Mars shrugged, his expression simple.
“I’m not giving up.”
Dennis glared at the two kids huddled around their old man, then stalked out of the office. He needed to figure a way out of this fucking house, and away from the police. He needed a plan. Walking made it easier to think, like he could get away from the fear of being trapped; a big-ass house like this, and it felt as if the weight of it was crushing his breath away. If he threw up, he didn’t want to do it in front of Mars.
Dennis crossed through the kitchen, searching for the garage. He found the keys on a Peg-Board in the pantry just like the man had said, and shoved open the door to the garage. A gleaming Jaguar sedan and Range Rover were waiting, neither more than a couple of years old. Dennis checked the gas in the Jaguar, and found the tank full. If his truck had broken down only five minutes sooner, if they had found this house only five minutes sooner, if they had driven away in this sweet Jaguar only five minutes sooner, they wouldn’t be sweating out a murder count. They wouldn’t be trapped.
Dennis smashed his fist into the steering wheel, shouting, “SHIT!”
He closed his eyes.
Chill, dude.
Don’t lose it.
There has to be a way out.
“Dennis?”
Dennis opened his eyes and saw Kevin in the door, squirming like he had to pee.
“You’re supposed to be watching for the cops.”
“I need to talk to you. Where’s Mars?”
“He’s watching the front like you’re supposed to be watching the back. Get out of here.”
Dennis shut his eyes tight. The cops were watching the front and back of the house, but it was a big house; there had to be a window or door that the cops couldn’t see. The house was surrounded by trees and bushes and walls, all of which blended and merged with the heavy cover of the surrounding houses. When night came, the shadows between the houses would fall like heavy black coats. If he created a diversion—say, he dressed up the hostages to look like Mars, Kevin, and himself, tied them into the Jaguar, then used the remote control to raise the garage door—all the cops would be watching the garage as he slipped out the other side of the house and away through the shadows.
“Dennis?”
“We’re looking at murder charges, Kevin. Let me think.’”
“It’s about Mars. We’ve got to talk about what happened.”
Kevin wore the pussy face again, the mewly lurching eyebrows and don’t-kick-me expression that made Dennis want to punch him. Dennis hated his younger brother and always had; hated the suffocating weight of having to carry him through life. He didn’t need the prison shrink to tell him why: Kevin was their past; he was their weak ineffectual mother who abandoned them, their brutal meth-head father who beat them, their pathetic and embarrassing place in life. Kevin was the shadow of their future failure, and Dennis hated him for it.
Dennis got out of the Jaguar and slammed the door.
“We’ve got to find a way out of here, Kevin, that’s what we’ve got to do. It’s that simple. We look for a way out of this goddamned house because I am not going back to jail.”
Dennis pushed past his brother, unable even to look at him. Kevin followed along behind. They went through a kitchen, then along a wide hall past a formal dining room to a den with lush leather couches and a beautiful copper bar. Dennis imagined himself serving drinks to beautiful guests who had stepped out of television commercials and porno tapes. He would be a player if he lived in a house like this. He would have become the man of his destiny.
They reached the master bedroom at the rear of the house. It was a huge room with sliding glass doors that looked out at the pool, this one room bigger than the apartment Dennis and Kevin shared. Dennis wondered if there was a bathroom window or some other way to sneak out.
Kevin plucked at his arm.
“Dennis, listen.”
“Look for a way out.”
“Mars lied about that cop who came to the door. That cop never pulled his gun. You didn’t have to shoot him.”
Dennis grabbed Kevin’s shirt.
“Stop it! We didn’t have any choice!”
“I was standing right there. I was watching him, Dennis. He put his hand on his gun, but he didn’t pull it. I’m telling you that cop never drew.”
Dennis let go of Kevin’s shirt and stepped back, not knowing what to say.
“You just didn’t see, is all.”
“I was there. Mars lied.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Something’s wrong with that guy, Dennis. He wanted to shoot that cop.”
Dennis’s throat felt tight. He was pissed off, thinking this was just like his fuckup brother, dishing out another helping of shit onto a plate that was already overflowing.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re surrounded by cops and we’re looking at a homicide charge. We’ve got to find a way out of this, so just stop.”
Three doors opened off the bedroom. Dennis thought they might lead to closets or bathrooms with maybe a window on the side of the house, but that isn’t what he found.
Clothes hung on racks with shoes filling shoe stands beneath the clothes like any other large closet, but this room had something more: A bank of small black-and-white televisions filled the near wall; Mars and the two kids could be seen on one of the screens; another showed the cop car sitting out front in the cul-de-sac; the Jaguar and the Range Rover were revealed in the garage; every room, bathroom, and hall inside the house was visible, as well as views of the outside of the house, the pool, poolhouse, and even the area behind the poolhouse. Every inch of the property seemed to be watched.
“Kevin?”
Kevin came up behind him, and made a hissing sound.
“What is this?”
“It’s a security system. Jesus, look at this stuff.”
Dennis studied the view of the master bedroom. The camera appeared to be looking from the upper left ceiling corner above the door through which he had just entered. Dennis went out and looked up into the corner. He saw nothing.
