by Pat Warren
Hannah slipped an arm around the thin shoulders and hugged Sheila. “I agree.” Getting to her feet, she prayed she was right. Noise and confusion reigned as the residents scattered, some to the kitchen and others taking the stairs, two at a time. She turned back to Sheila. “I’ve got to get going, sweetie.” She reached for her jacket from the pile on the chair and was putting it on when Curt’s deep voice suddenly drew her attention back to the television.
“This just in, a late-breaking story. In central Boston, a man armed with a gun is holding a secretary in a law office hostage while demanding that the female attorney who represents his wife show up so he can talk with her.”
Law offices. Secretary. Oh, God, not Marcie. Hannah’s heart skipped a beat as she moved closer to the small set, praying she’d guessed wrong.
Curt’s serious voice went on. “The police are on the scene and have surrounded the building, talking to the man on the bullhorn, urging him to surrender. But so far, he’s refused. Our sources tell us that one of the male law partners is inside the building, as well, though we don’t have a name for you. Stay tuned to this station for updates.”
Joel! And Rod Baxter. Oh, no! Grabbing her purse, Hannah headed for the door. “Sheila, Maggie, I’ll talk with you later.” And she raced to her car.
“Everything’s gone. My wife, my kids, my job. Got no home to go to. Nothing!” Rod Baxter’s whiskey voice was whiny and grating. He swiped at a drippy nose with the back of one hand while his other held a Smith Wesson .38 Special to the back of Marcie’s head. “That fancy lawyer took everything from me.”
Joel stood about six feet in front of the secretary’s desk, his mind racing as he kept his steady gaze on the crazed man. Finished for the day in court, he’d left his car out front and run in the front door to sign a couple of letters. Marcie’s scream had stopped him in his tracks. She was seated at her desk, her eyes still wide with fright, but he could see that she was trying not to let her captor see her terror. She was smart enough to know that men like Rod were egged on by a woman’s fear.
Joel assessed the man as he muttered on. Baxter had thinning blond hair, watery blue eyes and he hadn’t shaved in a while. His plaid jacket was old and frayed, his navy pants dingy. He looked to be about five-seven. Joel thought he’d have no trouble disarming Rod as soon as the opportunity presented itself. The smell of unwashed body and beer drifted to him, yet Rod’s eyes were bright. Was he also on drugs?
Even so, he’d been alert enough to sneak in through the back way and surprise Marcie at her desk, then force her to phone around looking for Hannah, leaving messages demanding that she come straight to her office. His addled mind hadn’t figured that someone would alert the police. Joel had heard them arrive minutes ago, then listened to Rod talk with them on the phone, insisting that Hannah show up or he’d kill Marcie. Through the bullhorn, they’d urged Rod to surrender, but that had only made him angrier.
“Put the gun down and let’s talk this out calmly, Rod,” Joel said, his voice calm. There had to be a way to get through to the guy. “I’ll help you explain your position to the cops if you’ll come outside with me. We can settle this without anyone getting hurt. You don’t want to add a shooting to your other charges, do you?”
“What do you know?” Rod screamed, his hold on the gun at Marcie’s back tightening. “You lawyers are all the same. You don’t care about a working stiff. You’d turn me over, just like she did. That Richards dame. Where is she?”
He continued ranting and raving, a cigarette in one hand while his bony fingers kept the gun rammed into Marcie’s neck. The thing to do was to keep him talking, Joel thought, to let him run out of steam. The guy was filled with rage—at Hannah, at Ellen, his wife, at the system. Undereducated and not terribly bright besides, he couldn’t seem to fight his way out of poverty. So he’d given up trying and turned to drinking, which made him mean and dangerous.
“It’s all her damn fault,” Rod snarled. “Are those cops trying to find her?”
Tension made Joel’s palms damp as he took a small step closer to the secretary’s desk. “I told you, we don’t know where Hannah is. Let Marcie go, and I’ll track Hannah down for you.” Like hell he would, but telling him that might buy some time. He sent an encouraging look to Marcie, whose eyes were pleading with him to do something.
