The car lurched ahead, tires screaming. Faintly I heard a child’s startled, high-pitched voice. Friedman was beside me. As I raised my revolver, aiming for the Pontiac’s tires, Friedman’s gun thundered in my ears. I fired once, twice. The car swerved. Behind me, I felt the concussion of another gun’s muzzle blast. From across the bridge came a black and white State Police car. Suddenly the highway patrol car braked, turning sharply over the dividing strip, bouncing, blocking two of the three outbound lanes. One of Rawlings’ rear tires was thumping, flat—the right rear. The GTO swung toward the right, making for the one free lane. The highway patrolman moved with him, cutting him off. The Pontiac jerked to a stop, pinned against a low metal wall, two hundred yards ahead of us. I jumped for our car, sliding in beside Canelli, reaching for the microphone. As we moved forward, Canelli pointed ahead.
“He’s got the goddamn kid, Lieutenant. Look.”
The passenger’s door on the Pontiac’s right side was swinging open. Rawlings was clambering out, his left arm crooked tight around the boy’s neck, his right hand holding a pistol.
“Take it easy,” I ordered Canelli. “Drive slow. It’s a different ball game now. He’s not going anywhere.”
“Except maybe over the railing,” Canelli was muttering.
Glancing behind, I saw Friedman following closely. On either side, automobiles were already tightly impacted, their horns blaring. Shock-whitened faces peered from rolled-down windows; a few aggressive rubberneckers were already out of their cars. To my right, I saw Stark leaving his patrol car, taking cover behind a succession of stalled vehicles as he moved cautiously toward the GTO. He carried a short-barreled shotgun.
“Turn across the road,” I ordered Canelli, “so we can have some cover.” On the radio, I heard Friedman telling Markham to do the same. I was semaphoring my arm, signaling all vehicles to stop.
A moment later, with our cars parked bumper-to-bumper, approximately fifty feet from Rawlings, we were blocking all three of the bridge’s outbound lanes. Keeping low, I slid from the car, followed by Canelli, grunting laboriously. Friedman and Markham were already crouched down behind their car. I motioned for Markham to join Canelli while I slipped behind Friedman’s car. Cautiously raising my head over the car’s hood, I saw that Rawlings had climbed up to the bridge’s pedestrian walkway. He stood flattened against the four-foot railing, legs braced wide, holding the boy as a shield. The boy’s head reached only to Rawlings’ chest. A sniper could easily shoot the suspect through the head.
But Rawlings held a .45 automatic pressed against the right side of the boy’s neck.
On the radio, Friedman was calling for assistance. Finishing the call, he tossed the mike inside the car, then drew his revolver.
“This,” he said, “is a mess. Look at that traffic. In five minutes it’ll be backed up all the way to City Hall.”
“Did you call for a sniper?”
“Yes. I told Culligan to bring the kid’s mother along, too.”
“Why’d you do that, for God’s sake?”
“It adds pathos,” he answered blandly. “We’ve got kind of a combination hostage and potential suicide situation here. Relatives and clergymen help, sometimes.”
“Sometimes not, too. Swanson’s not exactly the mother of the year.”
“Sorry. I never talked to her. You want me to countermand the order?”
“Never mind.” And to Canelli: “Bring me the bullhorn.”
Waiting for the horn, I kept my eye on Rawlings. He was standing perfectly motionless. His heavy features were twisted into a grotesque mask of wild, blind hatred. The boy was limp with terror, his throat working convulsively, his fear-numbed body racked with sobs. His head was bobbing loosely as he hung suspended, like a limp, lifeless puppet, from Rawlings’ muscular arm. Now Rawlings jabbed at the boy’s head with the muzzle of his automatic. I could see the boy wincing.
Next to me, Friedman was haranguing the bridge director, demanding that a single inbound traffic lane be blocked, reserved for police vehicles outbound from the city. Countless automobiles, immobilized, blackened the entire bridge approach.
Panting, Canelli was handing me a bullhorn. Behind us, the first squad car was pulling up, traveling against the inbound traffic, forcing its way. As Friedman briefed the two patrolmen, I clicked on the bullhorn, turning to the motorists behind us.
