by Terry Odell
Scott answered the door wearing sweats and towel-drying his hair. He gazed at her, then at the bottle, then looked at her again. His initial smile faded. He swiped the towel across his hair again, momentarily hiding his face. When he reappeared, his expression was neutral. Composed. “I take it you Googled Macquarie.”
“Can I come in?”
He paused, then stepped aside and held the door open. “Have a seat. I’ll get glasses.”
She set the bottle on the coffee table and tried to get comfortable on the couch. Why hadn’t she thought about what she wanted to say before she barged over here?
Scott returned with two tumblers and poured a generous shot into each. “I guess you expect me to spill my guts.”
“You wanted me to know,” she whispered.
He drew in a deep breath. It seemed an eternity before he exhaled. He swirled his drink, stared at the glass, then took a swig. “I don’t talk about stuff much.”
“I’m no detective, but I figured that out for myself.” She patted the couch cushion beside her. “Since I already know the basics, you don’t have to tell me everything. I’ll accept whatever you’re willing to share. And I promise I won’t push.”
He sat at the far end of the couch, staring straight ahead, not at her. “I had a dentist appointment in the Macquarie Building. On the fifth floor. There was a bank in the lobby. And a snack bar. Run by a woman. Rina. Disabled. Handicapped. Challenged. Hell, I don’t remember today’s PC term. She was in a wheelchair, okay. I’d stop to buy something, chat a bit, whenever I was in there.
“Everything was normal. Sunny day.” He let out a weak laugh. “Okay, for this part of Oregon, maybe sunny isn’t all that normal. But people were going in and out, the bank was busy, and I was early, so I spent a few extra minutes with Rina. She showed me pictures of her grandkids.”
Scott seemed to be in a trance, totally reliving that day. None of the reports she’d read went into this kind of depth. None conveyed what it felt like. Ashley longed to take his hand, to ease the obvious pain of the memory. Instead, she picked up her glass and swirled the amber liquid, inhaling its aroma, staring into its depths. And waited for him to speak.
“A young woman came in. Mom. A kid in a stroller, three more running out of control. She hollered at them. They giggled. Just being kids. One ran toward the snack bar, asking his mom if he could have a candy bar. I was on my way to the elevator.” He took another deep swallow of his drink.
“I was watching the kid. Making sure he didn’t crash into the display. Smiling at the mom, letting her know I understood that kids were kids, that I wasn’t going to think she was neglecting her responsibilities. I didn’t see them come in.” His head drooped. “I wasn’t watching. I never noticed.” His voice cracked.
Ashley held her breath. Slowly, silently, she set her glass on the table. Inched her fingers toward Scott’s leg. Barely touching him. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care, because he didn’t pull away.
“Three of them,” he continued. “Wearing parkas. Knit caps pulled low. Looking down. It was a sunny day. No need for jackets. Hats. I should have noticed.”
When his voice cracked, he stopped. She waited. The silence dragged on. Ashley braved a gentle caress to his thigh. He rested his hand on hers.
“You can’t be responsible for everyone,” she said. Tears burned behind her eyes. Her heart felt as if it were clamped in a vise.
“I should have noticed. She’s dead. I should have noticed.” He drained his glass and turned it in his hand, as if it was easier to talk to it than her.
But he was talking. That had to be good. “Rina?” The word barely made it past the lump in her throat. She dug for control of her emotions. He needed someone to listen, not judge.
He nodded. “It was a total clusterfuck. The kid—” he choked on a sob. Sucked air. “The kid crashed into one of them. The guy grabbed him. I was in the elevator. Punching the floor button. The mom shouted. Rina shouted. I shoved my hand out to keep the door from closing, but I was too late. One had a gun to the kid’s head. Another grabbed my arm, yanked me out of the elevator. I couldn’t let them shoot the kid.”
“Of course not.” She moved closer so they sat thigh to thigh. His leg twitched a rapid staccato. He cursed. She massaged the offending muscle. “It’s all right.”