Still inside the room, Kevin said, “Hey, I can see you.” Dennis rejoined his brother. The monitors were above a long keyboard set with button pads, LED windows, and red and green lights. Right now, all of the lights glowed green. Rows of buttons were lined along the right side of the keyboard, the buttons labeled motion sensors, infrared, upstairs locks, downstairs locks, and alarms. Dennis felt creeped out. He turned back to the door and slowly pushed it. The door swung easily, but with a feeling of weight and density. A heavy throwbolt was set into the door so that it could be locked tight from the inside. Dennis rapped on the door with his knuckles. Steel.
He turned back to his brother.
“What the fuck is going on here? They’ve got this place stitched up like a bank.”
Kevin was on his knees at the back of the closet, partially buried by a wall of hanging clothes. He slowly rocked back on his heels, then turned around holding a white cardboard box about the size of a shoe box. Dennis saw that the wall behind the clothes was like a small metal garage door that could be raised or lowered. It was raised, and more white boxes were stacked behind it.
Kevin held out the box.
“Look.”
The box was filled with hundred-dollar bills. Kevin pulled out a second box, then a third. They bulged with money. Dennis opened a fourth box. Money.
Dennis and Kevin looked at each other.
“Lets get Mars.”
JENNIFER
Jennifer was worried. Her father’s breathing was raspy. His eyes jerked spastically beneath their lids like eyes do when someone is having bad dreams. She placed a pillow from the couch beneath his head, and sat beside him, holding the ice to his head. The bleeding had stopped, but the wound was red and inflamed, and an ugly bruise was spreading across his face.
Thomas nudged her knee, and whispered.
“Why won’t he wake up?”
She
glanced at Mars before she answered. Mars had pulled her father’s desk chair across the room and was sitting so that he could watch the police.
“I don’t know.”
“Is he going to die?”
Jennifer was worried about that, too, though she didn’t want to say. She thought that her father might have a concussion, though the only thing she knew about concussions for real was that the catcher on her high school baseball team had gotten a concussion during a game when he had blocked home plate and a bigger player had bowled him over. Tim had to go to the hospital that night and missed two days of school. Jennifer was scared that her father needed a doctor, too, and might get worse without medical attention.
“Jen?”
Thomas nudged her again, his voice an insistent whisper.
“Jen?”
She finally answered, and tried to look upbeat.
“I think he has a concussion. That’s all it is.”
The phone on her father’s desk rang. Mars glanced over, but made no move to answer it. The phone stopped ringing just as Dennis and Kevin reappeared from the rear of the house. Dennis walked over and stared down at her father, then her. The expression on his face creeped her out. Kevin was staring, too.
Dennis squatted beside her.
“Your old man, what’s he do for a living?”
“He’s an accountant.”
“He does taxes for other rich people, he handle their money, what?”
“Duh. That’s what accountants do.”
Jennifer knew she was taunting him, and she was ready for his anger, but Dennis seemed to consider her. Then he glanced at Thomas before smiling.
“What’s your name?”
“Jennifer.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Smith.”
“Okay, Jennifer Smith. And your old man?”
“Walter Smith.”
Dennis looked at Thomas.
“How about you, fat boy?”
“Eat me.”
Dennis grabbed Thomas’s ear. Thomas blurted out his name.
“Thomas!”
“Fat boy Thomas, you give me shit, I’m gonna beat your ass. Are we clear on that?”
“Yes, sir.”
Dennis let go of Thomas’s ear.
“That’s a good fat boy.”
Jennifer wished that he would just leave them alone, but he didn’t. He smiled at her and lowered his voice.
“We’re going to be here a while, Jennifer. Where’s your bedroom?”
Jennifer blushed furiously, and Dennis smiled wider.
“Now don’t think nasty thoughts on me, Jennifer. I didn’t mean it like that. You look cold, wearing just the bikini top. I’ll bring you a shirt. Cover up that fine body.”
She averted her eyes and blushed harder.
“It’s upstairs.”
“Okay. I’ll bring you something.”
Dennis told Mars to come with him, and then the two of them left. Kevin went to the window.
The phone rang again, but Kevin ignored it. The ringing went on forever.
Thomas nudged her knee again.
When she looked at him, his face was deathly white with pink blotches at the corners of his mouth. That was the face he got when he was angry. She knew he didn’t like being called a fat boy.
He nudged her again, wanting to say something. She made sure that Kevin wasn’t watching them, then mouthed the word more than spoke it.
“What?”
Thomas leaned close and lowered his voice even more. The pink spots at his mouth burned brightly.
“I know where Daddy has a gun.”
5
• • •
Friday, 5:10 P.M.
GLEN HOWELL
Glen Howell closed his cell phone after fifteen rings. He didn’t like that. He was expected, and he knew that this person always answered his phone, and was irritated that now, him running late like this, the sonofabitch would pick now not to answer. In Glen Howell’s world, lateness was not tolerated and excuses were less than useless. Punishment could be severe.