“Everyone stay in your cars,” I said, talking against the blaring echo of my own voice. “Repeat: remain in your cars. Switch off your engines. We have a man with a gun—a dangerous situation. But if you stay in your cars, you’ll be safe.” I paused, then added, “It’ll probably take some time to return the situation to normal, so you’d better plan accordingly.”
Two more patrol cars, a police station wagon and an ambulance arrived. In one of the cars was a sniper, carefully carrying a scope-sighted M-l. Friedman dispersed the newly arrived men and their vehicles, tightening the ring around Rawlings. I beckoned for the sniper to join us, behind Friedman’s car.
Now, gripping the bullhorn, I turned to face Rawlings, ringed by a ragged semicircle of police vehicles, each one sheltering two or three crouching officers. In five full minutes the subject hadn’t moved. I noticed that the boy’s pants were stained. Paralyzed by fear, he’d urinated.
Still behind Friedman’s car, carefully placing my midsection in line with the door’s center posts, I slowly straightened to my full height, exposing my head and shoulders above the roof. Holstering my revolver and resting the bullhorn on the roof, pushing the “on” button, I said, “This is Lieutenant Hastings, Rawlings.”
He was twisting toward the sound, now facing me fully. I could see his hand tightening on the big automatic.
“Place the gun on the pavement, Rawlings, and step away from it. Let the boy go. You won’t be hurt.” I turned to the half-circle of police cars, saying, “As long as the subject remains where he is, I don’t want anyone to fire. I don’t want him harmed.”
Most of the officers had heard it all before, and realized that I was speaking for Rawlings’ benefit. In a stand-off situation, they would never fire without specific orders, even if they were fired upon. Their job was to take cover, aiming their weapons at the subject “in a threatening manner,” quietly awaiting orders. It was all in the manual: page—paragraph—line—
I clicked off the bullhorn. Without moving my head, addressing the sniper whose rifle rested across the hood of Friedman’s car, I said, “Take aim at his head. Have you got your scope sighted in for this range?”
“Yessir. I’ve just done it.”
“Are you familiar with your weapon?”
“Yessir.”
I glanced down at his face, strange to me. He was barely twenty-five. But his hands were steady, his eyes calm and clear. With his cheek snug against the rifle’s stock, he looked convincing—steady enough for the job.
“What’s your name?”
“Harrington, sir.”
“When’s the last time you fired that rifle—that particular rifle?”
“Three weeks ago, sir. I—”
“He’s all right, Frank,” Friedman cut in. “He can hit a dime at a hundred yards. I’ve seen him do it.”
“Have you ever fired at a man, Harrington?”
Without taking his eye from the scope, Harrington drew a deep slow breath. “No, sir. Not with a rifle.”
“Well,” I said, “I hope you don’t have to start now. If you do, though, I want that bullet right between the suspect’s eyes. Otherwise, we’ll have a dead kid on our hands. Clear?”
I saw him blink, then slowly swallow, twice. He’d put his uniform cap on the hood beside the rifle. I could see perspiration beading his forehead. But his voice was steady as he said, “Clear, sir.”
I stared at him for a last long, searching moment. Finally I made my decision: if I had to order Rawlings killed, Harrington was my man.
Clicking on the bullhorn, I turned back to Rawlings. “Rawlings,” I said, pitching my voice t
o a slow, steady note. “Put the gun down. Walk away from it.”
“Screw you, Lieutenant.” His voice was low and harsh—ominously steady, purposeful. Yet Rawlings’ cold menace promised hope for the boy. Hostages are usually killed by mistake—irrationally, hysterically.
“You can’t get away, Rawlings, and you know it. You’re just making it hard on yourself.”
“I think I can. I think you’re going to give me a car. Unless you want this kid’s brains splattered all over the pavement.”
I tried to make my voice almost casual as I said, “Don’t be dumb, Rawlings. The way things are now, you’ve got a chance. Nobody really knows what happened Monday night. Maybe you had a reason for what you did. Maybe not. But if you harm that boy now—here—you’re finished.”
“I want a car. Yours.”
“Forget it.”
“This kid’s time is running out, Hastings. Another minute, and he’s dead. One more minute.”
