Hostage

'You're going to be thinking, What can I do? Here you are, a policeman, you're going to think about calling the FBI or bringing the Sheriffs in, about getting me before something happens to your wife and child, but, Chief, think about this: I have people right there in York Estates, right under your nose, reporting everything that happens. If you bring anyone in, if you do anything other than what I am telling you to do, you'll get your wife and kid back in the mail. Are we clear on that?'

'Yes.'

'When I have what I want, your wife and daughter will be released. We're cool with that. They don't know who has them just like you don't know who we are. Ignorance is bliss.'

'What is it you want? Disks? Like computer disks? Where are they, where in the house?'

'Two disks, bigger than normal disks. They're called Zip disks, labeled Disk One and Disk Two. We won't know where they are until we find them, but Smith will know.'

The Watchman opened the door, paused before leaving, his glance flicking to the phone.

'Answer when it rings, Chief.'

The keys were dropped into Talley's lap. Doors opened, closed, and Talley was alone there in the alley behind the minimall in the middle of nowhere. The Mustang pulled away. The second car roared away, backwards. Talley sat behind the wheel, breathing, unable to move, feeling apart from his own body as if this had just happened to someone else.

He clawed for the keys, started his car, and spun the wheel hard, flooring it, fishtailing gravel. He hit his lights and siren, rolling code three, blasting straight back to his condo, never bothered to pull into a spot, just left the car like that in the parking lot, lights popping, and ran inside, almost as if they might be sitting there, all of this some hallucination.

The condo was empty, the silence of it outrageously loud. He called them anyway, not knowing what else to do.

'Jane! Amanda!'

Their only sign was the keys to Jane's car, sitting plainly on the dining room table, small and hard, left there as a threat.

Talley put Jane's keys in his pocket. He went upstairs to the little desk in his bedroom where he stared at the photographs. Jane and Amanda, much younger then, stared back in a picture taken at Disneyland, Jane sitting at one of those outdoor restaurants in Adventureland, her arms wrapped around Amanda, both of them showing more white teeth than a piano. They had eaten tostadas or tacos, one, with some salsa that was so mild that they'd laughed about it, the three native Angelenos, salsa with all the kick of Campbell's tomato soup, something that only people from Minnesota or Wisconsin would find spicy. Talley choked a sob in his chest. He took the picture from the frame, put it in his pocket with the keys. He went to his closet for the blue nylon gym bag on the top shelf, and brought the bag to his bed. He took out the pistol that he had carried during his SWAT days, a Colt.45 Model 1911 that had been tuned by the SWAT armorer for accuracy and reliability. It was big, ugly, and supremely dangerous. It held only seven bullets, but SWAT used the.45 as their combat pistol because just one of those big heavy bullets could knock a large man off his feet. A.38 or a 9mm couldn't promise that, but the.45 could. It was a killer.

Talley ejected the empty magazine, filled it with seven bullets, then reseated it. He dug through the gym bag for the black ballistic nylon holster. He took off his uniform, then put on blue jeans and tennis shoes. He fitted the holster onto his belt at his side, then covered it with a black sweatshirt. He clipped his badge to his belt.

The cell phone that the Watchman gave him was sitting on his desk. Talley stared at it. What if it rang?

What if the Watchman ordered him into Walter Smith's house right now and the people inside that house were killed? What if he answered that phone to hear Jane and Amanda screaming as they were murdered?

Talley sat on the edge of the bed thinking that he was a fool. He should go directly to both the Sheriff's Detective Bureau and the FBI; even the Watchman knew it. That would be the smart way to play this mess, and that was what he would have done except that he believed that the Watchman was telling the truth about having someone at York Estates, and would kill his family. Talley was scared; it's easy to say what someone should do when they're not you; when it's you, it's a nightmare. He told himself to be careful. The Watchman was right about something else, too: Panic kills. That same message had hung on the wall at the Special Weapons and Tactics School: Panic kills. The instructors had hammered it into them. It didn't matter how urgent the situation, you had to think; act quickly but efficiently. A mind is a terrible thing to waste, and nothing wastes your mind faster than getting your ass shot off. Think.

Talley put the Watchman's phone in his pocket and drove to his office.