06 Every Three Hours

by Chris Mooney

  I’d like to see you try, Darby said to herself, looking the man over, trying to see where the detonator for the vest was, if it was within reach.

  ‘Would you bend over to save the life of one of these strangers?’

  Darby said nothing.

  ‘I wonder how far you’re willing to go,’ the gunman said. ‘Maybe it’s time to find out. Turn around, please.’

  Darby didn’t move. Said nothing.

  ‘I want to get a good, solid look at you,’ he said. ‘Now turn around.’

  She did, reluctantly, watching him over her shoulder.

  ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘Extremely,’ he replied. ‘I thought you might be wired. That’s why I made you disrobe.’

  ‘I’m not wired.’

  ‘When you came in, I saw a pen sticking out of your front jacket pocket. That wasn’t there earlier.’

  Darby felt a rush of freezing dread.

  ‘They make all sorts of secret gadgets these days,’ he said. ‘Did you know they make microphones, even pinhole video cameras, that can be hidden inside the support wire of a bra?’

  ‘I do now.’

  ‘I warned you not to come back here without Briggs and yet here you are, standing before me, naked and alone. What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘They made me come back in here, to talk to you.’

  ‘You said you wanted to help me.’

  ‘I do – and I will. But you’ve put me in a difficult position. I’m –’

  ‘No.’ The word echoed and then died inside the cold marble lobby. ‘I didn’t put you in this position; you offered, remember? No one asked you to step forward this morning, you did that all on your own. I admire your courage, but you’re a fool risking your life for these people. They don’t care about you. They don’t serve us and they place no value on the truth. They’re moral and spiritual cowards.’

  ‘Including Briggs?’

  The gunman didn’t answer. The pregnant woman sobbed, inconsolable.

  ‘Turn to your right and you’ll see my overcoat resting on the conveyor belt,’ he said. ‘Take it. Please. I don’t want you to be cold.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t misinterpret my manners for hospitality or absolution. I’m still deciding on whether or not to kill you.’

  14

  +02.11

  The gunman couldn’t kill her now – later, possibly, when he no longer had any use for her, but not now. Darby was sure his threat was nothing more than an attempt to keep her afraid. People tended to listen intently and obey without questioning when their life was threatened.

  He may not kill you right now, but he may decide to hurt you, an inner voice added.

  The overcoat was roomy and warm and smelled like cigars and, she was sure, Old Spice aftershave. It was like wearing one of her father’s old coats. She still had one in storage, a down vest he seemed to live in during the fall and winter months, even when he was inside the house; but the cigar and cologne smells had long since faded.

  The gunman was staring curiously at her. ‘Go behind the reception desk and bring a chair here so you can sit. You might as well be comfortable.’

  Darby didn’t want to sit. She did, however, want to check out the phone situation.

  Access to the reception area was by a swinging counter hatch in the back. As she approached, she saw the other two hostages sitting on the floor with their legs out in front of them and their backs propped up against the lobby wall. They had been bound and gagged like the pregnant woman. Unlike the pregnant woman, tape covered their eyes, and their ankles were secured together by multiple plastic ties.

  Darby moved behind the desk. It was exactly as she had feared: the gunman had cut the lines to each of five phones. Without the cords, the phones couldn’t be reverse-engineered to listen into the lobby.

  She pushed a rolling desk chair across the tiled floor, manoeuvering it around the coffee spills and other detritus.

  ‘Who has been put in charge of my party?’ the gunman asked.

  ‘The FBI.’

  ‘And the name of the ringleader?’

  ‘Howard Gelfand. He’s –’

  ‘The SAC for the Boston field office.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Just what I read in the papers. What about Peter Donnelly? Was he at the Mobile Command Post?’

  Again Darby considered the possibility the gunman was or had been law enforcement. He knew about the Mobile Command Post, and he had used the term ‘SAC,’ cop speak for ‘Special Agent in Charge.’