“And the second after that, you’re dead. When you fire, so do we.”
“You’re bluffing, Lieutenant. That’s murder, in front of a thousand witnesses.”
“Not if you fire that gun, Rawlings.”
“I want a car.”
“And I want that gun. Think it over, Rawlings. Take your time.” Without moving my head, I spoke to Harrington: “Get ready. If I say ‘fire,’ that’s it. You’ll just have the one word—the one command. And the responsibility is mine—entirely mine. Lieutenant Friedman is your witness. Clear?”
“Yessir.”
“It could be any second now.”
“Yessir.”
And to Friedman, I said, “What’d you think, Pete?”
“Wait a minute.” He’d been speaking on the radio in a low, terse voice. Now he broke off, saying to me, “I’ve just been talking to the state policeman who blocked Rawlings’ car. He’s closest to the scene, barely thirty feet away, across the circle. And he doesn’t think Rawlings has his gun cocked. It’s a Colt .45 automatic, you know, with an external hammer.”
“Thinking isn’t good enough. Can’t he be sure?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t want to take the responsibility, and I can’t blame him. You want me to move around there and look for myself, then call you on the radio? If that gun isn’t cocked, we’ve got a big fat half-second to play with.”
I hesitated. I had to know about the gun. But I desperately needed Friedman with me, for my own protection, and Harrington’s.
“Let Canelli go,” I said finally.
“All right.” He beckoned for Canelli, who was now standing casually erect behind his car, one hand in his pocket, loosely holding his Magnum.
“I’m getting impatient, Lieutenant,” Rawlings called. “I’m going to start counting. To ten.”
“You may as well make it a hundred, Rawlings. We aren’t moving. And we aren’t giving you a car.”
“You don’t think I’ll shoot the kid, do you?”
“Frankly, no.” I turned my head slightly, watching Canelli’s bulk slipping awkwardly from car to car. He looked like a fat, overgrown kid playing cops-and-robbers.
“Frank,” Friedman said sotto voce. “Look behind.”
Slowly turning, I saw Culligan picking his way through the crowd of cars, holding tightly to Jane Swanson’s arm. Again facing Rawlings, waiting for his reaction to his girl friend’s presence, I spoke softly to Friedman: “Tell Culligan to get her over behind my car. He and Markham can hold on to her.”
“Roger.”
As Friedman was signaling to Culligan, I saw Rawlings’ eyes widen. He’d seen her.
Suddenly, wildly, he was laughing. “What’re you doing, Hastings? Making it a goddamn family party, or something? Is she supposed to be a witness to the execution, or what?”
“No, Rawlings, she’s—”
“Let my kid go, you goddamn son of a bitch.” Screaming, she was pulling against Culligan, lunging toward Rawlings like a wild animal maddened by the rasp of a rope, kicking, gouging, spitting.
“Grab her, Markham. Help Culligan. Get her down behind the—”
As Markham moved quickly toward her, Jane Swanson suddenly whirled on Culligan. Her free hand, clawing, ripped at his face, his eyes. Her knee came flashing up between his legs. Grunting, Culligan exhaled, doubling up, eyes closed. As Markham reached for her, she pulled free. She was between the two cars, out of reach. Eyes wide, body tense, she stood at bay, trapped in the same circle that ringed Rawlings and the boy. Markham, coldly furious, stood poised between the two cars, ready to go for her. Rawlings’ automatic was moving in our direction, away from the boy’s head.
“Hold it, Markham,” I said. “Don’t do it.”
Beside me, I heard Friedman swearing earnestly. “This,” he said softly, “could be a horse on me.”
“Maybe not. Maybe she’ll do our job for us.”
“If she does, it’ll be the hard way. I’m sorry, Frank. This isn’t going to look so good in reports—for either of us.” He was standing beside me now, watching the woman intently as she advanced on Rawlings, a single slow step at a time, oblivious to us. She held her arms rigidly at her sides, fists clenched. Her breasts rapidly rose and fell; her nostrils flared. Her gaze impaled Rawlings with the blazing, heedless, single-minded fury of a character out of Greek tragedy. Her lips were moving. Her words were inaudible, but her mouth curved with vicious, obscene contempt. Her eyes never left Rawlings.
