Good Morning, Killer

“Can you?”

Talking about Andrew made me sweat; a couple of dozen cops and FBI people listening.

“Did you like it when he made love to you?”

I didn’t answer.

“Did you tell him that you liked it?”

A voice jumped out of my throat. “Shut up!” I screamed. “It’s none of your business!”

He startled, on his feet and going to the pistol in his belt.

“Shut up? You’re telling me to shut up, lowly bitch?”

“You know what I would like?” I said fiercely. “I would like my boyfriend to come in here and beat the crap out of you.”

Wrong, all wrong, you are totally off the track—

“That’s not about to happen, is it?” Brennan replied, and now he was pissed.

Wrong, to get him all worked up with a male challenge. What are you doing? That is exactly wrong—

The phone rang.

As if they knew! As if they were listening on 911 and heard it escalate and tried to cut it off.

“Answer it,” I whispered. “Your collection.”

He ticked the barrel of the gun back and forth at my face and went into the living room and picked up the phone.

“How are you?” the negotiator said on the tape.

“Leave me alone.”

“I’m just curious to know, how is everybody in the house?”

“Everybody’s fine.”

“How is Ana Grey?”

“Ana?” he smirked. “Ana is not in a position to talk right now.”

“Besides you and Ana, how is everybody else in the house?”

“I’ve got two!”

“You’ve got two ladies?”

“Yeah, that’s right!”

“Why don’t you let one of them go?”

“No way!” said Brennan. “No way ever. You’re going to have to come in and get me.”

It was night by then, and the grinding roar of helicopters vibrated the bones in my head. Outside, beyond the perimeter, the media waited with turned-off lights; they’d flood the place when there was action. SWAT could see Brennan now with night vision, and I was tormented at why they did not take the shot while he was in the living room, edging the metal chair closer to where my bag lay on the floor, trying to poke it open with my feet. Brennan was back before I could see if there was glow on the blue faceplate, if it still held charge, or if I were talking to the dark.

“Did you tell them what you want?” I asked tiredly. From the booming headache that had begun even before the helicopters, I was certain that I had a concussion.

He did not answer. He was crouched between the painted-over windows, sunk into some inner negative space, features gone flaccid and eyes dull.

“I want everyone to go away.”

When a suspect wants something he will say it over and over. Brennan had wanted nothing, over and over. They would have noted on the situation board, NO DEMANDS, and worried because that was not good. Keeping us here — Bridget still knocked out on the floor — was not good, either. It meant he was going to finish.

“Sir, I’m curious to know what’s going on with you, and if there’s some way I can help.”

He held up a hand. “Ana,” as if we were old pals, “stop. I know exactly what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?”

“Trying to create a psychological profile of me.”

“Give me a break,” I said, “I can’t even spell it.”

He smiled. “I know I’m a freak.”

Then, for some reason, he took off his shirt.

I did not like that, at all.

I did not like seeing the thin, hard physique and the pinched nipples. I didn’t know what that message was supposed to be.

“So you and your friends in the FBI have been looking for me?”

Did he need more strokes?

“You’re a priority, sir.”

“I’ll bet you didn’t think it would go down like this.”

I acknowledged my situation: “Fantasies are perfect. Life is not.”

He smiled at that, too.

“There’s my baby. Now she’s getting up.”

Bridget’s eyes had opened to a dull stare. The blood on her face had flaked dry.

When the phone rang again, he went to answer quickly.

“Bridget!” I hissed. “Are you okay? The police are here. We’re going to get you out.”

Then Brennan came back, pouting.

“They said no.”

“No to what?”

“All I wanted was to see my sister.”

“They wouldn’t let you see your sister?”

He shook his head. Hard-asses. They had probably admonished him for breaking contact. Tried to reestablish the rules. I was hungry and my head was throbbing. In despair, I could only support the choices they had made.

“That’s it, then. They’re not going anywhere. As long as we’re here, they’re here.”

“You told me to tell them what I want.”

“Yes, but you have to give them something in exchange.”

“You see, it’s all a stupid game, like Russia and the United States.”

“What’s going on with Bridget?”

She was awake but not moving. Pink froth gathered at her mouth.

“She’ll be paralyzed for a little bit longer,” he said, kicking her leg. “Then she’ll be fine.”

“The difference between you playing their game or not,” I said quickly, to distract him, “is you on death row, or not.”

Bridget had begun to moan.

“I love my sister.”

“Let me talk to them. I want to tell them what an exceptional job you’ve done in keeping everyone safe.”

He looked up with sad eyes, meant to uncork my sympathy. If you had met Ray Brennan on the street, your heart would have been touched by his core loneliness.

“My sister understands. She forgives my sins.”

“Right,” I stuttered, imagining what role his sister had played — or been forced to play — in this tragic madness. “She knows who you are.” I tried to wet my lips. “You’re a good person who … who … I don’t know, sir, but something happened … Something really bad … But it happens to all of us, in some way. Did you know that?” Big fat tears of humiliation and exhaustion had escaped and were rolling down my face. If I could crawl over to