  ‘Donnelly was there,’ she said.

  ‘And what did Boston’s newest police commissioner have to say?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Ever the stoic.’

  ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘Let me save you some time: I’m not a law enforcement officer. Never was.’

  ‘Then what are you?’

  ‘Free,’ the gunman said. He motioned to the chair. ‘Sit. Please.’

  ‘I brought the chair for Laura,’ Darby said, nodding to the pregnant woman. ‘She needs to get off her feet and rest.’

  ‘If I wanted her to sit, I would have provided her with a chair.’

  ‘Her water could break. She could go into labour.’

  The man’s cold blue eyes seemed to glow around the balaclava.

  ‘I have an OBGYN on standby,’ Darby said. ‘Let them come in and take a look at Laura and her baby, make sure –’

  ‘Whatever happens to her and her baby is in God’s hands.’

  ‘Do you believe in God?’

  ‘What I believe doesn’t matter. What I know for certain is something else entirely.’ His gaze narrowed into slits. ‘Don’t waste time trying to appeal to my spiritual life; I no longer have one. Bring the chair closer and then step away.’

  After he had helped the woman into the chair, he rested the TEC-9 on her shoulder and pointed the barrel so it was aimed at her stomach.

  ‘Do you have children?’ he asked Darby.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Never had the urge.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Same sex partner?’

  ‘Nope. You?’

  The gunman didn’t reply, but she saw his face flex underneath the skintight balaclava, as though he were smiling.

  ‘Let the paramedics examine Laura,’ Darby said. ‘Please.’

  ‘What happened to your father? You didn’t tell me how he died.’

  The sudden shift in conversation threw her for a moment.

  ‘If I tell you, will you let the paramedics in here?’

  ‘I’ll consider it,’ the gunman said.

  ‘He was shot.’

  ‘Did he die on the way to the hospital?’

  ‘No. They rushed him into surgery and stopped the bleeding. But he had already lost too much blood and went into a coma. Belham Union Hospital could only do so much, so they transferred him to Boston, to Mass. General.’

  ‘And then he died.’

  ‘No. He …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He lingered,’ Darby said, and saw her father’s enormous frame, all six-foot-five-inches of him, lying in a bed and covered in a white sheet, his jaw hanging open to make room for the machine to help him breathe; the room filled with mechanical bleats and beeps.

  After the shooting, Darby had refused to go back to school. She sat by her father’s bed and spoke to him, and when she ran out of things to say she read to him Homer’s The Iliad and The Odyssey, his two favourite books. When her mother insisted she go back to school, Darby took the bus and then the T into Boston so she could be with him.

  ‘He was brain-dead,’ Darby said. ‘The doctors told my mother he would never wake up, so, after a couple of weeks, she decided to let him go. To disconnect him from life support.’

  ‘Where you there during his last moments?’

  Darby nodded. She had insisted, against her mother’s wis
hes.

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Thirteen.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She paused for a moment, as a display to show that she appreciated his words. ‘Now, about the paramedics –’

  ‘No,’ the gunman said, tightening his grip on the knife. ‘I asked you to bring Mr Briggs here and you didn’t,’ the gunman said. ‘I told you what would happen if you came back here without him.’

  15

  +02.14

  ‘You strike me as a reasonable and intelligent man.’ Darby let the words hang in the air before she continued. ‘Someone as reasonable and intelligent as yourself would know that there are things beyond anyone’s control. Things like the weather. Briggs is in the northern part of Vermont, and right now a nor’easter is pounding the state. That same storm is already moving through New Hampshire and making its way here.’

  The gunman did not answer.

  Darby spoke into the silence. ‘If you really want Briggs to come in here, then you’ve got to show them you’re a reasonable man. If you allow that bomb to –’

  ‘How do you know Mayor Briggs is in Vermont?’

  ‘He’s skiing there with his family.’

  ‘But how do you know?’