“You get that bitch here, and I’ll let this one go.” Rod drew deeply on his cigarette, then tossed the butt on the floor, stomping it out with a snowy shoe. “Tell them cops out there I got nothing to lose by killing you both, but she’s the one I really want. Wrecked my whole life, is what she did. She’s got to pay.”
Joel watched the man lick his dry lips, his eyes getting wilder. An idea came to him, and he wondered if it would work. It was worth a try. “I can see you’re thirsty. I’ve got a bottle in my desk. Why don’t you let Marcie go and you can hold the gun on me instead? We can have a drink and talk. Twelve-year-old Scotch. Good stuff.”
He could see that he had the man’s attention. Again, Rod licked his lips, considering.
Hannah stood next to the sergeant in charge by the police car in the horseshoe driveway in front of the law offices. “Let me go in, Sergeant, please. This is my problem, not Joel’s and certainly not Marcie’s. Rod Baxter wants me and…”
Sergeant James Watkins spared her an impatient glance. “I can’t let you do that. We’ve already got two people at risk. We don’t need to make it three.”
With difficulty, Hannah kept hysteria from her voice. “But Rod’s demanding to see me. Call him back and tell him that if he lets those two go, I’ll walk in.” She had to make him see. Joel was in there in danger.
“And then what? Do you think he just wants to have a friendly chat with you?” Watkins’s tone left no doubt as to the absurdity of her request.
Oh, God! What was happening inside? Rod Baxter was, as Joel had said, a loose cannon. He’d been pushed to the brink. She had no idea if he was capable of killing, but she feared he was. Poor Marcie. She was an innocent bystander. And Joel. What if something happened to him and she hadn’t even told him how much she loved him?
Why, oh why, had she been so stubborn, so foolish, so blatantly stupid? Yes, loving was a risk. But, as this afternoon was proving, merely living was a risk. Who was she to turn from the happiness he offered because she was afraid he’d leave? He might leave her today, unwillingly, at the hands of a madman.
Glancing over her shoulder, Hannah saw a television crew arrive and begin to set up, a newsman hurriedly testing a microphone. She had to try to get through to the sergeant. “Please, I’m a trained negotiator. Let me talk with him, at least.”
A tall, burly man with over twenty years on the force, Watkins turned to her. “Listen, lady, you’re a civilian and you’re not calling the shots here. Step back and let me do my job.”
Just then, the front door burst open and Marcie stumbled out.
Joel poured a generous amount of Scotch into a glass and placed it on the desktop. Rod held the gun aimed at him in his right hand, but his left snaked over and grabbed the glass. He gulped the amber liquid down quickly.
Joel watched, waiting for the right moment. He wasn’t a fool or a hero. He didn’t want to die. He had too much to live for. Hannah’s face swam into focus in his mind’s eye as he refilled Rod’s glass.
The gunman narrowed his eyes. “You think you’re going to get me drunk, then take away my gun?” He gave a bark of laughter. “I could finish that whole bottle and still have a steady hand.” He reached for the glass.
Sure he could, Joel thought. Carefully, he shifted closer to the man, ignoring his rank smell. “What happened to things, Rod?” he began, using a conciliatory tone. “I know you lost your job. Is that when things started to fall apart at home?” He knew that wasn’t it, that the man had been beating on his wife and even his children way before his job loss. But if he could get him talking…
Rod sat down heavily in Joel’s desk chair, but kept the gun steadily ai
med. “Yeah, that was it. Ellen, she’s always naggin’ at me, you know.” He took another long swallow. “‘Don’t stay out late. Don’t go out with the boys.’ Hell, a man’s got a right to relax after a hard day’s work, right?” He considered the near-empty glass. “This is good stuff.”
Joel poured again.
Hannah stood with her arm around a trembling Marcie, who’d just told her story to the sergeant. Watkins was in a huddle now with members of the SWAT team, who’d just arrived. Apparently, they were planning on entering from the back and setting up some sort of ambush. Hannah’s heart was firmly entrenched in her throat at the thought.
She knew they had to do something. But what if the wrong man got shot?