The automatic was now aimed at the woman, who was advancing steadily. Her voice rose: “Why don’t you shoot me, you lily-livered bastard? Are you too chickenshit to pull the trigger? Is that it? Even with a gun, you aren’t good for anything except scaring kids. Because you aren’t scaring me, you—you big-talking, milk-sopping, no-balls son of a bitch. You never did scare me, even when you were beating on me. All you’re good for is standing in front of the mirror, wishing you were—”
“I’ll kill you,” he shouted. “One more step. Just one step, and I’ll—”
“One step? Then what’ll happen, little man? What’ll you do with that big, hard black gun?” Deliberately she stepped forward, stiff-kneed. But now she stopped, facing him across one full width of a traffic lane, standing just short of the last yellow line. Her voice was lower, somehow strangely ominous as she said, “Was that the step, Dave? Or did you really mean the next step? Or is it really the step after that? Which one, Dave, before you finally figure out that you haven’t got the guts to pull the trigger?” She smirked, taunting him. “Do you know how much you love that gun, Dave? You call it a rod—your rod, you call it. And you play with it, just like little boys play with their—”
“Shut up, you bitch,” he was screaming. “Shut your filthy, stinking, slut of a mouth. You—you—” Suddenly wordless, he seemed to be gasping for breath, mouth torn wide, eyes bulging. His forearm across the boy’s chest had loosened. The boy was sagging, knees bent. Now his head lolled at Rawlings’ waist. Our margin was improving with every inch the boy’s head came down.
But now, for the first time, the automatic was in plain view. The hammer was drawn back. The gun was cocked. Rawlings’ finger was on the trigger, crooked.
“He’s going to kill her,” I whispered, not turning my head.
“I think so, too,” Friedman replied. “She isn’t giving him any other way out. She’s saving the kid—because she hates the man. They’re crazy. Both of them.”
“If he fires, we’ve got to fire, too.”
“I know.”
“You agree?”
He momentarily hesitated. Then, in a low voice, awed-sounding but very precise, he said, “Yes.” Having said it, he was clearing his throat, once, twice, three times.
“Get ready, Harrington,” I said. “When he fires at her—if he fires—you shoot. Aim at the base of his throat. Don’t wait for my command. He fires, you fire. Immediately. Instantaneously. Otherwise, he’ll kill the boy, too. Understood?”
“Y—yessir. Understood. I—”
“It’s time for another step, Dave,” she was saying. “This is the second one that I wasn’t supposed to take. Or maybe it’s the third; I lost track. Anyhow, I’m going to walk right up to you, one step at a time, and I’m going to take that big black toy of yours away from you.” Slowly she stepped across the yellow dividing line. “And then, when I’ve taken it away, I’m going to—”
The automatic roared, kicking in the man’s hand. The woman’s body bucked, doubled over, thrown back, already crumpled, broken. Beside me, the rifle cracked, once. Caught at the neck and jerked from his feet, Rawlings crashed against the bridge railing, arms thrown out, legs wide apart, grotesquely spread-eagled. The boy was sinking slowly to his knees, staring with dark, round eyes at his mother’s twitching, blood-blotched body. The boy looked as if he were praying.
“You check the woman,” I said. “I’ll check Rawlings.”
Without waiting for a reply, I was walking toward the railing, my gun held ready. As I moved toward him, Rawlings slowly slumped to a sitting position, propped against the railing. His legs were still spread. His head lolled. His arms were limp at his sides. At the base of his neck a bright red stain was spreading across the dark blue nylon of his jacket. His eyes were open, glazed, staring at nothing. He still held the gun with slack fingers. He was still alive.
With my gun aimed at his head, flanked by a half-dozen officers, I slowly approached the limp, bleeding man. His line of vision passed just above my head, but his eyes were empty.
Kneeling beside him, my gun now touching his temple, I reached for the barrel of the cocked automatic. Very carefully I withdrew the pistol from his hand. Holstering my revolver, I eased off the hammer of the Colt, then slipped the heavy gun into my jacket pocket.
Close around me, I was conscious of other men exhaling, straightening, uncocking their weapons, snapping their holster straps.
Dead Aim (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 17
