“Right,” Molly said, rubbing her hands on her thighs. “Well, this should be routine, right? Just go in with the food and get out with Marla, yes?”
“Yes,” Lena agreed, her hand slipping on the gearshift as she put the van in park. She cursed under her breath, trying to psych herself into doing this. She was never afraid of things. Lena had seen more horror in the last few years than anyone should see in a lifetime. What did she have to be afraid of? What was waiting in that building that could be worse than what had happened to her two years ago?
“Listen,” Molly began, a tinge of hesitancy to her voice. “Nick told me not to tell you this….”
Lena waited.
“Standard procedure is to have a time limit. If we don’t come out, they come in.”
“Why didn’t he want me to know?”
“Because he was afraid they would find out,” she said, meaning the gunmen.
“Right,” Lena said, understanding. Nick didn’t trust her to be in there. He had said as much to Amanda Wagner. He thought she was going to do something stupid, something that would get them all killed. Maybe she would. Maybe without even thinking, Lena would screw this up like she had screwed up everything else in her life. Maybe this was it. The end of everything.
“We’ll be okay,” Molly said, reaching over and taking Lena’s hand.
For lack of anything better to do, Lena looked at her watch.
Molly followed suit, saying, “We synchronized mine to his,” as she showed Lena the large Snoopy watch she wore. Lena adjusted her digital watch to Molly’s, wondering if this would come to anything.
“They’ll come in exactly forty minutes after we walk through the door.” She checked her watch again. “I guess that’ll be 3:32.”
Lena said, “Okay.”
Molly put her hand on the door handle. “We’ll get you back in time for your party.”
“Party?” Lena asked, wondering what the hell she meant.
“For your birthday,” Molly reminded her. She opened the door a few inches. “Ready?”
Lena nodded, not trusting herself to speak. They both got out of the van and met at the back, where Wagner’s men had loaded boxes of cold water and prewrapped sandwiches they had gotten from one of the gas stations on the outskirts of town. As they walked toward the station, Lena concentrated on the sandwiches. She read the labels, wondering who would actually pay money for a ham salad sandwich on white bread. The expiration date on the pack read three months from now. There were probably enough preservatives in one bite to pickle a horse.
“Here we go,” Molly said, just as the door was pushed open from the inside.
Lena suppressed a gag as Matt’s body flopped back onto the ground. What was left of his head made a splattering sound as it hit the concrete, blood and brain spilling out onto the sidewalk. Most of his face was gone, his left eye dangling from a nerve like a fake Halloween mask. The bottom part of his jaw was exposed, and she could see everything—his teeth, his lolling tongue, the way the tendons and muscles held the whole thing in place.
“Slow,” said the man standing just inside the doorway. He was wearing a black knit ski mask that had almond-shaped slits for the eyes and mouth but no nose. He reminded Lena of something out of a horror movie, and she felt a cold shock of fear that nearly paralyzed her. Frank had not mentioned masks. The men had put them on specifically to hide their identity from the paramedics. What that meant for the hostages who had already seen them, Lena did not know.
“Nice and easy,” he said, motioning them in. In one hand he held a shotgun—the Wingmaster Frank had seen—and in the other was a Sig Sauer. His Kevlar vest was tight to his chest, and she could see another pistol sticking out of the waistband of his fatigues.
Lena realized she had stopped walking when Molly whispered, “Lena!”
By sheer force of will, Lena managed to get her feet moving. She tried to step over Matt without actually looking at him, her stomach in such a knot the whole time that she felt the urge to double over. Her sneakers left tracks in his blood.
Inside, the temperature of the station was at least twenty degrees hotter than on the street. There was a second shooter standing behind the counter, an AK-47 resting on the surface in front of him. He wore a ski mask, too, but his had more of an hourglass shape to it, leaving ample room to breathe. His eyes were flat, almost lifeless, and he barely glanced at Lena and Molly as they entered the lobby.