He leaned forward, and poured another drink. About twice as much as before. But he held it the same way he had the empty one. Staring, not drinking.
How could she help him? Because if he didn’t finish, didn’t release what was gnawing at his insides, she didn’t think they could move forward. And for the first time, she knew she wanted to move forward with Scott. She’d said she’d accept what he was willing to share. But now that he’d started, she knew he needed to share it all. Otherwise, he’d be trapped in his own personal prison. The bigger question was would she be able to handle reliving his nightmare with him?
She took a sip of her cognac. “Please?” she said. “I’m here. What else happened?”
“The lights went out.”
Chapter 29
Scott stared at the golden cognac in his glass. Tempting as it was to down the contents in one huge gulp, he’d taken a full dose of his pain meds. Detweiler and Kovak were hunting down next of kin for the second victim, and Scott had no desire to spend any more hours staring at paper or computer monitors. He’d come home and soaked in the Jacuzzi, with nothing other than bed on his agenda. And then Ashley showed up. Too soon. Twenty minutes later, and he’d have been out.
Face the inevitable. She’s here. You gave her the opening. Man up and deal with it.
He forced himself to think of it as a routine report. Give her the facts. Leave the gut-wrenching stuff buried inside, where it belonged. He took a small sip of his drink, letting the warmth flow through him before he went on.
“They had an accomplice, who’d managed to cut the power to the building. He got away before anybody knew what was happening. The emergency lights came on, but at the time, we didn’t know it wasn’t your everyday power outage. Not until the—” He searched for a more appropriate word than the ones he used when he thought of them. “Creeps. The creeps pulled out flashlights, which was a clue they’d had something to do with it.
“They herded everyone from the lobby into the bank. I could tell they hadn’t thought things through. They’d come in over the lunch break when the bank would be short-staffed, but they hadn’t considered how many people used the lunch hour to do their banking. If they’d been smart, they’d have waited until most of the customers left.” He shook his head.
“Then again, these people aren’t smart. Now they had twelve hostages, including four kids. I figured if I kept everyone calm until the cops got there, we’d be okay. By killing the power, they’d effectively locked themselves out of the bank vault until the power came back. They made the tellers empty their cash drawers, but they didn’t know there are silent alarms that go off when the last bill is taken from a drawer. And that the bank had backup systems so cutting the power didn’t disable the alarms. They’d made everyone turn over their cell phones, purses, wallets, but at least two people had already hit 911 when they saw the guy pull a gun in the lobby.”
He thought again of how stupid the asswipes—creeps—had been, having everyone pile their things into a pillowcase one of them pulled from his parka. “So there we were, sitting and waiting for the cops to show up. Instead of cutting their losses and surrendering, the creeps were determined to get the money out of the vault, no matter how long it took. After a couple of hours, there was dissension amongst the ranks. Their leader had to keep his two henchmen in order as well as the hostages.
“I tried to reason with him. Convince him to give himself up, that nobody had been hurt, that we could work something out. I tried to explain that the longer he kept people inside, the worse it would be. He wasn’t ready for that, especially with the other two trying to do things their way. The hostages were all trying to reason with them
. And the kids were starting to cry.”
The memory sent a film of sweat over him. He concentrated on the warmth of Ashley’s hand on his thigh, using it like a climber relied on his safety rope.
“Rina.” He swallowed, trying to erase the image of her face. “Rina. She meant well. But tact wasn’t her strong suit. Her language could get a bit … colorful. Being feisty was her nature—a defense mechanism to counteract her being confined to a wheelchair, I suppose. I tried to calm her down. Told her to let me handle things.
“I did what I could, but I’m not a trained negotiator. One of them came over, like he was going to hit her. Or shoot her. They all had their guns out. I stepped between them. So he vented on me.”
Ashley started to speak, but he put a finger to her lips and shook his head. He didn’t need sympathy. Or pity. Or anything else. He returned his gaze to his drink. Her eyes, glistening with unshed tears, were more than he could bear.
