by Sandra Brown
"No," Tiel said. "She refuses to leave."
"Shee-ut, what a mess," he expelled on a heavy sigh.
"Okay, I'll see what I can do."
"Sheriff, I can't impress on you enough how badly this young woman is suffering. And…"
"Go ahead, Ms. McCoy. What?"
"The situation is under control," she said slowly. "For the time being everyone is calm. Please don't take any drastic measures."
"I hear what you're saying, Ms. McCoy. No grandstanding.
No fireworks, SWAT teams, and such?"
"Precisely." She was relieved that he understood. "So far, no one has been injured."
"And we'd all like to keep it that way."
"I'm very glad to hear you say that. Please, please, get a doctor here as quickly as you can."
"I'm on it. Here's the number of the phone I've got with me."
She committed the number to memory. Montez wished her luck and hung up. She replaced the telephone on the countertop, glad to note that it was an older model and didn't have a speaker-phone feature. Ronnie might wish to listen in on future conversations.
"He's working on getting a doctor here."
"I like the sound of that," Doc said.
"How soon before he gets here?"
Turning to Ronnie, she replied, "As soon as possible.
I'm going to be honest with you. He guessed your and Sabra's identity."
"Oh, hell," the boy groaned. "What else can go wrong?"
"They've been located!"
Russell Dendy nearly knocked down the FBI agent who happened to be standing in his path when the shout came from the adjacent room. He didn't apologize for causing the agent to spill scalding coffee over his hand. He barreled into the library of his home, which, since that morning, had been converted into a command post.
"Where? Where are they? Has he hurt my daughter? Is Sabra all right?"
Special Agent William Galloway was in charge. He was a tall, thin, balding man who, if not for the pistol riding in the small of his back, looked more like a mortgage banker than a federal agent. His demeanor wasn't consistent with the stereotype either. He was calm and soft-spoken-most of the time. Russell Dendy had put Galloway's pleasant disposition to the test.
As Dendy stalked into the room blurting questions, Galloway signaled for him to pipe down and continued his telephone conversation.
Dendy impatiently punched a button on the telephone and a woman's voice filtered through the speaker. "It's called Rojo Flats. Practically in the middle of nowhere, west-southwest of San Angelo. They're armed. They tried to rob a convenience store, but it was thwarted. Now they're holding hostages inside the store."
"Damn him. Damn him!" Dendy ground his fist into his opposite palm. "He turned my daughter into a common criminal! And she couldn't understand why I objected to him."
Galloway once again signaled him to keep his voice down. "You said they're armed. Are there any casualties?"
"No, sir. But the girl is in labor."
"Inside the store?"
"Affirmative."
Dendy cursed lavishly. "He's holding her against her will!"
The disembodied woman said, "According to one of the hostages who spoke to the sheriff, the young woman refuses to leave."
"He's brainwashed her," Dendy declared.
The FBI agent from the Odessa office continued as though she hadn't heard him. "One of the hostages ap parently has some medical knowledge. He's seeing to her, but a doctor has been requested."
Dendy thumped the top of the desk with his fist. "I want Sabra the hell out of there, do you hear me?"
"We hear you, Mr. Dendy," Galloway said with diminishing patience.
"I don't care if you have to blast her out of there with dynamite."
"Well, I care. According to the spokesperson, no one has been injured."
"My daughter's in labor!"
"And we'll get her to a hospital as soon as possible. But I'm not going to do anything that will endanger the lives of those hostages, your daughter, or Mr. Davison."
"Look, Galloway, if you're going to take a limp-dick approach to this situation-"
"The approach I take is my call, not yours. Is that understood?"
Russell Dendy had the reputation of being a real son of a bitch. Unfortunately, meeting him hadn't dispelled any myths or changed Galloway's preconceptions of the millionaire.
Dendy exercised despotic supervision over several corporations.
