable phone. I preferred to have Ervin tethered to the wall for a while, though I appreciated being able to hear both sides of the conversation. I positioned myself back on my stool, supporting my right hip, leaving my left foot on the floor.
I concentrated on my circumstances. I wanted to keep Ervin in my line of vision. I needed to be observant, not speak unless spoken to, and do whatever I could to help keep Ervin calm. If shots started flying or a rescue was attempted, I needed to hit the floor. There would be lots of noise. I should look and act calm and try to rest so I'd be ready to do my part—which, hopefully, was something other than dying. I rehearsed the scene in my mind while flexing the muscles in my hip and thigh, trying to keep them supple.
Bloom had a soothing tenor voice, which belied his muscle-bound appearance. "Chief Ervin, we've got ourselves a situation here."
"I want to talk to Stone."
"Chief, Stone's on his way. Maybe I can get a message to him for you."
"Tell the bastard if he wants to see his woman again, he'd better get over here."
It seemed as though Ervin had redirected his anger toward Ray, maybe increasing my chances of survival.
"I'll give Detective Stone the message." Bloom's voice was calm.
My pulse raced. My heart threatened to jump out of my chest, but when Bloom sp
oke, I felt more relaxed. I hoped it calmed Ervin as well.
The gun was back in Ervin's belt, and he paced around the middle of my Florida room, seeming to avoid the lines between the tiles. I noticed he'd narrowed his squares, however, and stayed away from the French doors.
Bloom said, "Give me a minute here."
I heard a click. He had muted the microphone in the Special Situations Response Vehicle. I remembered the speaker remained open so the officers in the vehicle heard anything said in the house.
When the PD accepted delivery of the Special Situations Response Vehicle, the SSRV, I went with Ray to the intradepartmental open house. It was a bus-sized converted motor home with a cascade of extendable antennas across the top. A satellite dish folded flat for transport, an extendable pole held mounts and wiring for video cameras, and several large windows were fitted with bulletproof glass. The negotiator sat in the back section in front of a picture window.
I imagined the vehicle parked on the street running perpendicular to my cul-de-sac with the video pole extended and a camera directed at the front of my house. The team would position another camera for a direct view of the front windows and door. I was glad I opened the front drapes in the living room when I awakened. Maybe there was a second remote camera to catch the rear doors and windows.
Bloom was the man doing the talking, but everyone in the vehicle would be involved in what he said—every word recorded on tape and written in a log. I figured there were at least three trained negotiators involved or in transit to the scene—my scene. Each one—I hoped—with valuable input.
Bloom was primary, someone else would be in charge of recording, reporting, and documenting every decision, every deadline, every promise, and the third negotiator would carry out additional necessary tasks.
I continued in my reverie. Trying to remember everything I'd heard about management of a hostage situation. Captain García arriving. The SWAT team pulling into position. The police psychologist en route.
The negotiators might keep Ray out of it, telling him he was too close to the situation to be objective and not wanting his presence to inflame Ervin's foul disposition.
Ervin seemed to be as mad as a tick on the behind of a pit bull, and he was getting madder by the minute. His eyes darted around the room, and he made frequent slashing motions with his knife as he paced. Resolving this crisis would take a while, and I hoped Ervin maintained his slim hold on sanity for a few more hours.
Meanwhile, my leg and hip cramped. I shifted my weight, trying to get comfortable on the stool. Knowing I shouldn't talk, but needing to, I said, "Chief, may I please move to another chair. I can drag that chair there," I pointed at the dining room chair closest to the kitchen, "in here and sit on it."
"Go ahead." He waved the knife in my direction, reminding me not to do something stupid. "I'd as soon kill you as look at you."
"Yes sir. Thank you." I positioned the chair between the counter and the movable center island—a barricade against gunfire. The knife drawer was in easy reach. I watched every move Ervin made. The dog snoozed in the corner of his crate, oblivious to the fact his time might be limited.
55
The clocked chimed nine—five hours to live—and Bloom's voice resounded from the portable phone's speaker. "Thanks for waiting, Chief Ervin. How are things going in there? Have you had a chance to get something to eat and drink this morning?"
Ervin ignored the pleasantries. "Where's Stone?"
"He's here. You can say what you want to him."
"Get him. I want to talk to him. He's the one I want."
"Hang on a minute." I heard Bloom click the microphone to mute.
Several minutes passed, then I heard Ray's voice. "Ervin."
"You've got until two to get me a car and enough money to disappear—a million dollars—and to get your sorry ass in here and provide me with safe passage out of this hellhole."
Ervin was desperate, but I was glad to see his focus was on escape rather than killing me—or Ray. With Ervin's deteriorating emotional state, that could change at any minute. I felt a nauseous pit in my stomach.
Bloom's calming voice broke in. "Chief Ervin, getting a million dollars is not easy. We'll need more time. Send Miss Burgess out, and Stone can come in and wait with you."
"Don't take me for stupid." Ervin's voice was rational, cold. "You have four hours until the tramp dies."
I thought providing Ervin with the audience he wanted might hurry this crisis along. I feared it would speed it along to my own death. He'd only given Ray four hours. I wondered if he'd moved his timetable.
