boy said. “I know how it works. As soon as you get this kid, they put handcuffs on me and adios.. You’re gone, never to be heard from again. And Brittney’s left with some guy who slaps her for wanting more than one glass of milk at dinner.”
Lowering his head, Jack felt the ache of years’ worth of struggle climbing up the back of his neck. An officer handed him a couple of typed paragraphs on a computer printout. Information he should’ve had an hour ago, except that the boy’s mother hadn’t thought it was pertinent.
James’s mother had never been married. Had had several live-in boyfriends, but only two children, James and Brittney. By two different fathers. Neither father was in the picture. Ms. Talmadge had lost custody of her three-year-old daughter because of repeated abuse. And since Child Protective Services was attempting to place Brittney in a permanent home with a new family, James had been denied visitation rights.
“How do you know her foster father slaps her?”
“She told me.”
“You’ve seen her?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“I go by her day care sometimes. Talk to her through the fence. Now, I mean it, man, get me Brittney—and a dog—and I’ll make the trade.” He jabbed the gun at Marissa’s throat.
“You know why the dog didn’t speak to his hind foot?”
James turned toward the window. “What’s with the jokes, man?”
“The dog didn’t speak to his foot because it’s not polite to talk back to your paw.”
The skinny teenager shook his head, but his shoulders visibly relaxed.
Jack checked the list. He asked James a couple of questions about various friends named there. About the volleyball team he played on. James’s only response was to adjust the gun at Marissa’s throat. His hand was shaking.
“You know why dogs wag their tails?”
James looked at the window.
“Because no one else will do it for them.”
The kid gave a disgusted snort. He was still looking in the direction of Jack’s voice.
“You know how to tell if you have a stupid dog?”
Carefully monitoring the activity around him, waiting for the appearance of the dog, Jack continued sitting on the ground as though nothing was going on.
“It chases parked cars,” he said.
The little girl was lying still, her cheek pressed to the tile of the classroom floor. Her eyes were open, unmoving, staring vacantly at the floor.
“James, tell me again how you think holding Marissa is going to help you get Brittney?”
“Because it’s an even trade. A little girl for a little girl,” he spat.
Although this emotionally disturbed kid’s thinking was clearly twisted, there was no doubting his confidence in this theory he’d worked out.
The entire team of uniformed men and women were watching Jack. And the monitor. They were standing by in case Jack ran out of time. Waiting for a signal from him to move in.
James leaned back against a desk. It slid, toppled, caught the boy on the ankle.
From the open window Jack heard the crash. An angrily whispered Shit.
“James? You okay in there?”
“Like you care.”
“Believe it or not, I do care.” And he did. In an objective sense, as an observer. It was what made him so good at his job. He had to care. Because if he didn’t, he’d never be able to reach his perpetrators.
If he didn’t find a way to empathize, he’d lose his sanity by hating.
Hating every single person like James who put innocent people in danger.
Hating the young man who’d aimed his gun at Melissa’s chest and—
No! He knew better than that. He had a job to do.
For the poor distraught woman who stood only a few yards away from him trembling in the arms of a young blond man in business attire. Slacks. A tie. White shirt. His expression was a mixture of fear and unadulterated rage. He must be the father.
The two were counting on Jack to remain calm.
He asked James about the high-school football season. About getting his driver’s license. And what kind of plans he had for a car.
The boy didn’t respond.
Marissa was starting to shake. Her entire body was shivering, as though she was lying in a snowdrift rather than on a schoolroom floor.
Around the corner of the van Jack became aware of movement. A uniformed police officer approached him, a beagle puppy in her arms.
“We got the dog, James,” Jack said even before he had possession of the animal. The officer was approaching from the side of the building, staying out of the boy’s sight—and shot.
“He’s a puppy,” Jack said as the woman leaned over to hand him the squirming five-pound ball of brown, white and black fur. “He’s got big brown eyes and he’s all yours.”
Holding his breath, Jack studied the monitor. Obviously more agitated, James stared at the little girl.
“You want me to bring him in?” Jack asked.
“What I want is my sister.” The boy’s words, delivered through gritted teeth, were fierce. “You got her out there, Cop?”
“We’re working on it.”
“Yeah, well, work a little faster. I’m not waitin’ around here much longer.”
Marissa, who’d started to cry openly, received an angry kick. “Shut up!”
Through the open window, Jack heard the growled command. James moved and Jack stiffened, his hand at his belt, ready to pull his gun.
Reaching up, gaze on the monitor, he dropped the puppy through the window. And ignored the new sheen of sweat that broke out on his upper lip when James barely glanced at the dog.
“Get up,” the kid told the little girl. She didn’t move.
“I said get up!” James ordered.
Marissa’s body convulsed, and then she settled back, a quivering mass. With the gun never moving from her throat, James one-handedly pulled the child’s arms behind her, yanked off his belt and strapped Marissa’s hands together. The little girl didn’t even try to fight him. He dragged her over to a far corner, to the left of where Jack was sitting.
“Don’t move.”
Keeping
