Jeffrey’s vision blurred and he closed his eyes as the vertigo brought on a wave of nausea.
“Breathe,” Sara coaxed, smoothing back his hair. His head was in her lap and, judging by the blood on her skirt, had been for a while. He tried to move, but found that his feet were tied together with his own belt.
Suddenly, a man stood over them, pointing a shotgun at Marla while keeping a military-issue Sig Sauer trained on Brad. He had two more guns holstered to his chest along with a full complement of ammunition.
Smith. Jeffrey remembered he had given his name as Smith. He remembered it all now: Sara screaming his name, Matt’s head exploding against the front door, the ensuing gun battle, the deaths. Sam. The new patrolman’s first name was Sam.
The killer gave Jeffrey a cold look of appraisal. “Sit up.”
Sara said, “He needs to go to the hospital.” She did not wait for a response. “The children are in shock. They all need to go to the hospital.”
Smith cocked his head like he had heard something. He turned toward the lobby, where another man rested an assault rifle on the front counter, pointing it toward the front entrance. He was similarly dressed with a dark coat and Kevlar vest. A black ball cap was pulled low on his head, casting his face in shadow. The man did not look Smith’s way, but he gave a curt nod.
Sara took advantage of the brief exchange, whispering something to Jeffrey that sounded like “Stall it.”
Smith turned back to Jeffrey. “Sit up.” He kicked Jeffrey’s feet, and the movement jarred his shoulder enough to make him yell from the pain.
“He needs to go to the hospital,” Sara repeated.
“Hey,” Brad said, like a child trying to get between his arguing parents. “I need a hand over here with this one.”
Smith pointed the shotgun in Sara’s face. “Help him.”
Sara stayed where she was. “Matt needs medical attention,” she said, keeping her hand on Jeffrey’s good shoulder. Her words came out in a rushed panic. “The pulse in his arm is thready. The bullet probably nicked the artery. He lost consciousness for God knows how long. His head wound needs to be assessed.”
“You don’t seem too worried about me,” Smith said, indicating a piece of white cloth tied tightly around his left arm. A circle of dark blood spotted the center.
“You both seem capable of taking care of yourself,” she told him, then looked past his shoulder to his partner in the front lobby.
“Damn right,” Smith said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Jeffrey tried to get a good look at the second man’s face, but the overhead light was so bright that he could not keep his eyes open.
Brad stumbled and dropped a filing cabinet. With lightning speed, Smith and the second gunman turned around, both ready to shoot.
Brad held up his hands. “Sorry,” he said. “I just—”
The second shooter turned back to the front door as Smith walked over to Brad. Sara kept her eyes on the second man as she slipped her hand under Jeffrey’s back. Wallet. She had said “Wallet.”
He raised himself up to help her, biting through the pain in his shoulder, and she took out his wallet just as Smith swung around on them. He stared, his eyes darting to each person in the group, some sort of sixth sense igniting his suspicion. The children were so frightened that they were hardly moving, and Marla seemed to be in her own world as she stared blindly at the floor.
Brad said, “Maybe you can—”
Smith held out his hand, cutting him off. The room was silent, but the gunman could obviously hear something they could not. Or maybe, Jeffrey reasoned, he was just a paranoid fuck hopped up on cocaine or meth. Why the hell would someone do something like this? What could they possibly gain?
Smith walked backward, both guns trained on Brad. He stopped in front of the bathroom door, looking at his partner and getting a quick nod in return. The two men worked together like a precision instrument. Even without the military gear, it was obvious that they had either trained or been in combat together.
The bathroom door opened soundlessly as Smith went in, gun raised. Jeffrey counted off the seconds, staring at the door as it slowly closed. Suddenly, they heard a woman’s scream and a single gunshot. Less than minute later, Smith came out of the bathroom holding up a police-issue gun belt like it was a trophy.
Smith told his partner. “She was hiding under the sink.”