He wasn't accustomed to relinquishing control to someone else, or even to giving anyone else a vote in the way things were managed. His businesses weren't democracies, and neither was his family. Mrs. Dendy had done nothing all day except weep into her hankie and second her husband's answers to the agents' probing questions about their family life and their relationship with their daughter. She hadn't offered a single opinion that differed from his, or voiced any personal observations.
From the start Galloway had doubted Dendy's allega tion of a kidnaping. Instead he leaned heavily toward the more viable version: Sabra Dendy had run away from home with her boyfriend in order to escape her domineering father.
Galloway's dressing-down had left Russ Dendy practically spitting with fury. "I'm on my way out there."
"I don't advise that."
"As if I give a rat's ass what you advise."
"There's no room in our chopper for extra passengers," the agent called to Dendy's retreating back.
"Then I'll take my Lear."
He stormed from the room and began shouting orders to his band of flunkies who were ever present, as silent and unobtrusive as pieces of furniture until Dendy's strident commands jump-started them. They filed out behind him. Mrs, Dendy was ignored and not invited to go along.
Galloway disengaged the speaker phone and picked up the receiver, so he could hear the other agent more clearly. "Guess you heard all that."
"You've got your hands full, Galloway."
"And then some. How're the locals out there?"
"From what I understand, Montez is a competent sheriff, but he's in way over his head and is smart enough to know it. He's getting backup from the Rangers and highway patrol."
"Will they resent our presence, you think?"
"Don't they always?" she came back dryly.
"Well, it came to us as a kidnaping. I'm leaving it at that until I know better."
"Actually, Montez will probably be glad to land the problem in our lap. His chief concern is that there be no heroics. He wants to avoid bloodshed."
"Then he and I are on the same page. I think what we've got here is a couple of scared kids who've got themselves trapped in a situation and can't find a way out.
What, if anything, do you know about the hostages?"
She gave him the breakdown by gender. "One's been identified by Sheriff Montez as a local rancher. The cashier is a fixture at the convenience store. Everybody in Rojo Flats knows her. And that Ms. McCoy who talked to Sheriff Montez?"
"What about her?"
"She's a reporter for a TV station in Dallas."
"Tiel McCoy?"
"So you know her?"
He knew her and mentally formed an image: slender, short blond hair, light eyes. Blue, possibly green. She was on TV nearly every night. Galloway had also seen her outside the studio among reporters at the scenes of crimes he'd investigated. She was aggressive, but objective. Her reports were never unfairly inflammatory or exploitative.
She was a looker and utterly feminine, but her delivery merited credibility.
He wasn't thrilled to hear that a broadcast journalist of her caliber was at the epicenter of this crisis. It was a compounding factor he could easily have done without.
"Great. A reporter is already on the scene." He ran his hand around the back of his neck, where tension had begun to gather. It was going to be a long night. He predicted the previously unheard-of Rojo Flats would soon be swarmed by media, contributing to the mayhem.
The other agent asked, "Gut i
nstinct, Galloway. Did that boy kidnap the Dendy girl?"
Beneath his breath, Galloway muttered, "I only wonder why it took her so long to run away."
CHAPTER 5
While they waited for the promised doctor to arrive, Doc gleaned a pair of scissors and a pair of shoelaces from the store's stock. He placed them to boil in a carafe usually used for water with which to mix instant hot drinks.
He also took from the shelves sanitary napkins, adhesive tape, and a box of plastic trash bags.
He asked Donna if they stocked aspirators. When she stared at him blankly, he explained. "A rubber bulb syringe.
To suck the mucus from the baby's nose and throat."
She scratched her scaly elbow. "Don't have much call for those."
Ronnie was nervous when Doc picked up the carafe of boiling water. He ordered him to let Gladys pour out the water, which the elderly lady was all too happy to do.
Following that activity, the wait grew to be interminable.
