The Ex

by Margaret Ferguson

  I continued studying Arnold’s face. He glanced at his watch before side-stepping away from me. Then he dragged the girl with him back to his corner at the end of the bar. “Tell them they have one hour,” he called out, matter-of-factly. But, before I could speak, he added, “Or someone dies.”

  The girl in his grip began softly sobbing again. Arnold had to know that those in charge would never allow anyone else into the diner. That would be handing him, and AJ more hostages, and that simply couldn’t happen. I bit the inside of my cheek, drawing blood once more as I glanced around the room at the injured and bound hostages. If they all survived it, they would be dealing with the emotional trauma of this day for decades to come. All eyes were on me. Hopeful. I glanced away. “Or he shoots another hostage,” I added in a low voice.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Special Agent Ryan said, before ending the call.

  “You do that,” I breathed out, to no one. “Overall, that went well,” I remarked dryly, looking between the gunmen.

  My eyes continued discreetly searching out stragglers that had been unable to escape, but that AJ hadn’t found. Yet. I spied two soldiers crouched uncomfortably behind a single wall that hid a small service area. When they met my gaze, I repeated the same slow shake of the head, warning them off with my motions. If they hadn’t already determined it, I had no way of telling them that he was targeting soldiers, no way of warning them not to come out. If we made a group effort, we might be able to eliminate them; however, it’s harder to coordinate if you can’t communicate. Therefore, the best I could do to keep them safe was to distract our captor from seeing those whom I was sure he would continue to target.

  I glanced through the gaping hole in the front of the ruins, noting that the local police force had been joined by others. Pretty much any law enforcement that could respond, had, each readily identifiable by three-letter acronyms on their jackets: FBI, ATF, DEA, DPS. I had a narrow but clear sight-line to the small assemblage of men, outfitted in an array of protective gear. All talking and pointing at—us.

  Those in command knew roughly what they were facing, never mind the backstory or supposed justification these two lunatics had created in their minds. They now knew the captors’ demands, somewhat. The television crew was just a means to an end. I glanced around casually. Unless they had managed to get eyes and ears inside, they had no clue how well-armed the gunmen were, much less how to predict the ultimate outcome. However, those experienced in these situations understood that the outlook was always unpredictable; because criminals were always unpredictable. And those in charge certainly knew, due to the armaments they were aware of, and those they weren’t, the men they were dealing with were, without a doubt, very dangerous.

  A middle-aged man with dark, reflective sunglasses appeared to be in charge. Wherever he pointed, someone broke away and walked that direction. I watched his demeanor. His mannerisms. He seemed confident and sure, and immediately I knew he was the one calling the shots. When he finally stood alone by a police cruiser, he stared into the building. Pensive. Though it felt like he was looking right at me, I knew he couldn’t see me.

  To the left, through a broken window, and crowds of people growing at the police barricade, two blocks away, I spied the media. From behind bright lights, antennae rose high in the air, as those hoping to cover the grisly scene descended on the incident zone. I envisioned reporters surrounding those who had barely escaped, asking them to relive every frightening detail of their ordeal—just to boost ratings. It was disgusting. It was unconscionable.

  It was expected.

  Though I couldn’t see them, I could hear the thwop, thwop, thwop of chopper blades as one or more hovered above us. I turned and looked upward. Almost every channel on the screens overhead was broadcasting, yet, not a single one had broken away for a special alert. Nor did any of them have a news ticker indicating that a hostage situation was happening right now in Texas. Tens of millions of people had no clue.

  They were merely living out their lives, oblivious to our circumstances. Some were shopping, or still in church, maybe even enjoying a quaint lunch, without fear of being attacked by a psychopath with a gun. Probably watching overpaid ex-athletes hawking products they’d never tried or speculating on the outcome of some game that had yet to be played. We weren’t even on ESPN’s radar. If I weren’t so focused on how we were going to get out of here alive, I’d have been outraged.