The first one, probably Smith, tried to shut the door but Matt was in the way. He slammed the door into the body, but it would not move. “Fuck,” he mumbled, viciously kicking Matt in the side. His boots were steel-toe military issue, and Lena heard something break, probably Matt’s ribs. They snapped like twigs.
Smith said, “Come move this fucker.”
Lena stood there, the box of sandwiches in her hands, frozen to the floor. Molly gave her a panicked look before setting down the box of bottled water. She walked over to Matt and grabbed his ankles to pull him back into the station.
“No,” Smith said. “Outside. Get this fucker outside.” He wiped at his mouth with the back of his arm. “Fucker stinks.” As Molly walked toward the head, Smith gave Matt another solid kick to the chest. “Fucking prick,” he said, an edge to his voice that stopped Molly in her tracks. He raised his foot again, kicking Matt in the groin. The dead weight did not resist, and the sound of boot hitting flesh reminded Lena of the noise Nan made when she would hang the rugs from the house on the laundry line and beat them with the broom.
Smith’s anger was spent fairly quickly, and with one final kick, he told Molly, “What the fuck are you waiting for? Move the fucker.”
Molly looked like she did not know where to touch him. Matt was wearing his usual short-sleeved white shirt with a tie that had gone out of style when Jimmy Carter left the White House. Blood from his head wound saturated his shirt, and there were fresh rents along his arms where Smith had kicked him. These newer wounds were a strange purple color, and they did not bleed.
Smith pushed Molly with his boot. It was not a threatening gesture in and of itself, but considering his earlier display, Molly seemed to take it for the threat it was. She tried to pull Matt by his shirt, but it just came untucked, the buttons popping off and tapping against the floor like hail, his white fish-belly rounding over his pants. Finally, she grabbed him under his arms and pulled.
The body would not move, and Smith was about to give it another kick when Molly said, “No.”
Smith was incredulous. “What did you say?”
“I’m sorry,” Molly said, looking down. The front of her uniform was covered in black blood. She looked at Lena. “For God’s sake, give me a hand.”
Lena looked around, like she did not know where to put the box she was holding. She did not want to touch him. She could not touch his dead body.
Smith leveled the Wingmaster on her. “Do it.”
Lena put down the box, feeling her lungs shake in her chest as she tried to breathe. She clamped her jaw shut, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. She had never been so scared in her life. Why was she afraid? There had been times in the past when she had welcomed death, even begged it to come to her door, but now she was terrified by the thought of being killed.
Somehow, she managed to kneel at Matt’s feet. She stared at his cheap black loafers, the frayed cuffs of his worn pants, the white athletic socks that had a dirty brown cast to them. Molly counted to three, and they lifted him. The pant cuff slid up on his left leg, and Lena saw his ankle jutting out, the pasty white, hairless skin around the bone wrinkling as the foot flexed flat against Lena’s abdomen. She thought of the baby inside her, wondered if he knew how close he was to a dead man. Wondered, too, if it was catching.
They set him out on the sidewalk away from the front door, Smith watching their every move. His mouth was twisted into an expression of deep satisfaction as he watched them, and Lena fought the urge to run as she followed Molly back into the station. She did not rea
lize what had happened until they were back inside. Smith had the food and water. He could have shut them out right then and there. He could have shot them in the face or told them to fuck off, but he hadn’t.
“That’s better,” Smith said. “Tolliver was stinking up the room.”
Molly’s head jerked around, her mouth open.
“What?” Smith asked, pointing the Sig at Molly’s forehead. “You want to say something else, bitch? You want to mouth off?”
“No,” Lena answered for her, surprised she was capable of saying the word.
Smith’s smile behind the mask was horrifying. She saw his eyes crawl up and down her body, paying specific attention to her breasts; the glint told her he liked what he was seeing. He pushed the muzzle of his gun into Molly’s head one last time before turning his attention to Lena. “That’s what I thought.” He motioned for her to turn around. “Hands against the wall.”