  ‘We located him. The Vermont state police are on their way to the ski lodge. They’re going to bring him here.’

  ‘A long drive – especially in this weather.’

  It was maddening to have to listen to him speak in that robotic monotone. She was denied vocal inflections and tone, the nuances of emotion; she had no idea if he were simply stating a fact or mocking her.

  ‘It is a long drive,’ Darby said. ‘Which is why the Vermont staties are going to drive him to a helicopter pad on the Mass. border and fly him here.’

  ‘Provided they can get ahead of the storm.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Odd that he picked this weekend to take the wife and kiddies skiing, don’t you think?’

  ‘Not if you like to ski. Briggs offered to talk to you on the phone, for as long as you want, and you –’

  ‘I didn’t ask to talk to him on the phone, I want to talk to him here, in person.’

  ‘Then maybe you shouldn’t have picked a day when you knew he wouldn’t be at home. Or was that part of your plan?’

  The gunman said nothing.

  ‘If Briggs were at his Brookline home, then he would be here right now,’ Darby said. ‘But he’s in Vermont. The FBI found and located him, and they’re moving mountains to bring him here to meet you.’

  ‘And if he decides not to come?’

  ‘I’ll make him.’

  ‘Brave talk from a brave woman. But that’s all it is: talk.’

  ‘I can turn up the heat so he can’t squirm away.’

  The gunman tilted his head to the side, his piercing blue eyes with their thick lashes narrowing in thought. Curiosity.

  She didn’t provide the details.

  Made him ask.

  ‘How?’

  ‘By giving me some insight into what your grievance is,’ Darby said. ‘Clearly he wronged you in some way. If you tell me what happened, I can help you make sure he’s held accountable.’

  ‘You’ve already lied to me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘That pen stuck in your jacket pocket. It was a recording device, wasn’t it?’

  Darby went with the truth. ‘It was.’

  ‘Yes. I thought so.’

  ‘They made me wear it.’

  ‘We always have choices, don’t we?’

  ‘We do. And I chose to help you. But you need to work with me.’ Darby paused, waited for him to speak. He didn’t, and then she said, ‘I’m telling you right now, if you allow that bomb to go off, you’ll never get your face-to-face with Briggs.’

  ‘He won’t come, no matter how many people die today. Mark my words.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  ‘You don’t know him.’

  ‘And you do?’

  ‘The man is a skilled liar. Ask him about Levine and see what he says. I bet he denies it.’

  ‘Who’s Levine?’

  The gunman didn’t answer.

  ‘If you’re so certain Briggs wouldn’t come,’ Darby said, ‘then why hijack a police station?’

  ‘Anything worthwhile is ultimately achieved through violence. History, Doctor, only remembers blood. You and I would still be under British rule if it weren’t for a group of brave rebels who demanded a better way of life. If what you’ve shared about former mayor Briggs is, in fact, true –’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Then I’m willing to be reasonable.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear you say that.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure,’ the gunman said. ‘What’s about to happen next is entirely your fault.’

  16

  +02.17

  ‘The bomb or a hostage,’ the gunman said. ‘Choose one.’

  Darby straightened, shivering beneath the coat.

  ‘You have thirty seconds to decide.’

  ‘Give me both,’ she said. ‘Show them that you’re –’

  ‘Twenty-six seconds.’

  ‘If you want the truth to get out, I’m your best and only shot.’

  ‘Twenty-three seconds.’

  ‘Go through with this and I won’t help you.’

  ‘Twenty-one seconds.’

  Darby wanted to lunge. She wanted to grab him and snap his neck. She wanted to leave.

  Then leave, a voice said.

  ‘Nineteen seconds.’

  She couldn’t leave. It would show weakness.

  ‘They’ll kill you,’ she said.

  ‘I’m already dead – and you will be, too, if you don’t make a decision. Seventeen seconds.’