“The cops had cleared the rest of the building. I begged the creeps to let Rina and the mom with her kids leave. As a gesture of good faith. No go. The creeps made their demands. No hostages released until the power came back on and the vault opened. They wouldn’t budge and refused to pick up the phone again. A negotiator isn’t worth squat if the people on the inside won’t talk.”
“So you assumed responsibility,” she murmured.
“I’m—I was a cop. That’s what we’re supposed to do. Take care of the good guys and catch the bad guys.” He sipped from his drink. Between the alcohol and the pain meds, his brain was slowing down. The images were blurred, not 3-D hi-definition the way they were in his nightmares. It was almost as if he were watching, rather than remembering. Much less painful.
Soft, warm hands eased the glass from his grasp. For the first time other than in nightmares, he allowed the memories through the walls he’d built.
“If they were focused on me, they weren’t hurting Rina. Or anyone else. But everyone was getting restless. People were scared. Tempers were short. That’s when people stop thinking clearly, both the good guys and the bad guys. One of the creeps was losing his patience with Rina, who was wheeling her chair back and forth, muttering colorful epithets. I think he’d decided the bank job was a failure and was ready to start shooting anyone who bugged him. Starting with Rina.”
She stroked his hair. “You intervened again.”
He nodded. “This time, he had the gun pointed at me. Rina yelled at him that I was a cop. That they’d never get out of the bank alive if they killed a cop. That freaked them out. They subdued me, found my badge and gun.” His guts twisted with the recollection of the futility he’d felt at that moment. A cop never relinquished his firearm. “I’d lost any advantage I’d hoped to gain. And they had another weapon.”
“Subdued you? How? Did they shoot you?”
Now that would have been the ultimate humiliation. Being shot with his own weapon. Bad enough they’d tied him up, dragged him into a storage closet, and beaten the crap out of him. “No. When someone’s pointing a gun at you, and someone else is pointing a gun at a mom with four kids, you don’t fight back. They did what they should have done at the beginning. Searched everyone. But nobody else had a weapon. That calmed them down a little.”
“What did the cops do? On television, they always figure out a way to sneak someone inside—disguised as a paramedic, or a pizza guy.”
“The creeps weren’t talking to the cops outside. I tried to get them to open negotiations. I offered to be their spokesperson. Told them I knew what the cops needed to hear. If they had, I’d have been able to work in some code. Let them know what the situation was. Find out what was going on outside.”
“So the cops didn’t smash their way into the bank?” she asked. “Isn’t that what SWAT does?”
“There wasn’t a good, safe way to get inside without risking the lives of the hostages. And,” he added, “it takes a lot of planning before a SWAT team will enter a building, especially with hostages inside. They don’t show up and storm the door. Coordinating the effort takes time.”
“Which you were trying to buy.” Her hand was back on his thigh, as if she were trying to share his injury. He regrouped, trying to distance himself, the way he had when the shrink had insisted he “share his feelings.” Somehow, sharing his feelings with Ashley was a whole lot better. Not easier. Just better.
She waited, her brown eyes filled with concern. He picked up his glass, avoiding her gaze by staring into its depths again. “I told them for every hostage they let go, I’d let them whack at me.”
“Whack at you? My God, Scott, you make it sound like they slapped you with a flyswatter.”
He realized he was rubbing his collarbone. “These guys were ready to explode. They needed an outlet, and some whacking beat getting shot. Nobody else seemed to want to volunteer. I said the creeps were stupid. They thought if they didn’t kill me, they’d be okay. And they took some perverse pleasure in whacking a cop.”
“Rina. What happened to her? How did she die?”
He swallowed the rest of his drink. If nothing else, he’d sleep well tonight. “She had to play hero. Rammed her chair into the back of one of the creeps. Sent him over the edge. He shot her.” Blurred or not, the image of Rina on that bank floor turned his stomach.
