You Must Remember This

by Marilyn Pappano

  When the cop returned from the diner, he gave the bags to Martin. The smell of egg salad and chicken salad sandwiches made his mouth water. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast—scrambled eggs and bacon at Juliet’s kitchen table. He’d shared the bacon with Hunter, who had warmed up to him enough to rub against his leg and look pathetically hungry. Juliet had chided him that bacon wasn’t good for the dog while munching her own, and he had teased her—Deliberately he pushed the memories to the back of his mind. He needed all his attention on the task at hand. There could be no screwups, no slips because his emotions weren’t under control.

  Stone called Brown and told him the food was on its way. When he hung up, Martin crossed the street and walked through the door. The carpeted hallway led straight to the back, passing an open reception area that was still lighted, with the computer still turned on and a radio playing softly. Hal’s administrative assistant had gone out for a quick lunch, never expecting to be away this long.

  There were lights on in Hal’s office, too. A glance through the open door showed shelves of leather-bound law books, a massive desk, rich, dark paneling, thick carpet. Everything in the room was elegant, expensive, including the suitcase standing next to the desk, its sterling tag engraved with Hal’s initials.

  Martin continued down the hall, making no effort at muffling his passage. As he climbed the stairs, he made a point of rattling the paper bags, of placing his feet heavily on each tread. At the landing he stopped and, injecting a nervous note into his voice, called, “Hello? Mr. Brown?”

  “Come on up.”

  The voice came from somewhere near the top of the stairs, but Martin couldn’t see him. The only light on this floor was a single bulb in the stairwell that didn’t illuminate much—a wood floor, shadowy mirrors, a stack of records storage boxes four high, two deep and four long.

  And Juliet. She was in shadow near the opposite end of the room, slumped in a chair. Her hands were tied behind her, and her feet, judging from the awkwardness of her position, were also bound.

  Fear tightened his chest and made breathing difficult. She was so still. Had Brown hurt her? Had he already killed her? Martin couldn’t bear the thought, but it wouldn’t be the first time some bastard had killed his hostage while continuing to negotiate for the hostage’s release.

  “Stop there.”

  Martin came to an abrupt halt at the top of the stairs. Brown was off to his left, hidden in the shadows, no doubt pointing his gun directly at him.

  “Another late night, Mr. Smith? Insomnia, isn’t it? Bet you never thought you’d be enlisted to deliver food to Grand Springs’s newest most wanted, did you? You can put it down on the boxes right there and get out.”

  At the mention of his name, Juliet straightened in the chair and managed just the slightest of glances over her shoulder before turning back. A small sound of pain accompanied the movement and stirred his anger. His fingers clenched the bags. “I’m supposed to see that she’s all right before I leave.”

  “You’re fine, aren’t you, Juliet?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “I’m supposed to see. To look at her. To make sure. Stone said so.” It was an easy lie—one that Brown shouldn’t object to—and too good an opportunity to pass up.

  “Make it quick. And don’t try anything. I’m prepared to kill you both.”

  Martin wasn’t sure whether that last was bluster or statement of fact. He wasn’t about to find out. Setting a normal pace, he walked the length of the room, the rubber soles of his running shoes squeaking with every step. As he walked, he took notice of the high ceiling that showed bare steel beams supporting the roof, the long mirrors, the blinds at the windows, the depth of the shadows. He memorized the exact position of Juliet’s chair in relation to both windows and to the chair where Brown had been sitting.

  Finally he circled in front of her, put a good three feet between them and crouched. She looked as if she might burst into tears at any second. “You okay?”

  She nodded, and one tear slid down her cheek.

  “She’s fine,” Brown said impatiently. “She’s tired, she’s hungry, she’s hot, she’s cold, and she goes to the bathroom a lot. Other than that, she’s a perfect little hostage. Just waiting for a Romeo, aren’t you, Juliet?”

  Mention of Romeo made her shift. “Hunter’s hungry,” she said plaintively.