The second man shrugged, like it was none of his concern, and Jeffrey felt his heart sink at the thought of another one of his officers shot dead by these animals. She must have been hiding under the sink cabinet all this time, hoping to God they would not find her.
Smith threw the gun belt toward the lobby before going back to Jeffrey. “Sit up,” he said, and when Jeffrey did not move fast enough, he grabbed him up by his collar.
Jeffrey felt his stomach pitch as his brain tried to adjust to the sudden change. Sara sat up too, putting her hand on the back of his neck, coaching, “Breathe through it. Don’t get sick.”
He tried to do as he was told, but the grits he’d had for breakfast would not obey. They came up in a hot rush of bile.
“Jesus fuck,” Smith stepped back quickly to avoid the splatter. “What’d you have for breakfast, man?”
Jeffrey gave him another clue, throwing up the rest of the grits. He felt Sara’s hand at the back of his neck, the metal of his Auburn class ring pressing into his skin. Why had she taken his ring?
Smith said, “Give me your wallet.”
Jeffrey wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s in my coat,” he said, saying a small prayer of thanks that he had been too pissed at Sara in the interrogation room to stop and put his jacket back on.
“Where is it?” Smith challenged. “Where’s your coat?”
Jeffrey inhaled deeply, trying to quell the squall building in his stomach.
Smith kicked Jeffrey’s feet. “Where’s your coat?” he repeated.
“In my car.”
Smith grabbed Jeffrey’s collar and jerked him up to standing. Jeffrey screamed from the pain, fireworks detonating behind his eyelids. He pressed his face to the wall as he tried not to slide back to the floor. The muscles in his shoulder were throbbing with every beat of his heart, and his knees were so weak they started to buckle.
“You’re okay,” Sara told him, gripping him under his arm. Her strength was surprising, and he loved her more in that moment than he had in his entire life. “Keep breathing,” she told him, rubbing his back in a soothing, circular motion. “You’re okay.”
“Move.” Smith pushed her away. He tucked the shotgun into his belt and gave Jeffrey an expert pat-down. The man knew the correct way to frisk a suspect, and he did not go lightly near Jeffrey’s shoulder.
“All right.” Smith backed up and Jeffrey struggled to face him, leaning against the wall so he would not collapse. The phone started ringing again, the metallic clang grating on every nerve in his body.
“Y’okay, Matt?” Smith hit the t’s hard, like he was testing them. Jeffrey did not know if it was paranoia or panic, but he got the feeling Smith knew exactly who he was looking at, and that it was not Matt Hogan.
“He’s not,” Sara said. “The bullet’s probably pressed against the artery. If you keep pushing him, it might dislodge. He could bleed to death.”
“My heart’s breaking,” Smith said, glancing over at Brad to check his work.
The phone continued to ring in the background, and Sara said, “Why don’t you pick that up and tell them you’re sending out the children?”
Smith cocked his head to the side as if he was considering her suggestion. “Why don’t you wrap your lips around my dick and suck it?”
Sara ignored the remark, telling him, “You need to show them good faith by letting the children go.”
“I don’t need to do anything.”
Brad added, “She’s right. You’re not a baby killer.”
“No,” Smith said, taking the shotgun out of his belt and pointing it at
Brad’s chest. “I’m just a cop killer.”
He let this sink in, the phone’s insistent ringing punctuating the tension.
Sara told him, “The sooner you make your demands, the sooner we can all get out of here.”
“Maybe I don’t want to get out of here, Dr. Linton.”
Jeffrey clenched his jaw, thinking there was something too familiar about the way the man had said Sara’s name.
Smith noticed his reaction. “You don’t like that, boy?” he asked, standing a few inches from Jeffrey’s face. “Dr. Linton and me, we go way back. Don’t we, Sara?”
Sara stared at the young man, looking unsure of herself. “How long has it been?”
Smith gave her a crooked smile. “A while, don’t you think?”
Sara tried to hide her uncertainty, but to Jeffrey it was clear as day that she had no idea who the boy was. “You tell me.”
