Hostage - Страница 49

'It'll be fine, Talley.'

'We're talking about a man wanted for multiple homicide, Jones. He cut off his own mother's head and keeps it in the freezer.'

'I don't give a shit.'

'He's psychotic. Psychotics decompensate in stressful situations, and this guy has been in a pressure cooker all day. If that happens, he might do anything.'

Jones was unmoved.

'We'll breach when I get the call. It won't be long.'

'Fuck you.'

'After the call.'

Talley walked away. He saw Martin watching from the command van, but didn't know what to say to her. He recalled his conversations with Rooney, and decided that Rooney did not know that Krupchek was really Alvin Marshall Bonnier. If Rooney was knowingly associating with a serial killer, it would mean he derived a vicarious pleasure from Bonnier's company. Rooney's need to be seen as special would have forced him to drop hints of Bonnier's identity in hopes of impressing Talley, but Rooney had not done that. Rooney didn't know, which meant that Rooney might as easily end up Bonnier's victim as the rest of them.

Talley glanced back at Jones. He and his men were waiting together at the rear of their van. Waiting for the call.

Talley decided that he couldn't wait any longer. He had to warn Rooney and Thomas, and he had to get those kids out of there.

Then he heard screaming from the house.

DENNIS

Dennis reached for the Stoli bottle and fell off the couch, landing on his face and knees in a pool of vodka. His ass was in the air, pointing toward the front of the house, toward the cops who filled the cul-de-sac.

Dennis patted his ass, and giggled.

'Too bad you cops can't see this! You can kiss my skinny white ass right here.'

Dennis collected the bottle and pushed to his feet. He caught himself on the sofa arm to keep from tipping over, then took his pistol from his waist. Holding it made him feel better. The television showed a woman on her knees, pushing a rolling platform back and forth on the floor. Her abdominal muscles were so beautifully defined that she looked like an anatomy chart. Dennis watched her with a sense of profound loss, then raised the pistol to his own head.

'Bang.'

He lowered the gun.

'Shit.'

Dennis dropped his gun onto the couch, then considered the money. Stacks of hundred-dollar bills lined the coffee table. He fished the remaining packs of cash from his pockets and fanned the bills like a deck of cards. He had tried every way he could think of to keep the money, but failed. He had tried to get a car and a helicopter, and he had tried to buy Talley, and all of that had failed. He had tried to find a route out of the house, but the cops had him locked down. Dennis Rooney had run out of ideas, and now he was thinking that maybe his parents and teachers had been right all along: He was stupid. He was a small-time loser, who would always be a loser, living on dreams. A panicked urge to run with a bag of cash, sprinting through the shadows in a final lame attempt to get away swept over him, but he believed in his heart that the cops would kill him and he did not want to die. He didn't have the balls for it. As much as he wanted this money, Dennis Rooney admitted to himself that he was a chickenshit. His eyes filled with tears of regret and shame. Kevin was right. It was time to quit.

Dennis wiped the snot from his nose, and pulled himself together.

'I guess that's it, then.'

He tossed the money into the air, watched the fluttering green bills fall around him, then called Kevin.

'Kev!'

Kevin didn't answer.

'Mars!'

Nothing.

'Shit!'

Dennis lurched to the hall and made his way to the kitchen. It was still wrapped in shadows, lit only by the glare from the police lights shining in through the French doors. He wanted a glass of water, and then he would call Talley. He thought he might be able to trade one of the kids for a conversation with an attorney, then see what kind of deal he could cut for himself before surrendering.

'Kevin, goddamnit, where are you?!'

Here the sonofabitch had begged to surrender, and now that Dennis was ready, the wimpy puss wasn't around.

'Mars!'

The voice from the other side of the kitchen startled him.

'What are you doing, Dennis?'

Dennis wheeled around like a tall ship under sail, squinting into the shadows.

'Where's Kevin?'

'He's not here.'

'Where is he? I need to see him.'

Dennis wanted to get things straight with Kevin before telling Mars. Part of him was afraid that Mars might try to stop him.

Mars took shape in the light. Dennis thought he must have been in the pantry, or maybe the garage.

'Kevin left.'

Dennis grew irritated, not understanding.

'That doesn't help me, Mars. Is he in the security room, the office, what? I've got to talk to him.'