  He can’t disarm the bomb from in here, she thought. Every radio and cell signal in the area was being jammed, and he had cut all the phone lines in the lobby. Or was he going to give her the location of the bomb and the means to disarm it?

  Another voice piped in: What if it’s a trap?

  ‘Fourteen seconds.’

  Think.

  The gunman’s true agenda lay with the Boston Police. She suspected his plan for revenge or whatever this was about didn’t entail killing a bunch of innocents with a bomb. If that was true – and she believed it was –

  ‘Eleven seconds.’

  – was it possible that the first bomb was designed not to kill but demonstrate his power and reach, to show that his demands were to be taken seriously? What if he had set the first bomb someplace where no one would be killed or hurt? What if the first bomb was nothing more than a warning shot across the bows?

  ‘Six seconds.’

  There was no way the gunman would have left Briggs’s whereabouts to chance. Darby felt sure the man knew Briggs wouldn’t be at home today, maybe even knew that the former mayor was skiing with his family in upstate Vermont – and would be delayed there if not outright trapped by the storm. If that was true, it meant the gunman wanted the first bomb to go off. It meant it was part of his overall plan.

  ‘Time,’ the gunman said. ‘What’s your decision?’

  The bomb. I’m willing to bet you put it someplace that, when it goes off, it won’t hurt anyone. But if I’m wrong, I won’t be able to live with the knowledge that innocent people died or were maimed.

  ‘I want the bomb,’ Darby said. ‘And the hostages.’

  The gunman said nothing.

  Removed the TEC-9 from the woman’s shoulder –

  ‘I’ll take a hostage,’ Darby said.

  The gunman aimed the weapon at her face, his arm steady. All he had to do now was squeeze the trigger.

  You won’t feel a thing, a voice added.

  That was probably true. What she felt right now was numb. Physically and emotionally numb.

  Coop’s words last year at the Colorado airport bar came back to her: I love you, but you’ve got a death wish.

  The gu
nman tossed the knife on the floor.

  ‘Take the black woman and leave,’ he said. ‘Drop the knife when you’re finished.’

  Darby picked up the knife. The gunman followed her as she moved to the rear corner of the lobby, wheeling the pregnant woman with him. The woman had gone silent and still, and stared blankly into space. She was in shock.

  The gunman watched Darby as she cut the plastic cuffs binding the black woman’s ankles and wrists. All it took was three quick snips. Cutting through the layers of duct tape covering the woman’s eyes was more difficult.

  ‘Come in here again without Briggs and the only way you’ll leave here is in a body bag,’ he said. ‘Do you understand?’

  Darby nodded.

  ‘Say it,’ he said.

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Don’t forget her cane. And leave my coat.’

  Cold and naked, she escorted the black woman across the lobby. She had reached the metal detector when he called for her.

  ‘Darby.’

  She turned to him.

  ‘The FBI, the press,’ he said. ‘They’ll need to call me something besides “the gunman”.’

  ‘What do you want to be called?’

  ‘Call me Big Red. After your father.’

  17

  +02.22

  Darby had to ask the woman three times to go outside and retrieve her clothes. When she finally did, the woman moved slowly, and she couldn’t stop blinking, like a flash bulb had gone off in front of her eyes. She seemed confused and her arms shook and not once did she try to pull at the tape covering her mouth.

  Darby dressed quickly. She saved the watch for last but refused to check the time. She stuffed it in her pocket, saddled with the bitter knowledge that she had failed, that she was powerless to stop what was happening, what was about to happen.

  Outside, in the roar of cold wind and rotors from the copters watching and recording, as she collected the pieces of the satellite phone, the memory of her last day with her father returned, and she saw herself at twelve, squeezing her father’s hand and digging her nails into his skin, drawing blood. It felt warm and sticky, a good sign – an excellent sign; it meant he was alive. It meant his heart was still pumping, and once his brain realized the machine was no longer pumping air into him, his brain would tell his body to go to work, to breathe on its own.