They held each other’s gaze, tension held between them like a tight wire. Smith gave a suggestive flick with his tongue and Sara looked away. Had Jeffrey been able, he would have jumped the man and beaten him dead.
Again, Smith picked up on this. He asked Jeffrey, “Are you gonna be a problem for me, Matt?”
Jeffrey stood as straight as he could with his ankles belted together. He shot the other man a look of pure hatred. Smith returned it in kind.
Brad spoke up, breaking the tension. “Keep me,” he volunteered.
Smith kept his face turned toward Jeffrey, though his gaze slid slowly toward Brad.
Brad said, “Let them go and keep me.”
Smith laughed at the suggestion, and in the lobby his partner joined in.
“Then keep me,” Sara said, and they both stopped laughing.
Jeffrey told her, “No.”
She ignored him, addressing Smith. “You’ve already killed Jeffrey.” Her voice caught on his name, but she said the rest clearly enough. “You don’t want Brad or Matt. You certainly don’t want an old woman and three 10-year-olds. Let them go. Let them all go and keep me.”
Chapter Five
Sunday
The drive to Sylacauga turned out to be a longer detour than Jeffrey had promised. He said they would stay the night at his mother’s, but at the rate they were going, Sara thought it would be more like morning. Closer to Talladega, the highway started to back up with traffic for the race at the NASCAR super speedway, but Jeffrey took this more like a challenge than an obstacle. After weaving in and out of cars, trucks, and RVs at such a close distance that Sara put on her seatbelt, Jeffrey finally exited. She was relieved until she realized that the last vehicle to use the road was probably a horse and buggy.
The deeper they drove into Alabama, the more relaxed Jeffrey seemed, and the long stretches of silence became companionable instead of unbearable. He found a good Southern-rock station and they listened to the likes of Lynyrd Skynyrd and The Allman Brothers as they drove through backwoods country. Along the way, he pointed out different attractions, such as three recently closed cotton mills and a tire factory that had been shut down after an industrial accident. The Helen Keller Center for the Blind was an impressive set of buildings, but hardly much to look at going ninety miles per hour.
Jeffrey patted her knee as they passed yet another country jail. He smiled and said, “Almost there,” but there was an odd expression on his face, like he regretted asking her to come.
They took a last-minute turn onto another ill-used roadway, and Sara was contemplating how to ask him if he was lost when a large sign loomed in the distance. She read aloud, “Welcome to Sylacauga, birthplace of Jim Nabors.”
“We’re a proud people,” Jeffrey told her, downshifting as the road curved. “Ah,” he said fondly. “There’s a point of local interest.” He indicated a run-down-looking country store. “Yonders Blossom.”
The sign was faded, but Sara could still read that it was, in fact, called Yonders Blossom. Various items one would expect to find in front of a country store were strategically placed around the yard, from a radiator with a fern growing out of it to a couple of rubber tires that had been painted white and turned into flower planters. To the side of the building was a large Coca-Cola freezer.
Jeffrey told her, “I lost my virginity behind the cooler there.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep,” he said, a crooked grin on his face. “The day of my twelfth birthday.”
Sara tried to hide her shock. “How old was she?”
He gave a self-satisfied chuckle. “Not too old to be taken over her mama’s knee when Blossom got thirsty and happened upon us.”
“You seem to have that effect on mothers.”
He laughed again, putting his hand on her leg. “Not all of them, honey.”
“Honey?” she repeated, thinking from his tone that he might as well have called her his favorite side of beef.
He laughed at her reaction, though she had never been more serious. “You’re not going to turn into a feminist on me?”
She looked at his hand on her leg, sending a clear message that it should be removed now. “Right before your very eyes.”
He squeezed her leg in response, flashing that same grin that had probably gotten him out of trouble a thousand times before. Sara was not so much angry as feeling he had paid her back for calling him stupid in front of her mother. Against her better judgment, she let it slide.