The phone started ringing, a shrill bell that cut through the air like a knife.
Smith repeated, “Turn around.”
Lena pressed her palms between two framed photographs from the 1970s Grant County police force. They were all men, all in blues, all with shaggy mustaches. Ben Walker, then the Chief of Police, was the only one who looked out of place with his military crew cut and clean-shaven face. Farther down was a photograph with Lena in it. She held her breath, hoping to God Smith did not notice.
“You hiding anything?” Smith’s hands were like a sledgehammer as he patted her down. He pushed her flat to the wall, pressing himself against her. “You hiding anything?” he repeated, deftly unbuttoning her blouse with one hand.
She was silent, her heart pounding in her chest. She tried not to look at the photograph less than two feet from her nose. She had been so young then, so open to her future and what it held. Being a cop like her old man had been Lena’s life plan for as long as she could remember. The day that photograph had been taken was one of the best days of her life, and now it might end up killing her.
Smith slipped his hand into her open shirt, his palm cupping her breasts. “You got something good in here?” he asked. “Heart sure is beating fast.”
She stood as still as she could, eyes squeezed shut as his hand moved to her other breast. His breath was heavy, his pleasure evident.
Lena should have been terrified, but she was not. Something was eerily familiar about the threat of his body pressed into hers. Smith was a small man, compactly built. Muscles rippled along his arms and chest, and if Lena let herself consider it, he reminded her of Ethan. She knew how to handle Ethan, how to keep him walking that tight line between anger and control. Seeing how far she could push her lover was almost a game by now. The problem was that sometimes she lost. Lena had the split lip to prove it.
Smith whispered, “You got something good?” his breath hot in her ear. She could feel him pressing harder into her, making his intentions obvious. Lena felt herself floating somehow, like her soul was in another place while her body remained at the station.
Then there was another voice that Lena did not recognize. The second shooter had said, “Stop that,” with little authority, but Smith still backed away, his hand lingering for as long as it could.
Smith ordered Lena, “Take off your shoes.” Then told Molly, “You next. Up against the wall.”
Molly’s trepidation was obvious, but she followed suit, leaning her hands against the wall between the photographs. Lena buttoned her shirt as she watched Smith give Molly a solid pat-down without copping any feels. She moved away from the photographs and sat on the floor to untie her shoes. She had taped the knife to the indentation just behind her ankle bone, underneath her sock. The tendon throbbed, and she tried not to show her nervousness as she handed Smith her shoes. The high tops had covered her ankle when he frisked her. If he did not frisk her again or ask her to remove her socks, she would be okay.
Smith turned her shoes upside down, looking at the soles and peering inside. He did the same with Molly’s shoes, then dropped them both back on the floor. Molly went to put on hers, but Smith stopped her.
He rummaged through the boxes, looking for contraband, then said, “Pick these up and tote ’em in the back.”
Lena knelt down and picked up the box, covering her chest in the process. She waited for Molly to pick up the drinks before pushing open the swinging doors to the squad room. Lena had managed to slip her sneakers on but had not tied them. Her feet were sweating, but she could feel the surgical tape holding the knife. How could she pass it along? How could she leave it where it would do anyone any good?
She concentrated on the things that she could control, checking out the room. The station was turned upside down, but Lena was glad to find that the map Frank and Pat had drawn was pretty accurate. Clothes had been shoved into the air vents, and the filing cabinets and desks were shoved against the doors. Brad stood in the center of the room wearing his boxer shorts and a white undershirt, his hairless white legs looking like matchsticks poking out of his black socks and regulation shoes. Beside him, the three girls were on the floor tucked under Marla’s arms like a flock of chickadees. At the rear of the room, Sara sat with her back to the wall. A man lay with his head in her lap, the bottom soles of his shoes facing Lena. She stumbled, dropping the box. The man was Jeffrey.
“Here,” Brad said, picking up sandwiches and putting them back in the box. His eyes were open wider than usual, and he spoke in a deep baritone. “Matt was shot in the shoulder,” he said.