  Mary Beth reappeared, holding a child tightly to her chest. Two others followed, huddled against their mother’s side, anxiously clinging to her. Mary Beth looked Arnold’s way, nodding toward his gun. As though he understood, he awkwardly, but obediently, lowered his weapon until the children had passed us, nodding to AJ to do the same. When they walked by, I could swear I heard Mary Beth cooing at the youngest in her arms, while joking and cajoling with the two older children. Distracting them, as they made their way to the broken plate glass window and their freedom.

  Several first responders who saw the children approaching, hurriedly, but cautiously, moved to the window to assist in the heroic escape. Before passing them over, Mary Beth hugged each child tightly. Then, she merely stood there as they and their mother were whisked away. Keep going! Run! I wanted to scream. There she was, inches from freedom. Only, after they were safely in the arms of those outside, she turned and in Mary Beth fashion, immediately began checking on the wounded scattered around her.

  Chapter 20

  Damned hard-headed woman! I wanted to scream, but gritted my teeth instead, trying not to stare. The more frustrating she was, the more fascinating I found her.

  AJ tapped me on the shoulder with his rifle and motioned it toward Mary Beth. I picked up the remaining towels, and moments later was at her side. I sensed her trying to get my attention, so when I finally looked up, her gaze was met with a scolding glare instead. However, when I peered deeply into those dark pools, somehow, I couldn’t stay angry at her. And, once again, I found myself questioning my motives for being here. Had I not been so intent on seeing Mary Beth, had I not accepted the invitation, then neither of us would have been in this stupid restaurant.

  If it’s just a lunch—

  “I know you’re mad at me,” she began softly, without looking up.

  I opened the first-aid kit and handed her several alcohol wipes to clean the forehead of the young man at our knees, watching her hands as they carefully, gently tended and dressed his wound.

  “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t leave.”

  “Wouldn’t,” I corrected.

  Mary Beth exhaled. “Couldn’t,” she rebutted. “I couldn’t just leave all these people.”

  “Wouldn’t,” I repeated, refusing to look her in the eye.

  Mary Beth growled. “You are relentless,” she suddenly, but quietly, snapped. Immediately, she slid around to tend to another injured soldier a foot away, one of two that Arnold had deliberately shot less than a half-hour ago.

  “I’m relentless?” I retorted under my breath.

  “You said yourself you didn’t know what to do.”

  I scooted until I was beside her again. “I was trying to get them out of here,” I reasoned with my hands and my expressions. “So, I exaggerated the circumstances. So, what?”

  “You mean, you lied.”

  I looked at her, perplexed. “Hell yeah, I did!” I exclaimed a little too loudly. When we both glanced up, father and son were looking in our direction. We quickly looked down, busying ourselves with our patient. I pursed my lips, completely irritated. “And, I would lie again,” I stressed, lowering my voice. “And again,” I reaffirmed, sternly. “Whatever it takes to get these people the hell out of here, and to safety.”

  Her hands carefully lifted and wrapped the man’s arm.

  Her non-response was annoying. “Well, you staying just gave them one more bargaining chip,” I reprimanded.

  “I thought,” Mary Beth breathed out resignedly, without facing me. “I thought if I stayed, I could help save lives,�
� she said softly, leaning over the bandaged patient.

  “No talking!” AJ yelled.

  “You’re impossible!” I growled through clenched teeth.

  “Me?” Mary Beth retorted. Yet, when I turned, she wore no smile. “Are you the pot? Or the kettle?” She cut her eyes at me, just before picking up the emergency case and walking a few steps to a woman cowering under a booth, one arm dangling grotesquely at her side.

  I dropped my head, shaking it. “Impossible,” I mumbled under my breath, fists clenched tightly as I tried not to laugh hysterically at my circumstances. “You don’t just give me an impossible task, but you give me an impossible woman, too?” I could feel her staring at me, or maybe it was glaring as I continued talking to myself. I glanced heavenward and sighed, silently quipping as I stood, “Who says you don’t have a sense of humor?”