Marcie squeezed Hannah’s hand. “Joel’s going to be all right, honey. He’s got Rod drinking by now, I’m sure. I know he’s just waiting for the right moment and he’ll grab the gun.”
“Drinking makes men like Rod Baxter worse.” She clutched Marcie’s hand and prayed as she’d never prayed before.
Moment’s later, a single shot rang out, the sound coming from inside the house. Hannah cried out. The SWAT team hadn’t gone in yet. “Oh, God, no!” she screamed as several policemen raced toward the door. She felt her knees give and would have crumpled if Marcie hadn’t held on.
“Come on, honey,” Marcie said, her own voice shaky. “Let’s get you into the car and…”
“No!” She wouldn’t leave and she wouldn’t pass out. She had to find out, to see for herself. Drawing in a breath, she let go of Marcie and started toward the door. With a touch of his hand on her arm, a policeman held her back. Anxiously, she waited.
And then Joel was coming outside, walking toward her, straight and tall and looking wonderfully alive.
Hannah broke free of the cop’s hold and ran to him, right into his arms. Blinking back tears, she clutched him to her as relief shuddered through her.
“It’s all right, Red,” Joel said, holding her tightly. He hadn’t been a hundred percent sure himself, not until Rod had tilted his head back to drink more deeply and Joel had grabbed his gun hand. The shock of it had the man squeezing the trigger, the shot going wild into the ceiling. Then the gun was in Joel’s hand as, with a wellaimed shove, Rod fell, collapsing into a heap on the floor.
“Yes,” Hannah said, raising her damp face to his, “finally, it is all right. Have I told you lately that I love you, you big jerk? You scared me silly. Don’t you ever do that to me again.”
He grinned down into her beautiful brown eyes. “I promise I won’t.” He leaned closer. “What was that you said?”
Her smile had her heart in it. “That I love you. I have for a long time. I was just too stubborn to admit it.”
“Better late than never, Red. Does that mean you’ll marry me?”
“Tonight, if you want.”
“I definitely want.” And then he kissed her.
Epilogue
The wedding had taken place over two years ago, Hannah recalled as she finished her tepid tea. Her life with Joel had been everything she’d ever dreamed of and never thought she’d have. In each other, they’d both found a true home. They still lived in Boston, and both still practiced law, but only the cases that truly interested them. And they still visited Bart’s ranch in Montana frequently.
She glanced at the pad with the phone number from the television show. And now there was this. Her mother was alive and searching for her. And maybe Michael and Kate had seen the show and would call the 800 number. Why not? Hadn’t she already experienced one or two miracles?
Hearing a sound, Hannah glanced up, and her heart turned over. Standing in the doorway was Joel, holding a wide-awake baby boy wearing corduroy pants and a plaid shirt. Nine-month-old William Joel Merrick, dressed the same as his father, grinned at her and waved a chubby arm. “Look who’s up from his nap,” Hannah said, smiling at the two of them.
“You bet, and probably hungry.” Joel sat down on the couch and watched Will scamper over to his mother. The child Hannah had thought she couldn’t have was a daily joy to both of them. After minor surgery, she’d had no trouble conceiving. Fear had kept her needlessly worrying all those years.
He’d been doing some paperwork in the den when he’d heard the baby awaken and begin chattering to the stuffed animals in his crib. He noticed Hannah’s eyes light up as she hugged their son, and he felt a rush of warmth. At long last, the restlessness was gone, and he was a contented man.
“Are you feeling any better, honey?” he asked his wife, worried about her lingering cold.
Hannah nuzzled the wonderfully soft baby neck. “Yes, much.” Glancing at the phone number on the pad, she rose with Will in her arms. “Come with me while I fix Will a snack. I have something I want to talk over with you.”
A chilly winter wind dashed snow against the windowpanes as the small family walked to the kitchen. But they didn’t mind the outside cold or the storm. They were together inside, where their love would forever keep them warm.
* * * * *
Where are her children? Julia’s search continues next month in MICHAEL’S HOUSE, coming in September from Silhouette Intimate Moments.
eISBN 978-14592-8070-0
A HOME FOR HANNAH
Copyright © 1996 by Pat Warren
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