Everyone inside the store was aware of the increasing number of arriving vehicles. The distance between the gasoline pumps and the store's entrance was like a DMZ; it was kept clear. But the area between the pumps and the highway became congested with official and emergency vehicles. When that space was filled, they began parking on the shoulder of the highway, lining both sides of the state road. They hadn't arrived running hot, but the absence of flashing lights and sirens made their presence even more ominous.
Tiel wondered if the back of the building was seeing as much activity as the front. Obviously that possibility occurred to Ronnie, too, because he asked Donna about a rear door.
She said, "In the hall going to the bathrooms? See that door? Through that is the stockroom. Also the freezer where those crazy kids locked me in."
"I asked about the back door."
"It's steel and bolted from the inside. It has a bar across it, and the hinges are on the inside, too. It's so heavy I can barely open it for deliveries."
If Donna were telling the truth, no one would be coming through the rear door silently. Ronnie would be signaled of an attempt well ahead of time.
"What about the rest rooms?" he wanted to know. "Any windows in them?"
She shook her head no.
"It's true," Gladys chirped. "I was in the ladies'. If you ask me, better ventilation wouldn't hurt."
Those worries laid to rest, Ronnie divided his attention among Sabra, his hostages, and the increasing movement outside, which was more than enough to keep him occupied.
Tiel excused herself from Sabra's side and asked Ronnie if she could get into her satchel. "My contacts are dry. I need my wetting solution."
He glanced quickly toward the bag where it sat on top of the counter. She'd left it there after retrieving the hand wash for Doc. He seemed to be debating the advisability of granting her permission when she said, "It won't take a sec. I can't be away from Sabra long. She likes having another woman nearby."
"Okay. But I'm watching you. Don't think I'm not."
The young man's bravado was affected. He was scared and frazzled, but he still had his finger on the trigger of the pistol. Tiel didn't want to be the one responsible for sending him over the edge.
She moved to the counter where Ronnie could see her digging into her satchel in search of the small vial of solution.
She uncapped it and tilted her head back to apply the drops. "Damn," she cursed softly, holding a finger over her eye. She then removed her contact lens, dug around in the bag for another bottle of solution and proceeded to clean the lens in a small pool of solution in her palm.
Without turning to look at Gladys and Vern, she spoke to them in a whisper. "Does your camera have a tape in it?"
Vern-bless him-was inspecting a loose cuticle on his left hand and looking about as conspiratorial as an altar boy. "Yes, ma'am."
"Fresh batteries too," Gladys added as she folded her crew sock down to form a cuff around her ankle. She inspected it, then, deciding she liked it better the other way, rolled it back up. "It's all set to go. Get ready. We've got a distraction planned."
"Wait-"
Before Tiel could finish, Vern went into a fit of coughing.
Gladys leaped up, tossed their tote bag onto the counter within Tiel's reach, then started whacking her husband hard between his shoulder blades. "Oh, Lord,
Vern, not one of your strangling spells. Of all times to get choked on your own spit. For mercy's sake!"
Tiel popped in her contact and blinked it into place.
Then, as everyone including Ronnie was watching the old man gasp and gurgle in an effort to regain his breath while Gladys smacked away as though beating a rug, she reached into the tote bag for the camera.
She was familiar enough with home recorders to know where the power switch was located. She flipped it on and punched the Record button. She then set it on a shelf, wedging it between cartons of cigarettes and praying it wouldn't be noticed. She didn't have high hopes for the quality of the picture, but amateur videos had proved invaluable in the past, including the Zapruder film of JFK's assassination and the disturbing video of the Rodney King beating in Los Angeles.
Vern's coughs subsided. Gladys asked Ronnie's permission to get a bottle of water for him.
Tiel replaced the contact-lens cleaner and wetting solution in her bag and was about to withdraw her hand when she spotted her audiocassette recorder. She sometimes used the minuscule recorder during interviews as a supplement to the video recording. Later, when writing her script, she didn't have to sit in an editing booth and watch the video in order to hear the interview. She could replay it on the tiny recorder.
