Bruce talked to Karin and Lenora a couple of times as the excruciating hours crawled by. He knew that Lenora’s anguish must be a thousand times his own.
The decision of whether or not to wait was snatched out of his hands.
Bruce was sitting with his back to the rusting door of his chosen cover, when he heard a crash followed by the scream of tortured metal, a shout and an even louder crash. It sounded like a goddamn car accident, right there in the yard.
Growling an obscenity, he rose to a crouch.
One of the cars had fallen off its blocks. A cop lay half beneath. He was trying to sit up, but was pinned. His face was twisted in agony, his teeth gritted. As if not screaming now would make any difference.
The door to the trailer snapped open. Roberto stared across the yard, let out a single expletive and disappeared within.
Bruce’s earbud crackled. “What do we do? What do we do?” asked a couple of difference voices.
“The damn thing fell right on Fulton’s legs,” someone else said.
A second SWAT-team member was now crouched beside him. Someone else ran forward, and the two cops strained to lift the rusting heap to free their colleague.
The door to the mobile home opened again, and Roberto reappeared, his little girl in his arms and the barrel of a handgun pressed to her head. Most of his body was obscured by the door and by her. He wasn’t taking any chances.
“Show yourselves!” he yelled in Spanish. “Show yourselves now!”
“Not everyone,” Bruce murmured, then stood, holding his hands up.
Four other officers stood, as well, all doing the same. See? We’re harmless.
“I’ll kill her!” Roberto Escobar’s face was that of a madman. Sweat dripped from him, and his eyes were wild. When Anna kept struggling, his arm snapped tight abruptly, viciously. She retched. “If you try to come in, I will shoot you, and I will kill them both.”
Still holding the gun on his own daughter, he backed inside and yanked the door shut behind him.
More men ran forward to lift the car, finally dragging Fulton out.
A window scraped open. Their heads lifted. The barrel of a rifle slid into sight, and they all flung themselves to each side as it cracked. Bullets banged off the metal.
Men crawled, belly to the ground, a couple dragging their injured officer. Dirt and grass spat into the air when shots hit nearby. Then the barrel disappeared and the window closed.
Bruce began to swear again. This was his worst nightmare. Even Escobar hadn’t had any idea how to get out of this. A man of limited education and experience, born paranoid—what was he going to ask for? A helicopter to carry him away? A Hummer?
No. Escobar knew he was trapped, knew they wouldn’t, couldn’t, let him go. Another man might have meditated, realized he was done and released his children. Maybe killed himself, but not the kids. Roberto would want to kill them, especially if he’d found out his wife had survived. Right this second, he’d be dreaming up an ugly, newsworthy end.
Would he do it right away? Did they have time?
A calm voice spoke at his side. “Did we get a phone number?”
Jerry Gullick, one of the top negotiators in the Northwest.
Bruce shook his head. “Phone company says there isn’t one in there.”
“I’ve got my bullhorn.” He brandished it.
“I doubt he’ll talk,” Bruce said grimly. “But do your best.”
They’d discussed earlier, if this moment came, what leverage Gullick might have with Roberto. They all knew that Lenora might be his one weakness. Bruce hated the idea of playing that card. Roberto wouldn’t be persuaded by his wife; he’d want her here only so he could take pleasure in knowing she was watching as he murdered Anna and Enrico.
“Roberto,” the negotiator called, stepping into sight.
“There is no way out. Let’s talk. Open a window so you can hear me and I can hear you.”
Bruce dropped back for a consultation.
“We could lob in a canister of gas,” someone suggested.
A captain shook his head. “He’d hear the window breaking. Even a couple seconds’ warning is too much.”
“And do we know the effect on a baby?” asked Bruce.
“They’re his own children.” More incredulity from a lieutenant.
Bruce tried to remember what it was that the uncle had said about Escobar.
He thought it was his right. As if he were God inside his own house.
Bruce said flatly, “He’s incapable of loving them. They’re his. A statement.”
