The guy who settles other people’s relationship problems all the while mine is nutso. “There’s Six-Five-Five. Flashing lights up there, mid block,” I say, pressing the throttle even harder. “And that must be the complainant standing by the marked unit.”
“Four-Forty’s arrived,” Tommy tells dispatch. “Looks like it’s just you and me, Sam, and Six-Five-Five. Wow, look at these houses. I haven’t been here since they’ve finished the area. At least a million five smackers each.”
“Where’s the officer, ma’am?” I ask, climbing out of the car.
She turns part way toward me, hugging herself, her eyes looking slightly off to the side, not focused.
“Ma’am, I’m Detective Reeves. Where’s the police officer?”
“House,” she sobs. “The man… he screamed. The officer… said he couldn’t wait.. Please, get my baby. He’s upstairs.”
“Is the man your husband,” Tommy asks.
“What? No no no. My husband is in California… on business. He—”
A horrific scream rips from a second-story open window, human, but beast-like. It’s like the scream of a bobcat my grandfather and I once found in the woods, its leg caught in a steel-toothed trap. Grandfather shot it to put it out of its misery. I was thirteen.
“That’s not… Jimmy,” the mother wheezes.
I take off at a sprint toward the house. “Come on, Tommy,” I call over my shoulder. “Dispatch,” I say into my portable radio. “Six-Five-Five is in the house and my partner and I are going in. Have the next unit secure the back and another secure the front.” We stop on the porch, each of us taking a side of the door.
“Be advised that the last we heard from Six-Five-Five was that he was standing on the stairs waiting for backup.”
“Copy that,” I whisper into the radio; I shut it off. “You got your radio off, Tommy?”
“Yup. Look, the door’s ajar. Probably from when mom came out or maybe when Six-Five-Five went in.”
I nudge it open another three or four inches and quick-peek around the frame: expanse of burgundy rug, edge of a black leather sofa, lit lamp. My heart is thumping hard but I’m in control. I thought I’d be a little rusty after two months away but I feel good. I’m on it.
I’ll go right, you go left,” I whisper, removing my nine from under my sports coat. Tommy already has his out.
“Now,” I whisper, gripping my weapon with both hands and angling it toward the floor. I push the door the rest of the way open and step quickly to the right. Tommy steps in behind me, moving left.
It’s a beautiful living room filled with rich leathers, marble, and expensive-looking art pieces. There’s an archway at the far side, through which I can see the bottom steps of a spiral stairway. As we move closer, I see black shoes and blue pant legs farther up the stairs. I nod toward them.
Tommy whispers, “Uniform pants, I think. Let me move over for a better see… Yes, it’s Six-Five-Five.”
We inch slowly across the plush carpet toward the archway, each step exposing more and more of the officer. Not until we’re all the way through the arch can we see all of him near the top of the carpeted stairs, his overweight body leaning for support against a richly varnished banister, his .45 semi-auto gripped in both hands. Name’s Mitchell Heiberg, mid forties. He looks down at us, the relief obvious in his face. He gestures with his head toward the hallway at the top of the stairs.
“One man,” he whispers out of the corner of his mouth. “First room, right there. Mom says it’s the boy’s room. Kid’s seven years old.”
“We heard a yell,” I whisper, moving up the curved stairs and bracing myself on the banister across from Mitchell. I look down at Tommy standing at the side of the archway; he’s holstered his Glock, probably because we’re between him and the threat.
I look toward the door in question and the hall that extends about twenty feet to the right. There are doors on each side, all closed except for one at the end of the hall, from which a rectangle of light falls across the carpet. Bathroom, probably.
“Don’t know what that yell was about,” the veteran officer says, breathing raggedly but more than ready to pounce. “It scared the shit out of me, though. Heard the boy’s voice after, whimpering. Haven’t heard anything for a few minutes.”
“How do you want to do it?” I ask, acknowledging that he was first on the scene and therefore calling the shots.
Mitchell looks down at Tommy under the archway. “Check with radio to see if SWAT and a hostage negotiator are on the way.” To me: “I think we should hold our positions and—”
A window-rattling bellow from the boy’s bedroom.
“Jesus!” Tommy gasps from below, as Mitchell and I crouch reflexively, thrusting our weapons toward the door. “What in holy hell was that?”
A nasally voice from the room. “I’m going to kill the little shiiiiit. Nowwww. Just you wait and seeeee.” Taunting voice, syrupy. Was he talking to us? He had to have heard us.
“We got to move now,” Mitchell says between clenched teeth.
My stomach churns a huge bubble of acid. Please don’t let this be a repeat of two months ago.
Tommy moves up behind us.
“Okay,” Mitchell says. “I’ll move to the other side of the door and you guys take up on this side. We’ll listen from there.”
We move up the last few steps and then quiet-walk over to the door. Mitchell places his ear against the wall and listens for a moment. He looks at me and pretends to rub an eye.
I nod that I understand. The child is crying and that means he’s still alive.
My heart thumps so hard that I wonder if the other guys can hear it. I don’t want to shoot again. I don’t want to shoot again. I don’t want… Damn. Kari said there was no greater chance of it happening again. She promised me. It can’t be my turn again.
Mitchell pantomimes that he’ll go right and that Tommy and I should go left. I nod and position my trembling hand just above the doorknob. Mitchell holds up three fingers, closes his fist, extends two fingers, closes his fist, extends one.
I twist the knob hard and push it forcefully. Mitchell slides around the door facing, moving to the right. I step in an instant later, moving to the left, my gun pointing into the room; Tommy’s on my heels.
“I’m going to killllll the little shit. Wanna watch?”
I hear and understand the words before my mind fully comprehends the image before me.
A man, skinny, mid twenties, head shaved, and naked, sits spread-legged on the corner of the bed. Between his legs, a blond-haired little boy, also naked, struggling weakly against the forearm that pins him within a tight embrace. The man looks in my direction, but his eyes—gray, opaque—seem to look trance-like into another world.
“Let