  When I looked at her, she quickly averted her eyes. As I made my way to her, my eyes became focused on AJ, who was slowly making his way our direction. I hesitated for a moment before kneeling beside her again. When she didn’t say anything, I did. “I don’t want to argue with you.”

  “Good, because I’m not used to being told what to do.”

  “I wasn’t trying—”

  “Look.” She turned to me abruptly. “I know you think you have to protect me, but I can take care of myself,” she added firmly.

  “I can see that,” I replied with a wry grin. I watched her gently tend to the injured woman’s arm, while she occasionally cast glances toward the armed men.

  “I said, stop talking!” AJ warned as he neared.

  “Maybe I just don’t have your faith.”

  She stopped what she was doing and turned to me. “You have plenty of faith, Eddie. You’re just putting all your faith in the wrong place.”

  “Wow. That was harsh.”

  “Eddie,” she sighed, as she finished wrapping the lady’s arm. “Whatever happens here, it’s not in your hands any more than it’s in theirs.”

  AJ slowly continued making his way to us.

  “Oh, I beg to differ,” I added with a hint of sarcasm, regretting the words the moment they left my mouth.

  Mary Beth put her hand on my forearm, her voice and eyes softening in that reassuring Mary Beth way. “Eddie, we’re going to get out of here.”

  I scoffed. Yeah, in body bags. AJ arrived, standing over us, his rifle dangling between us. I peered up at him.

  “You’ve spent way too much time here,” AJ insisted.

  “Well, well,” I retorted. “Look who’s back again?”

  I could see Mary Beth’s eyes widen as she slowly shook her head in warning.

  AJ took the disoriented, bloodied woman by her uninjured arm and pointed at his father. He helped her to stand, then she meekly, hobbled toward Arnold, her good arm hanging limply while the other clung to her chest, nestled tightly in a sling that Mary Beth had made from a tablecloth.

  “You here to help?” I queried, looking up.

  “I’m here to make sure you don’t try and escape,” he replied.

  I looked up at him. “Is that why they drummed you out of the Army?” AJ froze in place. “For bullying? Or did you go the section eight route? Maybe you like wearing women’s underwear.”

  A couple of the male hostages snickered while AJ simply glared at me, horrified.

  “I mean, if that’s your thing, then go for it.”

  “Stop it!” he demanded.

  “I get it. Not everyone’s cut out for the military.”

  “Shut up!” he hollered, red-faced.

  “I’m sure dear old Dad was disappointed, but hey, not everyone’s cut out to—”

  “I said, shut up!” he interrupted.

  “And Mom? Ah, I’ll bet your mom tried to shield you, didn’t she? From your dad, maybe? From the big bad military machine?”

  “Don’t you talk about my momma,” he was so angry he seemed on the verge of tears. Either that, or he was going to stroke-out on us and save me the trouble of killing him.

  “That’s enough!” Arnold yelled from across the room.

  AJ shoved me from my crouching position, so I re-assumed it. “Big man, you are,” I taunted.

  Mary Beth side-glanced me, nervously. “What are you doing?” she whispered through tight lips.

  “I’ve got this,” I assured her, before turning my attention back to AJ. “I’ll bet AJ here still lives at home, don’t you?”

  AJ started rocking leg to leg, gripping his rifle tighter.

  “Don’t you?” When he didn’t reply, I continued hounding him. “Does your momma still set out your clothes every day?”

  AJ pushed me hard. “I said, don’t talk about my momma!” he spat, pulling the pistol from its holster and aiming it at me. “I could shoot you now and not lose any sleep,” he assured me.

  “But you won’t,” I taunted. “You know, AJ, you can point that thing at me all day long, but I’m still not afraid of you.”

  “Well, you should be.”

  “But I’m not,” I assured him. Then, in a moment of opportunity, he glanced away. Instinctively, I quickly reached for his pistol.

  And then everything went black.

  Chapter 21

  “Talk to me.” Foster slid his sunglasses up and onto the top of his head, glancing around the room, addressing no one in particular. “What more do we know than we did a half-hour ago?”