If a man can’t be king in his own castle…
Not comparable, Bruce thought. His father, whatever his sins, would have run into a burning building to save one of his sons. He was a son of a bitch who believed he had a right to indulge his temper, but he wasn’t a monster.
Not like Roberto Escobar.
Bruce left the huddle of men, walked a few feet and turned his back. He flipped open his cell phone.
Karin was waiting at the hospital with Lenora. She answered on the first ring.
“We screwed up,” Bruce told her bluntly.
Her breath hissed in.
“The kids are fine still. I think they’re fine,” he added conscientiously, not wanting to lie. He told her about the car collapsing from its cinder blocks, presumably because someone had been leaning against it without realizing it was precariously balanced. The injured officer, the shots, Escobar’s appearance with a gun to his daughter’s head, the controlled hysteria.
“Our negotiator’s talking to him right now, but Escobar isn’t answering.”
“Do you need me to bring Lenora?”
God. He wanted to say no, keep her far, far away. But he knew she was their only hope of luring Escobar out. And he knew, as well, that she wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice herself for the sake of her children.
He hated to think she might have to, but right this minute he didn’t have any other ideas.
“Yeah. I’m sending someone to pick you up. You need to get here quick.”
Karin said only, calmly, “We’re ready.”
He made another call, getting a uniform to fetch them and haul ass down here.
After grabbing a pair of binoculars, he studied the mobile home again. It was a relic of the sixties, at his guess; metal siding, once white, was scabbed with rust and curled up at the seams. He could imagine the floors were rotting. They could get under it, see if there was an easy place to punch up.
Same problem as going in the window. Short of tele-porting, there was no way in without giving warning.
When he returned to Gullick’s side, the negotiator murmured, “He cracked a window. He’s listening.”
“Good. What are you promising?”
“I’m not promising. I’m asking him what we can do. I’m reminding him that his children depend on him for protection, that their papa is a great man to them.”
“Uh-huh.”
Gullick returned to the bullhorn, his voice as magic as the highest paid DJ’s, smooth and soothing. Right now, he was Escobar’s best friend, his salvation. Thank God he spoke fluent Spanish.
Maybe instead of lobbing a gas canister in a window, they could quietly pop a hole in the floor. Insert it that way.
Bruce remembered the photo taken at Christmas of little Anna and Enrico and cursed under his breath.
The front door opened again, just a crack. Anna, held in her father’s arms, appeared. He was no more than a dark shadow behind her.
Through the crack he shouted, “I will kill one of the children if you don’t go away. You have five minutes.” The door snapped shut again.
Swearing, Bruce grabbed the bullhorn. “Roberto, your wife is on her way. She wants to talk to you. We can’t let her come if we aren’t here to protect her.”
There was a pause. Then, through the window, he called, “If she wants to talk, she must walk up to the steps alone. No one with her.”
“No. You talk from thi
s distance.”
Silence.
“Do I have your promise to wait for her? You won’t hurt Anna or Enrico?”
His voice, disembodied and less angry than earlier, was more disturbing devoid of rage. “When she comes.” The window slid shut.
Behind him, Bruce heard someone say, “What the hell does that mean?”
But they all knew. Roberto wanted his wife to suffer.
This wait was more agonizing than all the previous hours put together. Nothing and no one could be seen moving inside the single-wide. Out here, every idea presented was shot down as fast.
“Goddamn tin can,” Bruce’s father used to call mobile homes. In this case, he was right. The windows were tiny, the door next to impossible to break down, the metal siding as good as a soup can at protecting its contents. Bruce tried to picture what Roberto was doing inside. Had he forced the children to lie down? Were they huddled in a corner? Why was neither crying? Were they that terrified of their father, even at their tender age? Or was Enrico already dead?
Bruce swore aloud, earning him a sidelong look from Gullick and from Marston, his captain. Neither commented.
The squad car carrying the two women pulled partway up the dirt driveway before rolling to a stop. Why not? Roberto knew his wife was coming. Surprise wasn’t a realistic goal here.