He shuddered, remembering how, after that, they’d forced him into a supply closet. In the dark. The panic came back. The way he’d felt when he’d heard a shot from the bank. Wondering if they’d killed someone else. Wondering if they’d really released someone before each beating. All he could do was try not to piss himself. And wait for everything to hit the fan, wait to be rescued.
Even now, even though his brain knew he was safe, even with Ashley’s hand on him, he was in that closet. The combination of fury and helplessness threatened to overwhelm him.
He could sense the closet door opening. The sick laughter. Someone coming in. Kicking him in the ribs. Pistol whipping him. Smashing his leg with something that felt more like a crowbar than a baseball bat, neither of which would have been something he’d expect to find in a bank. But who knew what employees kept in their offices?
Fighting the panic attack, he got up. Wobbled. Ashley stood and grabbed his arm.
“I’m okay,” he choked out on a sob. He was not going to break down. Not in front of Ashley. “I need some sleep. You can go. Get ready for tomorrow. Your big day.”
She snaked her arm around his waist. Kissed him gently on the cheek. “Let me help you to the bedroom. I’ll feel better.”
He absorbed the comfort of her touch as she guided him to bed. But that’s all he could accept from her. “Go,” he said. “I don’t need you—don’t want you here. Not now.”
“Scott—”
“No. Get the hell out of here.” His words caught, and he dug down to his toenails for control. “I’m not some baby you need to coddle. Leave me the hell alone.”
Lying on his bed, he stared at the ceiling, listening to her go, waiting to hear the front door close before allowing grief to overwhelm him.
Chapter 30
Given the hectic atmosphere of the bakeoff, Ashley managed to keep her mind off of Scott. Which was a good thing, because every time he sneaked into her thoughts, her heart squeezed, and only partly because of what he’d been through. True, it was horrible. But that he’d finally been able to talk about it made her want to stop everything and wrap him in a huge hug. Which would undoubtedly mark the end of any hope of a relationship.
Relationship? He’d chased her out last night. Because he still couldn’t admit he had feelings, much less show them. Damn, she’d been through that with Barry. Giving. Never getting. Men. Been there, done that.
No more thinking about Scott. Nice neighbor. Period. Her relationship now was with Confections by Ashley.
She fielded another contestant’s request for permission to use ingredients from Ashley’s pantry.
“Sorry,” Ashley said. “To be fair, everyone has to provide their own i
ngredients. That’s clearly stated in the rules. However, if you have time, you can go get what you need.”
“Can someone else bring it?” The contestant—Ashley read her name tag—Natalie, was close to tears. “I know I had pecans in my bag. But I can’t find them.” Her eyes narrowed, and she gave a steely stare across the crowded kitchen. “Unless someone took them.”
“Did you label them? That was part of the rules, too.”
“Yes. I followed the rules. I checked and double-checked everything before I left home. I used a bright pink marker. Nobody should have confused mine with theirs.”
Ashley turned to her new hire, Holly, whose cheerful smile was fading. And this was only the second wave of contestants. “Holly, can you do a discreet check to make sure Natalie’s pecans haven’t been misplaced, please?”
While Holly went hunting pecans, Ashley agreed that if Natalie had someone bring in replacement pecans, she’d allow it. Placated, Natalie went back to her station.
“Found ‘em,” Holly said, waving a package of chopped pecans, clearly labeled with Natalie’s name in hot pink.
Ashley noted that Holly hadn’t pointed out that she’d found them two stations away. She sent Holly a silent message to keep an eye on that particular contestant. A pudgy redhead, whose name escaped her. Ashley attributed her inability to remember names to lack of sleep—which she attributed to her evening with Scott, whom she didn’t want to think of right now. This bakeoff had to be her first concern, and building a client base was a big part of it. She roamed the room, reading name tags and connecting them to faces, committing them to memory, as she checked on each contestant.
Her timer dinged. “Thirty minutes, everyone,” she said. Pans clattered, mixers whined, and contestants spoke to their creations, coaxing them to behave.