  “Oh, yes, she worries about her dog.” Brown was scornful, as if the idea of worrying about anyone else when your life was in danger made no sense to him.

  “I’ll feed him.” Martin lowered his voice. “Juliet—”

  “Enough! You’ve seen her. Now, leave the food and get the hell out.”

  He set the bags on the floor, then slowly got to his feet. As he walked near her, he ducked his head and winked. She rewarded him with a weary, sweet smile.

  On his way out, Brown gave him one last instruction. He left the building and walked to the middle of the street, standing motionless until he saw the blinds open slightly, then close.

  “What’s that about?” Stone asked.

  “He wanted to make sure I’d left the building.” Martin returned the jacket to Stone and removed the vest while relating everything he’d seen, including the suitcase in Hal’s office.

  “Maybe that’s what set him off. Hal planned to leave town, and Brown panicked—figured it’d be safer to kill him than let him go.”

  “Why would Hal want to leave town? Why now?”

  Stone was silent for a moment before slowly answering, “Because he knew Dean Springer had been arrested and that it was only a matter of time until we came looking for him.”

  “And how did he know about Springer? You said no one outside the department was supposed to know.”

  “Obviously someone told him.”

  “Someone warned him. It may have been innocent. It may have just been someone wanting him to know that one of his mother’s murderers had been caught. Or Hal might have an informant in your department. Someone who knows he’s dirty. Someone who protects him. Either way, you need to find out.”

  “Believe me, we will.” Stone rubbed the back of his neck. “You look tired. Why don’t you go home and get some rest? Nothing’s going to happen tonight.”

  Martin’s smile was thin and mocking. “Under the best of circumstances, I don’t find it easy to sleep. I do need to feed Juliet’s dog, though. I’ll be back when I’m done.”

  * * *

  Juliet had never been so miserable in her life.

  Her head ached. Even when she thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse, the burning in her shoulders and arms increased another degree. Her fingers might never regain feeling again. Her back hurt. Her eyes hurt. Even her throat hurt, from her refusal to cry.

  She didn’t know how many hours had passed—at least thirty. Activity outside this morning had roused her from an achy, restless sleep. They’d had breakfast and lunch, delivered by a man she didn’t know, and there had been more phone calls, more demands and arguing and bad-tempered displays. For one endless moment this afternoon, she had feared that Brown was going to make good on his threat and kill her right then and there. He had backed off, but he remained edgy and restless.

  “What time is it?” Her voice was small, thin. She was so tired that holding her head up was an ordeal, but trying to doze in this chair, in this position, was more of one. Maybe tonight—

  She cringed at the idea of another night like last night. If that was the only option, the most merciful thing he could do was kill her now.

  “There’s a clock on the wall.”

  “It’s stopped.” She had come to hate that clock in the last thirty-some hours. Not knowing the time—except when her infrequent trips to the bathroom freed her wrist so she could check her watch—was making her crazy, and that big clock stuck on eleven-eighteen didn’t help any.

  “It’s nighttime. That’s all you need to know.”

  “Can I get up and walk around?”

  “No.”
>
  “Please… This is so uncomfortable.”

  “For God’s sake, would you quit whining?” he snapped. “I have a few things on my mind more important than your comfort.”

  She sat silent for only a moment, then drew a deep breath and said, “You know they’re not going to let you go. No matter what you do to me, they won’t let you get away.”

  “You’d better hope you’re wrong. I’ll die before I’ll go to prison—and I won’t die alone. The only way you’re walking out of here alive is with me.”

  She shook her head. “This is a mistake. You can’t get away with it.”

  “You think some white knight’s going to come riding in here to rescue you?” He was looking at her with pity, as if she were living in fantasyland. “You just told me yourself that they’re not going to let me go, not even to save your life. They don’t care whether you live or die. There’s no white knight for you, Juliet. There’s no Romeo.”

  “Maybe the police don’t care, but someone does, and he’s far more dangerous than you ever dreamed of being.”

  Brown came closer, right up into her face. “Sweetheart,” he said softly, so softly. “There’s no one more dangerous than me. Remember that.”