The two got out and walked to Bruce, Karin half supporting Lenora, who moved slowly and with difficulty. Her face was as white as those damn hospital sheets, the underlying bones stark without the softening effect of hair. Her eyes, despairing, dominated it.
Bruce tore his gaze away long enough to meet Karin’s. She looked little better than Lenora. He hated seeing her so afraid, so aware that she was helpless to change what was to come.
“I’m sorry,” he said, taking Lenora’s hand. “It shouldn’t have ended up like this.”
“Perhaps it had to.” The small Hispanic woman gave a shrug. Her voice was soft and somehow fatalistic.
“It’s me he wants to hurt.”
Releasing her hand, he said, “I thought we could get the children out of this.”
“I will offer myself.” Despite the determination in her tone, her glance at the mobile home betrayed her terror.
“But he must let Anna and Enrico go. Do you think he’ll do that?”
“We want him to think he’ll get you in exchange. We can’t let him get his hands on you.”
She bit her lip so hard blood smeared it. “I won’t risk them. Only they matter. He will know if you try to trick him.” She hesitated. “Have you seen them?”
“Only Anna,” he admitted. “Earlier, I thought I heard two children crying, but that was hours ago.”
Tears welled in her eyes, but she brushed impatiently at them. “He knows I’m here now.”
“Yes.”
If Roberto was looking out the window, what did he feel? Was he angry that his wife still lived? Did he feel even a pang of regret, perhaps remember slowly unbraiding her glossy dark hair, back when it hung nearly to her waist and when she would have gazed up at him trustingly?
Bruce issued instructions to her without any expectation they could be followed. Eyes trained on his face, she nodded.
Finally, Gullick asked, “Are we ready?”
Ready? Realistically, they weren’t going to be tricking Roberto Escobar. They had only the hope of sacrificing this brave woman for the two young children she loved so much that she faced death without hesitation.
Inside, Bruce raged, but he gave a curt nod.
Gullick lifted the bullhorn. “Roberto, Lenora is here.”
The front door opened. They all waited, breathless, none more than Lenora, who pressed her hand to her breast as if to still her heart. Karin held her closer, if possible.
Again, it was Anna he held up. Even from this distance, they could all see that one side of her face was bruised and swollen. Her eyes found her mother, and her mouth formed the silent, desperate cry Mama. Lenora’s breath hissed in. Bruce fought to hold on to his cool.
“If you don’t want to watch her die, you will come by yourself to the door.”
“We told you she’d talk from this distance,” the negotiator said.
“Then I’ll kill Anna right now.”
He must have rammed the barrel tighter against his daughter’s head. Her eyes widened and she began to struggle.
“No!” Lenora called, and wrenched herself free from Karin’s encircling arm. “I’ll come if you will let Anna and Enrico both go.”
“You lie!” he bellowed.
“No.” She walked forward a few steps.
Bruce’s every instinct was to snatch her back. It took everything he had in him to let her do what she must.
“Where is Enrico?” she asked. “Bring him out. I want to see him.”
After a moment, the little girl was pulled back from the opening. A toddler was lifted instead. He wore no diaper, only a T-shirt. His face was soaked with tears that must have been shed silently, an extraordinary feat for a child that age.
Lenora’s whole body jerked. “Let them walk out to meet me.” Her voice was now eerily calm. “You can shoot them if I don’t keep coming.”
The silence was absolute. They all knew he might pull the trigger right now, throw the boy’s body out for his horrified wife to see. That might be all he wanted, to kill their children in front of her, then himself. To leave her shattered.
Bruce reached out and gripped Karin’s hand. She held on as tightly, her fear palpable in the connection.
After a moment, the door opened wider, just enough to allow the little girl to slip out.
She wore a dress; a pretty one, red, with white lace and a puffy skirt below which her legs were skinny and bare. That dress was so incongruous it struck a bizarre note. She raced to her mother, her hair flying behind her, tears streaming down her face now.