  “Well, we talked to Benson’s neighbors, and he pretty much lives a quiet life.”

  “Don’t they all?” Thrash joked.

  “Keeps to himself. Served two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. Has one son who also served.”

  “Married?”

  “Divorced. The ex- died about eight months ago,” came the response.

  “Sick?” he asked.

  “Fell down a flight of stairs,” the Sergeant replied.

  “Yikes!” Thrash exclaimed.

  “It was listed as an accident.”

  The CIT Leader asked, “Was there a history of domestic violence?”

  Odenweller flipped through a few pages. “Yes, but—” she looked up, oddly. “It wasn’t the husband.”

  “The kid?” Foster asked.

  Odenweller nodded. “Says here, Arnold Benson, Jr., AJ, was arrested last year for assault. Victim, Barbara Benson.” She held up a picture of AJ’s mother, the left side of her face bruised and swollen.

  “Yikes,” Thrash said again.

  “I wonder what Dad thought of all this,” the chief remarked.

  Odenweller continued reading. “Dad’s the one who bailed him out.”

  Foster turned suddenly; then, he began to scratch his chin. “Okay,” he paced as he talked, his voice becoming more anxious with each sentence. “With the kid’s history, I want to know if there was an investigation after her death. Did he serve time after the arrest? If not, why not? What was the disposition of the case? Did he and Mom make up after the incident, or was there a restraining order?” Foster’s heart raced as he looked around the room.

  Odenweller scanned the file in front of her, flipped a few pages forward and back, then made a face and shook her head. “Not long after the arrest, he spent some time in the VA psych ward, but that’s all it says.”

  “Some time?”

  Odenweller continued to flip through the file, then shrugged.

  Another officer interjected. “According to the neighbors, he spent quite a bit of time in the hospital. Actually, they made it sound like he'd been in and out of both the VA, and the local psych hospital quite a lot. For at least the past couple of years.”

  “Okay.” He continued to rub his chin, as though it helped him to think more clearly. “Reach out to the Army and VA and see what they can tell you. On both of them.” Everyone opened their mouths, and the chief cut them off. “I know it’s Sunday, and I know it’s Veteran’s Day. I don’t care!” he yelled. “Pull them off their couches or off the floats they are riding on. We’re dealing with a hostage situation, folks. Thos
e guys in there,” he pointed out the glass window, “they picked this particular day for a reason. And I don’t think it was random. So, find out why and get back with me.”

  No one spoke as they all stared at him, waiting to see if the tirade had ended.

  Foster lowered his voice. “How’s the bomb squad coming on the devices?”

  “One is buried in three inches of Sakrete, the other, wired to the ignition of an old work truck. It’s going to take some time.”

  “How long?” He raised his voice again.

  “An hour more. Maybe two, max.”

  The chief shook his head as he paced, picking at a bit of meat still stuck between his teeth from the chicken fried steak lunch he’d just finished before the first call came in. He landed at the window, leaning against it as he looked down upon the organized scene in the street. What the hell is all this for? And why did you ask for a television crew? He furrowed his brow. “Have they reached out to any of the families?”

  “You think this could be a ransom?”

  His staff looked at one another, everyone shrugging, including Foster. “Hell, no. I don’t think it’s a ransom, but we need to rule it out.” He turned back to his CIT Leader. “Well, has he?”

  “Not that we know of,” Thrash replied.

  Foster turned and snapped his fingers. “Well, find out. Check with every family and make sure. And show them all pictures of the perps and the wife. See if anyone knows them.”

  Odenweller held up a sheet of paper. “I’m on it.” Then, she rushed from the room.

  “Claymore mines. AR-15s. Explosives. These guys are up to something,” he muttered under his breath. “But what?”

  “It’s only been an hour, sir.”

  “That’s one hour too long, okay?” he replied. “Alright, people. Let’s work this thing. In about half an hour we have to start making up excuses for why we aren’t sending in their television crew.”