  * * *

  Down on the street, out of sight around the corner, Martin slipped on a navy blue windbreaker over a bulletproof vest. The jacket, with Police stamped on the front and back in bright gold letters, was identical to the ones Stone and Jack Stryker wore. Where he and Stone were armed with automatic pistols, though, Jack was carrying an H&K MP-5 submachine gun. Weighing less than eight pounds and fitted with a laser sight, it was perfect for their needs.

  “He’s a civilian, Stone. We can’t send a civilian into a hostage situation,” Chief Sanderson said, a worried look adding ten years to his face. “This is very unorthodox.”

  “He’s an unorthodox sort of civilian,” Stone replied.

  “He’s not going to sit back and do nothing while we try to get Juliet out of there,” Jack put in. “He knows what he’s doing. We might as well take advantage of it.”

  The chief didn’t look convinced but gave up the argument. “I’m getting too old for this,” he muttered. “I should be at the lake catching fish.”

  Martin snapped up the jacket, then glanced around. “Who’s got the best pitching arm?”

  “We just happen to have two All-State pitchers in the department,” Stone said with a grin. “Harris, Dailey…” he called.

  The two officers who came forward couldn’t be older than twenty-two. They were both wiry, and both looked more than capable of tossing the grenades through the front windows.

  The flash-bangs were Martin’s idea. The small canisters did exactly what their name said—exploded with a tremendously brilliant flash and a bang loud enough, under some circumstances, to rupture a person’s eardrums. They momentarily blinded anyone nearby and left a ringing in unprotected ears that would last a half hour or more. They would distract and disable Brown long enough for him, Stone and Jack to free Juliet and take the bastard down.

  Stone gave Harris and Dailey final instructions and confirmed the time needed for everyone to get into place, then they separated. Walking close to the building to minimize the risk of detection, Martin holstered his gun while inserting earplugs. That done, he drew the pistol out again, eased the door open and slipped inside. The lights were still on, the radio still playing. He led the way down the carpeted hall, then moved stealthily, cautiously up the stairs.

  On the landing, he paused to pull on protective goggles as Stone and Jack did the same. He lowered himself to the floor, then eased up the next few stairs, just high enough to see across the room. Juliet sat in the same chair, her hands still tied behind her. After thirty-six hours, she must hurt like hell. Just one more thing for Brown to pay for.

  Maxwell Brown was sitting down, too, in a comfortable padded chair pulled from the old dance school office. He had drawn a wooden chair close for a footstool and sat with his hands folded around his pistol. He didn’t look like a man in a world of trouble, but as if he were merely contemplating the day just passed or the one yet to come.

  Once Jack was in place, the laser ready to sight, Martin moved with absolute silence up the remaining steps and behind the stack of boxes. Stone followed.

  Martin looked at his watch, then mentally counted. Five, four, three, two—The shattering glass made Juliet jerk upright and brought Brown to his feet. The first flash-bang detonated, washing the entire room in intense light, vibrating the very structure of the building with its bang and sending a concussive wave through the air. Even with earplugs, Martin’s ears ached. Even with his goggles and his face bent against his arm, the brilliant light distorted his vision.

  As he crouched behind the stack of boxes, waiting for the second flash-bang, Martin suddenly doubled over. Sounds—loud, angry, pleading—assaulted him. A woman’s cries that dissolved into a voice, his own voice, made barely recognizable by fury. Leave us alone, you bastard, or I’ll kill you.

  No, honey, it’s all right. Please, your daddy didn’t mean it. Please don’t— A scream, long and panicked, then softer, horrified: He’s dead! Oh, my God, you’ve killed him!

  A nightmare come to life. It had plagued him for nearly a year, but this time there was a difference. This time he could see the faces—his own, much younger and distorted with shock, his mother’s, tearstained as she frantically shook the unmoving figure below him, and that figure. His father. Lifeless.

  This time he understood more than the intolerable fact that he’d killed a man. He knew that he’d killed his own father.