“What?”
“Matt,” Brad said, his eyes going to Jeffrey. “He was shot in the shoulder.”
Her mouth said, “Oh,” as if she understood, but Lena could feel her brain stretching to make the connection.
Sara’s voice was a hoarse whisper, her concern obvious. “He’s in and out. I don’t know how much longer he can hold on.”
Molly asked, “Can we do anything to help him?”
Sara had trouble speaking. She cleared her throat, then said, “You could get him out of here.”
“That ain’t gonna happen,” Smith said, rifling through the sandwiches, reading the labels. “Man, this is ass.” He seemed to be showing off, and Lena guessed it was for her benefit. She was becoming one of those women she hated seeing as a cop. She would go to their houses when their boyfriends got out of hand, and they would beg and cry to keep the bastard out of jail. There was something about them, something about the way they held themselves and looked at the world like they were waiting for one more punch. They gave off some kind of scent or something that invited the kind of guy who liked to hit women.
Sara said, “He needs medical attention.”
Molly took her stethoscope and headed toward the back.
Smith said, “You going somewhere?”
“I was going to—”
“That’s okay,” Smith stepped aside with a slight bow. He saw Lena watching and gave her a wink.
Lena knew what was expected of her, and she said, “Thank you,” without giving it another thought.
She started unpacking the sandwiches, handing them to the children and asking them each in turn if they were okay. Still, she felt that same disconnection, as if someone else was in the room handing out sandwiches and Lena as floating overhead, watching the scene.
The phone was still ringing, and Smith walked over, picked up the receiver and slammed it back down.
One of the girls jumped at the noise. She cried, “I want my daddy.”
Lena soothed, “I know. It won’t be long.”
The girl started crying in earnest and Lena gave her a bottle of water, feeling helpless and angry at the same time. “Don’t cry,” she said, sounding more like she was pleading. Lena had always been horrible with kids. Still, she tried, “It’s going to be okay.”
Marla gave a low moan, her eyes glassy as she stared at Lena.
Lena tried to get the old woman’s attention, saying, “Are you all right?” She tried to act like a paramedic, putting her hand on
Marla’s shoulder, asking, “Are you okay?”
Smith was over near Molly and Sara. He obviously did not like what he was hearing, because he finally said, “That’s enough. Get out of here. Take the old bitch.”
Molly said, “He needs help.”
“What about me?” Smith asked, indicating a small strip of white cloth wrapped around his arm. Blood spread out from the center, nearly saturating it.
The phone started ringing again. Wagner had probably freaked when they carried Matt outside.
“There are supplies in the ambulance,” Molly said. “Let Matt go and I’ll stay here and suture you.”
“Got a couple of heroes here,” Smith said to his partner, and Lena realized he meant her as well.
Lena was kneeling by Marla, and Smith practically swaggered as he walked toward them. Without a word, he jerked up one of the girls by her wrist and yanked her toward the front of the room. She yelled, but he must have twisted her arm enough to shut her up. He took the crying child with him and talked to his partner. Lena was still on her knees, and she turned to watch them, putting her feet behind her. Slowly, she moved her hand to her ankle, feeling the pocketknife. She felt someone’s hand over her’s, but dared not turn around. Brad was to her right, so she knew it wasn’t him. The children were too frightened to move. Marla. It must have been Marla whose fingers worked so deftly with the tape and removed the pocketknife.
Smith said, “We got a doctor, couple of paramedics. Why not?”
His partner gave a wary shake of his head, but seemed resigned to whatever Smith had planned.
Smith walked back to Lena, dragging the girl. “Go get your case out of the ambulance.”
“What?” she said, not understanding.
He looked at his watch, which was the kind she had seen in magazines, advertising the fact that Navy SEALs used the same brand. He said, “Get your case and get back here.” He pressed the Sig to the little girl’s head. “You’ve got thirty seconds.”
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