'He didn't want to stay here anymore. He left.'

Dennis stared at Mars, understanding, but not believing it, telling himself that Kevin could not have deserted him.

'Wait a minute. Are you telling me that he left, as in went out the door and surrendered to the cops?'

'I overheard him talking to the girl.'

'SHIT! That FUCK!'

'I'm sorry, Dennis. I came down to find you.'

Dennis felt sick. If Kevin had surrendered and taken the kids with him, he had taken Dennis's last chance to cut a deal with Talley.

'Did he take those kids with him?'

'I don't know.'

'Jesus, Mars! Get upstairs and see! If he took those kids, we're fucked!'

Mars went for the stairs without another word, and Dennis raged at the top of his lungs.

'KEVIN!! You ASSHOLE!'

Dennis threw the vodka bottle at the Sub-Zero so hard that his shoulder flashed with pain. He stalked back to the den for a fresh bottle. Even when he wanted to surrender, things got fucked up.

THOMAS

Thomas heard Dennis and Kevin fighting through the air-conditioning vent. Kevin wanted them to give up, but Dennis wouldn't. Thomas knew what that meant: If Dennis wouldn't give up, the three turds might stay here for days, and one of them might try to do something to his sister. Thomas had seen the way Mars watched her.

The shouting died quickly. Thomas waited for someone to come upstairs, but the hall remained silent. He decided that they were trying to sleep.

Thomas slipped back into his closet and returned to the crawl space. He thought about stopping in Jennifer's room to tell her what he was doing, but he knew she didn't want him to mess with the gun. He worked his way across the house, stopping at the air vents to listen, but all he heard was the television playing in the den. The rest of the house was silent.

Thomas let himself down through the ceiling hatch into the laundry room, climbing down from the hot-water heater to the washer to the floor. It was dark, lit only by some slight dim light filtering from the kitchen through the pantry. He had to use his flashlight.

Just as he reached the floor he heard Dennis shouting for Kevin and Mars. Dennis was close, just on the other side of the kitchen or maybe in the family room. Thomas panicked. He started climbing back to the ceiling, but then Mars answered Dennis, and Thomas stopped. They were talking. Thomas was still scared, but he was so close to the gun that he didn't want to once more leave without it. He strained to listen. Dennis was cursing Kevin; they weren't coming this way, they weren't looking for him.

Thomas hurried into the utility room. He cupped his hand over the flashlight and flicked it on again, just long enough to mark the spot in his mind where the gun box waited on the highest shelf. He rested the flashlight on the bench, then climbed onto the bench.

He went up onto his toes, stretching as tall as he could, but the box was still out of reach. He flicked on the light again, and spotted a gallon metal paint can at the edge of the bench. He pulled it into position, put one foot on it, and stepped up. The paint can creaked, but held. He stretched high again, and this time his hands found the gun box. He had it! Thomas pulled the box from the shelf, then lowered himself from the can and climbed down from the bench. His heart pounded with excitement. The box was a lot heavier than he had imagined! It felt as if a cannon were inside!

Thomas opened the box and lifted out the gun. It felt as heavy as a brick, way too big for his hand. Thomas didn't know its caliber or anything about it, even though his father had let him fire it once when they had gone to the pistol range. It had kicked so hard that his hand stung!

Thomas would need his hands free to climb, so he pushed it into his pants. The gun made him feel powerful, but scared at the same time; he was buoyant with confidence that he could protect himself and Jennifer, and that now they could get out, but he didn't want to hurt anyone. He hoped he wouldn't have to use it.

Thomas was on his way back to the laundry room when his foot slipped from under him. He almost fell, catching himself on the bench just in time. He explored the floor with his foot, and found something slippery and wet. He lifted his foot. His shoe came free with a tacky sound. Thomas turned on his light. A dark liquid like oil was spreading on the floor. He followed it with his light. It was coming from the broom closet. Thomas opened his fingers to let out more light. The oil was red.

The closet door zoomed close in Thomas's mind's eye as if he had telephoto vision. The cramped space in the utility room shrank as the door grew larger. The gun was forgotten, leaving only the door and the viscous red liquid seeping out from beneath.

Thomas stared at the door. He wanted to open it. He wanted to run.