  And he knew who that man was.

  He knew who he was.

  The second flash-bang exploded, the concussion so strong that Martin felt it as a real physical force pushing against him. He gave a shake of his head to clear it, to dispel the shock of remembering, and forced himself to cling to the knowledge that Juliet was only a short distance away and she needed him. He left the cover of the boxes and moved silently toward her as Stone, back behind him, called, “Drop the gun, Maxwell.”

  Brown stood hunched over, clutching both hands to his ears, unable to hear himself swear. “You sons of bitches! You lying, deceiving sons of bitches, I told you I’d kill her!” He pointed the gun blindly and fired, pointed and fired again, then drew aim on Juliet as surely as if he could see her.

  “No!” Martin raced across the room, then made a flying tackle, knocking Juliet and the chair through the air as a burst of gunfire exploded through the room. They hit the floor and slid across the hardwood. Yanking the hunting knife from its sheath on his belt, he sliced through the bonds that secured her, kicked the chair away and shielded her body with his own. Even with his weight pressing her down, she was shaking. She clung to him, whimpering, whispering something—prayers, he thought, and added his own.

  The commotion ended as abruptly as it had begun. Slowly he lifted his head, turned to see Maxwell Brown lying motionless on the floor. At the other end of the room, Stone came out from behind the boxes and Jack was walking up the stairs, the H&K held loosely but ready to fire in an instant. Juliet was crying.

  He sat up, scooted back to lean against the wall and lifted her into his lap. He pulled off the goggles, removed the earplugs, then kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her jaw. “It’s all right, darlin’. We’re all right.”

  “I was so afraid.”

  “So was I, babe. But it’s okay. Everything’s okay.” He held her a moment longer, then pushed her back, brushed her hair from her face, dried her tears. “Juliet? There’s something I need to tell you.”

  Sniffling, she looked at him, her eyes liquid blue and full of love, and patiently waited.

  He tried to smile, but his mouth quivered. Hell, his whole body was quivering. Forcing a deep breath into his lungs, he looked into her eyes and found the peace he needed there. “My name is Colton Stuart, Roy Colton Stuart Jr., and I think I’m one of the good guys, and I love you more than any
thing in the world. Will you marry me?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Over the next two days, Juliet and Martin—Colton, she corrected herself—did little but sleep and talk. He’d had so much to tell—about the horrible fight that resulted in his father’s death, running away at his mother’s urging so the police wouldn’t suspect him, years struggling to survive on the streets. He’d joined the army to stay alive, had used the GI Bill to put himself through college and then gone to work for the Drug Enforcement Administration in California, New York and Florida, in the Caribbean, Mexico and Colombia. He’d been shot the first time in Bogotá, the second in Jamaica, both in the line of duty.

  He was one of the good guys.

  But she’d known that all along.

  It was Thursday afternoon, and they were standing in front of a grave marker at the cemetery. The stone was engraved with Olivia’s full name and the dates of her birth and death. Inscribed underneath in fancy script was the legend, Beloved Mother. Mart—Colton crouched to run his fingers lightly over the letters, the look on his face one of exquisite sorrow. It broke her heart.

  “When I killed my father, I wanted to stay here and take my chances with the law, but she wouldn’t let me. I begged her, but she insisted that I couldn’t risk it. I could claim self-defense, but I was a big kid—bigger than him—and I’d made no secret of the fact that I hated him. I wanted him dead. Everyone knew it, including the police.” Closing his eyes, he shook his head. “They used to come to our house on a regular basis. They hauled him off, Mom refused to press charges, and he was back the next morning. Nothing ever changed. Until that night.”

  He’d already told her about that night, how his parents had gotten into yet another violent fight. He had gotten between them, and his father had hit him, too, knocking him to the floor. With one knee in Colton’s back, Roy held him down and, as punishment for his interference, used his cigarette to burn his own son’s flesh. Colton freed himself, and, when Roy came at him again, Colton hit him. The force of the blow had carried him down the stairs, and the fall had left him dead of a broken neck.