Howell didn’t know why the streets leading into York Estates were blocked, but the traffic was at a standstill. He figured it had to be a broken gas line or something like that for them to close the entire neighborhood, backing up traffic and wasting everyone’s time. Rich people didn’t like to be inconvenienced.
The window on his big S-class Mercedes slid down without a sound. Glen craned out his head, trying to see the reason for the delay. A lone cop was working the intersection, waving some cars away. He let a television news van through. Glen raised the window again, the heavy tint cutting the glare. He took the .40-caliber Smith & Wesson from his pocket and put it in the glove box. He had a valid California Concealed Weapon Permit, but thought it best not to draw attention to himself if he had to get out of the car.
Glen checked his watch again for the fourth time in five minutes. He was already ten minutes late. At this rate, he would be still later. Three of the cars ahead of him turned away, one car was let through, and then it was his turn. The cop was a young guy, tall and rectangular with a protruding Adam’s apple.
Glen lowered the window. The heat ballooned in, making him wish he was back in Palm Springs, instead of being an errand boy. He tried to look professional and superior, working the class distinctions, rich successful business dude, lowly uneducated public servant.
“What’s going on, Officer? Why the roadblock?”
“Do you live here in the neighborhood, sir?”
Glen knew that if he lied, the cop might ask to see his driver’s license for the address. Glen didn’t want to get caught in a lie.
“I have a business appointment. My associate is expecting me.”
“We’ve got a problem in the neighborhood, so we’ve had to close the area. We’re only admitting residents.”
“What kind of problem?”
The cop looked uncertain.
“Do you have family in the development, sir?”
“Just my friends, like I said. You’re making me worried about them, Officer.”
The cop frowned, and glanced back along the row of cars behind Glen.
“Well, what it is, we’ve got robbery suspects in one of the houses. We’ve had to evacuate several of the homes, and close off the development until we can secure the area. It could take a while.”
Glen nodded, trying to look reasonable. Ten seconds, he already knew that he couldn’t flash a hundred at this guy to buy his way in. He would never go for it.
“Listen, my client is expecting me, Officer. It won’t take long. Really. I just need a few minutes, then I’m gone.”
“Can’t let you in, sir, I’m sorry. Maybe you could phone your party and have them come meet you, if they’re still inside. We’ve had people going door to door, telling people to stay indoors or offering to escort them out. I can’t let you in.”
Glen worked on staying calm. He smiled, and stared past the patrol car like he was thinking. His first impulse in any confrontation was to use his gun, put two hot ones square in the other guy’s forehead, but he had a handle on that. Years of therapy had taught him that, even though he had an anger-based personality, he could control it. He controlled it now.
“Okay. That might work. Can I park over here to call?”
“Sure.”
Glen pulled his car to the side, then called the number again. This time, he let it ring fifteen times, but still didn’t get an answer. Glen didn’t like this. With all the cops around, his guy might have developed a case of the quivering shits and was laying low, or maybe he’d been forced from his home. He might even have a bunch of cops in his home, using it as a command post or something. Glen laughed out loud at that one; no fucking way. Glen figured the guy must’ve been evacuated, in which case he would probably call Palm Springs to arrange another meet location, and Palm Springs would phone Glen. The cop would probably know which families had been evacuated, or could find out, but Glen didn?
??t want to draw attention to his man by asking.
Glen wheeled around in a slow U and headed back up the street, still thinking about it when he saw that another television news van had joined the line. Glen decided to take a flyer, and lowered his window when he reached the van. The driver was a balding guy with a rim of hair behind his ears and loose skin. A trim Asian woman with pouty lips perched in the passenger seat. Glen guessed her for the on-air talent, and wondered if the puffy lips were natural or man-made. Women who injected shit into their lips creeped him out. He decided that she was probably a spitter.
Glen said, “Excuse me. They wouldn’t tell me what’s going on, just that some people in the neighborhood are being evacuated. Do you guys know anything about this?”
The woman twisted in her seat and leaned forward to see past the driver.
“We don’t have anything confirmed, but it looks like three men were fleeing the scene of a robbery and took a family hostage.”
“No shit. That’s terrible.”
Glen couldn’t give less of a shit except that it was ruining his day. He wondered if he could talk the reporter into letting him come along.
“Do you live in the neighborhood?”
Glen knew that she was angling for something, and began to relax. If she thought he had something that she wanted, she might be willing to get him inside.
“I don’t live here, but I have friends in there. Why?”
The line of cars had moved forward, but the news van stayed where it was. The reporter flipped through a yellow pad.
“We’ve got unconfirmed reports that there are children involved, but we can’t get anyone to tell us anything about the family. It’s a family named Smith.”
The big Mercedes sensed the heat. The air conditioner blew harder. Glen didn’t feel it.
“What was the name again?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Walter Smith. We’ve heard they have two children, a boy and a girl.”
“They’re being held hostage? These three guys have the Smiths?”
“That’s right. Do you know them? We’re trying to find out about the kids.”
“I don’t know them. Sorry.”