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A new plan that would keep her looking in the wrong direction. One that would bring her nightmares, filling her with terror.
And then he’d turn her nightmares into reality.
Two weeks later
“Shots fired. 112 Park Lane. All units respond. Officer requests backup.”
Detective James Cross tossed his half-eaten breakfast sandwich in the trash and bolted for his Jeep. His partner, Cole Garrison, was two steps behind him.
James threw himself behind the wheel, and Cole slammed the passenger door shut with his right hand while his left snagged the radio. He reported their location. “Three minutes out.”
Approximately three minutes later, they pulled to a stop in the Brookfield neighborhood. It was crammed full of new middle-class homes with small yards and wooden fences. James had no trouble locating the home responsible for the call. Uniformed officers had already swarmed the area, evacuating the neighbors and keeping the lookie-loos at a distance.
Three pops sounded. Neighbors screamed. Officers ducked out of reflex. “Answer your phone, Gerald. You’re just going to make the situation worse.” James recognized Sergeant Luis Sanchez hunched behind a cruiser, megaphone to his mouth.
“This don’t concern you!” Gerald’s scream came from the front door that was ajar. A small hand wrapped around its edge said he was using one of his kids as a shield. No officer or SWAT member was going to pull the trigger with that situation. “Now get out of here before I start putting bullets in people instead of the wall!”
James and Cole hurried to the officer in charge. “Luis,” Cole said, “I assume the hostage negotiator is on the way.”
“Ten minutes out.”
“Want me to talk to him?” James asked.
Formerly with the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division, James had negotiation training that went beyond the average detective’s.
“You’re welcome to try.”
“Tell me what you know. Quick.”
“Gerald Henson, forty years old, married, three kids, two of which are in the house, ages nine, five, and two. The oldest one, Trey, got on the school bus about thirty minutes before the call. Apparently, the wife, Patricia, burned Gerald’s toast and he hit her. The five-year-old, Katy, called 911, said her daddy was being mean to her mommy, that he got his gun and she and her sister were scared. The two-year-old’s name is Gretchen. And here we are.”
James took the megaphone and lifted it to his lips. “Mr. Henson? This is Detective James Cross. Is there anything we can do to end this peacefully?”
“Get out of here. This is family business. Nothing for the cops to be sticking their noses in. Everybody always got to know what’s going on with me and I’m about sick of it. Stupid wife, stupid cops, stupid family.”
“Yes sir, I understand your frustration with all of the attention. Are you mad at the children?”
“What? The kids? No, it’s this stupid woman who’s always costing me money. She wanted this swanky new house that costs me more money than we have. She needs cooking lessons—which would cost me money, right? Smoked up the whole house with burning breakfast. That was the last of the bread and I don’t have the time or the money to get more, and now me and my kids got to be hungry.” He muttered a few derogatory comments about his wife that James couldn’t hear the whole of, but he caught enough. “And I’m not stupid. I’m the only one around here who’s not.”
“No sir, I don’t think you’re stupid at all.”
“I know how this ends. And let me just say, it’s not with me in cuffs.”
He meant to kill his family and himself by the end, and James had no way of knowing when the guy would decide it was the end.
“Hey, Gerald,” James said, “what if I send someone to get a loaf of bread so that you can feed your kids? I can tell you love them. I know you don’t want them to be hungry.”
The man stayed quiet. Was he thinking about the offer? James could only pray he’d say yes. At least then there was hope for a little more time to get the hostages out.
“Can you do better than a loaf of bread?”
“Sure can,” James said without hesitation. “What do you want?”
“Li’l Bit here likes them sausage biscuits from the diner down the road.”
“Weavers’ Café?”
“Yeah.”