Ervin paced faster. He repeated a small square pattern in front of the loveseat, having moved the cocktail table off to the side. Now, he never stepped on the cracks between the tiles, and he watched at his feet as he walked. Seriously disturbed.
The cold rush of fear slithered into the back of my skull and nausea surged into my throat. I took deep breaths to steady my nerves and settle my stomach.
"Chief Ervin, what do you want to talk about?" Bloom said. "I'm here to listen to you. Here to help."
Ervin stopped pacing, his expression pensive.
A four-note melody drifted in from the living room. Ten-fifteen.
Ervin stood in the middle of the room, his left side facing me. He had pocketed the knife, and his gun was back in his belt, but he rested his hand on it, massaging the trigger with his index finger. I tried to remember if the .38 Smith and Wesson had a safety. If not, maybe I'd be lucky, and he'd shoot himself in his gonads.
"I have a mess here." Ervin talked into the air, not into the telephone and not to me. He flipped on the television. "What channel is the news coverage on?"
"Most of them. Try seven," Bloom responded.
A second later, images of the SSRV and the armored van deploying the SWAT team appeared on Ray's TV. All the driveways in the cul-de-sac were empty, and not a pedestrian or resident was in view. My name would be worth toad turds in the neighborhood, even post-mortem.
"Lots of stuff out there, Bloom."
"That's how it works," Bloom replied. "What do you want to talk about?"
"I need to get out of here, you know. I need some things, you know, like a car. I need some money, a million dollars. Safe passage."
"I'm writing that down. I'll send the message to my people."
"Aren't your people here? I always go to a crisis myself."
"This is a big decision. It'll have to go to the people in charge. We have a big department, and we're busy this morning. I'll tell them to get on it."
"You do that. Do that in an hour, or I'll kill this bitch."
He'd cut my life expectancy by seventy-five percent. I tried to overcome my sense of impending dread with controlled breathing and sheer force of mind. I had to keep my wits about me. I had to be able to respond on a second's notice.
"We'll do the best we can. Hang on a minute." I heard a click.
Ervin said, "I need to see a man about a horse. Where's the bathroom?"
I pointed to the door in the corner of the Florida room.
"Come with me."
"To the bathroom?"
"I'm not about to let you escape whilst I have my hand on my pecker."
"Okay." As a nurse, at least I wouldn't be embarrassed.
He made me walk at his side, shielding him from a shot through the French doors. I wondered what would happen if I had to use the bathroom. I'd been smart enough not to drink the coffee I'd poured early in the morning. I wondered what other people did who were hostages and had to go to the bathroom. Used their pants?
After we were back in our places—sitting in the kitchen for me and pacing in front of the Florida room sofa for him—Bloom's voice sounded. "Chief, my people are working on your requests. What do you want to talk about?"
On the news, I saw a young female officer deliver a couple of large donut boxes and a big bag to the front door of the SSRV. I suspected Bloom intended that my captor witness the delivery.
Eleven bongs.
Ervin's pacing-square enlarged. Each time he made the loop, he passed in front of the uncovered French doors. He muttered under his breath and picked at invisible tormentors in the air. His left hand grasped his knife, but he no longer slashed at the air. The portable phone sat ignored on the arm of the sofa, but the red light glowed.
"Stone, you messed up my life. I'm going to do the same to yours." He paced faster and fingered the handle of his weapon. "Buddy Lee Pyle . . . all nice, convicted . . . you got him out of jail. Why'd you have to do that for? Elaine. I loved Elaine. She knew I was at the house with Big Al. Elaine, she shacked up with Buddy Lee. Big Al and I were in business—raising pit bulls. Bastard tried to weasel out of paying me. Stone, your fault."
Ervin's eyes rested on the coffee cup I'd left sitting on the counter. He grabbed it and took several gulps.
"What were you saying, Chief? I didn't hear." Bloom prodded Ervin to keep talking.
The first eight notes of the Westminster chime melody announced eleven-thirty. Time crawled. The longer this dragged on, the greater my chances of staying alive.
It was as if Ervin didn't hear Bloom at all. He was still talking to Ray. "You put Pyle in jail. Good man, I said. Helped me out of trouble. I told everyone . . . Elaine shacked up with Pyle. Mayor, good man . . . ran you out of town. I tried to blackball you from police work."
Ervin took his gun out of his belt, fiddling with it as he paced. The square grew larger still. The time in front of the door stretched with each pass he made. I felt hopeful.
Ervin continued ranting. "Worked out. You left town. Elaine. I had Elaine. My old lady didn't like it. She left me. Took Little Bit."
Ervin stopped, seeming to come to his senses. "Bloom, where's the car? My money?"
"Chief, we're working on it. These things take time." Bloom's voice was steady, controlled, relaxed. "How are you feeling? Are you doing okay?" He sounded genuine.
"Don't worry about me. I'm in control."
"I wanted to be sure. Do you want us to send in some sandwiches for you?"
"No."
"Chief, all those things you were talking to Stone about happened a long time ago. This situation can still be resolved."
Imperfect Daddy Page 22