She hadn't intentionally brought it along. It was a tool of her trade, not a vacation item. But there it was, buried in the bottom of her bag, looking to her like a broadcast news icon waiting to be excavated. She imagined it radiating a shimmering, golden aura.
She palmed the recording device and slipped it into the pocket of her slacks just as Sabra gave a sharp cry. Franti cally, Ronnie looked around for Tiel. "I'm coming," she told him.
Giving the elderly thespians a thumbs-up as she stepped around them, she rushed back to Sabra's side.
Doc looked worried. "Her pains have slowed down somewhat, but when she has one it's acute. Where the hell is that doctor? What's taking so long?"
Tiel blotted Sabra's sweating forehead with a pad of gauze she had moistened with cool drinking water. "When he-or she-does get here, how effective can he be? What will he be able to do under these circumstances?"
"Let's just hope he has some experience with breech births. Or maybe he'll be able to convince Ronnie and Sabra that a C-section is mandatory."
"And if neither is the case…?"
"It will be bad," he said grimly. "For all concerned."
"Can you do without a bulb syringe?"
"Hopefully the doctor will bring one. He should."
"What if she hasn't dilated…?"
"I'm counting on nature taking its course. Maybe the baby will turn on its own. That happens."
Tiel stroked the girl's head. Sabra appeared to be dozing.
The final stages of labor hadn't even begun, and already she was exhausted. "It's good she can take these short naps."
"Her body knows that later it'll need all the strength it can muster."
"I wish she didn't have to suffer."
"Suffering is a bitch, all right," he said, almost to himself.
"The doctor can give her an injection to relieve the pain. Something that won't harm the fetus. But only up to a point. The closer she gets to delivery, the greater the risk of giving her drugs."
"What about a spinal? Don't they administer that in the final stages of labor?"
"I doubt he'll try to do a block under these conditions, although he might feel confident enough."
After a moment of thought, Tiel said, "I think going the natural route is nuts. I guess that makes me a disgrace to womankind."
"You have children?" W
hen his eyes connected with hers, it felt like she had been poked lightly just below her navel.
"Uh, no." She quickly lowered her gaze from his. "I'm just saying that if and when I ever do, I want drugs with a capital D."
"I understand completely."
And Tiel got the impression that he did. When she looked at him again, he had returned his attention to Sabra. "Do you have children, Doc?"
"No."
"Earlier you made a comment about daughters that led me to think-"
"No." His fingers loosely encircled Sabra's wrist, as his thumb pressed her pulse point. "I wish I had a blood-pressure cuff. And surely he'll bring a fetoscope."
"That…"
"Monitors the fetal heartbeat. Hospitals now use fancy ultrasound devices. But I'd settle for a fetoscope."
"Where did you get your medical training?"
"What really concerns me," he said, ignoring her question,
"is whether or not he'll perform an episiotomy."
Tiel winced at the thought of the incision and the delicate area subjected to it. "How could he?"
"It won't be pleasant, but if he doesn't, she could easily tear and that'll be even more unpleasant."
"You're doing my nerves no good, Doc."
"I imagine all our nerves have had better days." Again he raised his head and looked across at her. "By the way, I'm glad you're here."
The look was just as intense, the eyes as compelling, as before, but this time she didn't chicken out and look away. "I'm not doing anything constructive."
"Simply being with her is doing a lot. When she's having a pain, encourage her not to fight it. Tensing the muscles and tissue surrounding the uterus only increases the discomfort. The uterus was made to contract. She should let it go about its business."
"Easy for you to say."
"Easy for me to say," he conceded with a wry smile.
"Breathe with her. Take deep breaths inhaled through the nose, exhaled through the mouth."
"Those deep breaths will help me, too."
"You're doing fine. She feels comfortable with you. You neutralize her shyness."
"She admitted to being shy with you."
"Understandable. She's very young."