They drove slowly through downtown, which was similar to Heartsdale’s but half the size. He showed her other “points of interest” from his childhood along the way. Sara got the distinct impression from his lopsided smiles that there were different girls attached to each of these spots, but she decided she would rather not know the details.
“There’s where I went to high school.” He pointed to a long, flat building with several trailers outside. “Ah, Mrs. Kelley.”
“Another one of your conquests?”
He gave a low growl. “I wish. Good God, she’s probably eighty now, but back then…”
“I get the picture.”
“You jealous?”
“Of an eighty-year-old?”
“Here we go,” he said, taking a left. They were on Main Street, which again looked very much like Heartsdale’s. He asked, “Look familiar?”
“Your Piggly Wiggly’s closer in town,” she said, watching a woman come out of the grocery store with three bags in her hands and a small child on either side. Sara stared at the children as they held on to their mother’s dress, wondering what it would be like to have that kind of life. Sara had always thought that once she got her practice going, she would get married and have a few children of her own. An ectopic pregnancy subsequent to the rape had removed that possibility forever.
She felt a lump rise in her throat as she was reminded yet again of how much had been taken from her.
Jeffrey pointed to a large building on their right. “There’s the hospital,” he said. “I was born there back when it was just two stories and a gravel parking lot.”
She stared at the building, trying to regain her composure.
He handed her his handkerchief. “You okay?”
Sara took the cloth. She had been tearing up before, and for some reason his gesture made her want to really cry. Instead, she wiped her nose and said, “Must be the pollen.”
“Here,” he said, leaning over to roll up the window. “Damn dog-woods.”
She put her hand on the back of his neck, brushing her fingers through his hair. She was always surprised by how soft it was, almost like a child’s.
He looked up at the road, then back to her. He gave her one of his half-smiles, saying, “God, you’re so beautiful.”
She blew her nose to defray the compliment.
He sat up, slowing the car more. “You’re beautiful,” he repeated, kissing her just below the ear. The car slowed more, and he kissed her again.
“You’re going to block traffic,” she warned, but theirs was the only car on the road.
He kissed her again, thi
s time on the lips. She was torn between enjoying the sensation and the odd feeling that half the hospital was looking out the blinds at the spectacle they were making.
She gently pushed him away, saying, “I don’t want to end up being one of the ‘local points of interest’ for the next girl you bring here.”
He asked, “You think I bring other girls here?” and she could not tell if he was serious or not.
A car horn beeped behind them and he resumed the posted thirty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit. Sara knew better than to point out that this was the first time he had driven the speed limit since they had gotten into the car. Something had shifted, but she was not quite sure what. Before she could think of a way to frame the question, he turned onto a side street by the hospital and pulled into a driveway behind a dark blue pickup truck. A pink child’s bike was propped against the front porch and a tire swing hung from the tall oak in the yard. She asked, “This is your mother’s house?”
“Last detour.” He gave her a smile that seemed forced. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and got out of the car before she could ask him who lived here.
Sara watched Jeffrey walk up to the front door and knock. He tucked his hands into his pockets and turned back around. She waved, but then realized he probably couldn’t see her because of the glare. Jeffrey knocked again, but there was still no answer. He turned back toward the car, shielding the sun out of his eyes and holding up his finger to her, indicating he would just be another minute. She opened the car door to get out as he ran around the back of the house.
Sara surveyed the neighborhood as she waited for him. The street was fairly similar to those in Avondale, which was not exactly the nicest part of Grant County. The houses looked to have been hastily built to accommodate the soldiers who returned from World War II, ready to start their families and put the war behind them. During the mid-1940s, the area must have been nice, but now it looked run-down. There were a couple of cars on blocks, and a fair number of the yards needed to be trimmed. The paint was peeling on most of the houses, and weeds grew out of the sidewalks. Some of the owners had not yet given up the fight, though, and their immaculate yards and vinyl-sided houses showed meticulous care. The one Jeffrey had parked in front of fell into this second category, with its carefully manicured lawn and well-raked gravel driveway.