Lenora ran forward to meet her and fell to her knees. Their bodies met, and the weeping little girl vanished in her mother’s enfolding arms. She held her and rocked her for a moment that was heartbreakingly brief, then lifted her head and said clearly, “Now Enrico.”
“I want you closer first.”
She bowed her head and spoke to the little girl. Lenora’s hands lifted and smoothed her child’s hair lovingly, lingeringly. Anna might never know that touch again, but she wouldn’t forget it. Then Lenora stood, looked toward Karin and gave her daughter a gentle push.
Karin dropped Bruce’s hand and stepped forward, kneeling with her arms out. The girl came to her, but with many backward glances. Once, she stumbled and fell. Finally, she let Karin in turn enfold her, but swiveled in her arms to stare yearningly back at her mother.
Steadily, Lenora walked forward. She wasn’t five feet from the rickety steps when Enrico emerged. He scrambled down them on his short legs and raced in turn to his mother. Again, she crouched and held him. Not a single cop watching could tear his gaze from the reunion.
Finally, she sent him on his way, as well. He might not have been willing had he not had his sister in his sights. He ran to her, and the two seemed to meld, so closely did they cling.
Without a backward glance, Lenora climbed the steps. She never glanced toward the cops flattened against the wall, one perhaps ten feet to her left, another at the corner.
“Do you have a shot?” Marston was demanding.
“Goddamn it, do you have a shot?”
In their headsets, they heard the sniper in the best position saying urgently, “I can’t make him out. Damn it, she’s in the way. Now she’s in the way.”
This was the moment for her to fling herself to one side. Roberto would have a shot, but only one. Instead, his arm snaked out and snatched her inside. She seemed to go meekly, her head bent. Incredulous, Bruce realized she’d never intended to avoid her fate.
But the door didn’t shut. Something was happening inside. A scuffle, a clatter. A howl of rage.
The two closest SWAT-team members flung themselves up the steps. Bruc
e was running before his brain ordered, Move! What was happening? Why no shot?
It was over by the time he threw himself up the steps and inside. Roberto Escobar was facedown on the floor, writhing, cuffs being snapped on his wrists. He was screaming obscenities.
Lenora had backed away, hand to her mouth, staring at him. Huge shudders shook her. Bruce assessed the scene with a lightning glance. The handgun lay ten feet away, as if it had been kicked across the filthy, carpeted floor.
He took her in his arms, turning her away from the monster who had fathered her children and would have killed them rather than let her leave him. “What happened?” Bruce asked over her head.
One of the cops shook his head. “Somehow she brought him down. He was on the floor when I got in the door.”
Lenora pushed away from Bruce and swung around to stare venomously at the man being hauled to his feet. “He thought I couldn’t fight back. But somehow I knew what I should do. I chopped, like this—” she demonstrated a vicious snap of her hand “—and the gun fell to the ground. And then I kneed him, there.”
Bruce had never in his life seen a look like the one Roberto Escobar gave his wife over his shoulder as he was shoved out the door. Baffled hatred and incredulity.
She was right. It had never occurred to him that she would fight back.
Bruce found himself grinning. Maybe it was inappropriate. This minute, he didn’t care.
“It was the self-defense workshop,” he realized. “We talked about those things. A chop of the hand and run. And where a man’s most vulnerable.”
“That,” she said with an odd primness, “I already knew.” Then, suddenly, her eyes filled with tears.
“Anna! Enrico!”
She flew out the door and down the steps, then ran, lurching, across the field, passing her husband now surrounded by half a dozen cops. Karin let the kids go and they raced to their mother, both crying, “Mama, Mama, Mama!” the whole way.
Bruce watched both them and Karin, standing directly behind them. Once again, her fingers were pressed to her mouth, but now tears streamed down her face, too. She lifted her gaze to meet Bruce’s, and hers was filled with joy so transcendent, he felt it like a blow.
No, like a caress.
The Man Behind the Cop Page 18
