Takeover

Lucas followed this exchange with the ghost of a grin. “Is this a sore spot, Brad?”

He’s a student of human nature, Theresa thought. Or perhaps of child rearing, given the history written in scarred flesh along his arms.

“They take days off and assume you can cover for them. Their vacation week gets approved because it’s Junior’s Little League tryouts or something. They act like I don’t have a real life because it doesn’t revolve around some little rug rat.”

Lucas had reached the end of his attention span. “People-”

Missy ripped the paper band off a packet of money with enough force to send a few stray bills wafting to the floor. “No, because you’re a self-indulgent party boy who-”

“People!”

They fell silent.

“Let me reintroduce some reality here. None of you are getting out of here until Bobby and I have this money safely stowed in our car. I don’t care who has kids and who doesn’t. It may be a noble undertaking, but it does not confer any special immunity in life. I also don’t give a crap if you’re caring for an elderly parent, or your dog has diabetes and needs its medication, or if you’ve won the lottery and intend to donate it all to charitable organizations. I don’t care. Are we clear on this?”

The phone rang.

“Nobody move,” Lucas said. “Bobby, don’t answer that. Missy, you got that one zipped up?”

She had filled it to bulging. A small stack of leftover bundles rested on the floor. “Yes.”

“Good. Jessica, go sit down where you were before. Missy and Brad, slide the bag in front of the reception desk. It’s going to be heavy, but you’re both so ticked off you can probably pull it without too much trouble. Then everyone sits down. Theresa, you, too.”

Lucas followed behind Theresa, close enough that the barrel of the gun prodded her spine with every few steps. The phone continued to ring. Lucas had the money and the car, with nothing to stop him from taking off with a few hostages in tow. Except Chris Cavanaugh, assuming he really could talk anybody into anything.

“I think you should answer that phone,” Theresa said to him.

Lucas ignored her suggestion. “You could have run for it, Theresa. You could have been out that door before I shot you. Why didn’t you go?”

“How many people would you have killed if I had?”

“Half of them.” The answer came so quickly, so lightly, that it chilled her blood. “Just like I said. But so what? You love your daughter. Aren’t you willing to sacrifice others for her well-being?”

The question made her heart pound, more so than the gun at her back. Should she have been willing? Why did Lucas ask? Trying to sort out what happened during his childhood, what the adults in his life should have done versus what they did? Or did he simply enjoy poking an open wound?

Should she have run, put Rachael above these other people, these strangers?

“Love has to be balanced,” she said as they reached the reception desk, “with being a human being. You can’t truly do one without being the other.”

His face grew still again, hard, almost disappointed. “I disagree,

Theresa. Real love is unbalanced, and you have to be willing to sacrifice everything and everyone for it.” For the second time, she asked, “Is that what you’re doing this for? Love?” “Sit down, Theresa.” She sat.

26

2:35 P.M.

“What did you do with the daughter?” Cavanaugh asked.

Patrick, Cavanaugh, and Jason sat at the librarian’s desk. Assistant Chief Viancourt perched on a folding chair, one ankle over the opposite knee. He seemed to have forgotten his irritation at Patrick-he’d never been the sort to hold a grudge-but he also seemed to have lost interest in the whole ordeal.

Patrick could not remember when he’d last felt this tired. He didn’t have the energy to light a cigarette, and his clothes, even his pants, clung to his sweat-soaked body. Yet the last active cell in his body rose up at Cavanaugh’s tone. “Rachael. Her name is Rachael.”

“Rachael, then. Where is she?” “She’s watching the monitor in the map room.” The hostage negotiator studied him. “If this goes bad-” “She might witness her mother’s slaughter, yes, I know that. But what else could I do? Stick her in a closet and tell her to be quiet like a good girl? If it was my mother, I’d sure as hell want to see what was going on.”

“It will give her nightmares for the rest of her life. Why don’t you send her to the hospital to stay with the fiance? Paul,” he added hastily, seeing the look on Patrick’s face. “He was almost her stepfather.”

Is going to be, Patrick thought, but he felt superstitious about insisting, felt afraid to acknowledge Cavanaugh’s use of the past tense when it came to Paul Cleary. “I thought of that. She didn’t ask much about him before, but I’ll have to tell her what kind of shape he’s in. I won’t make her go-I keep picturing Tess bleeding to death on the floor of the Federal Reserve building. Having to be here if that happens, yes, would traumatize Rachael for life. But knowing she might have had a chance to say good-bye if I hadn’t sent her off to Metro… well, she’d hate me forever.”

“So are you basing this decision on her feelings or yours?”

Patrick damned the man. That was probably what made him a good negotiator, the ability to cut through words to the crux of the matter. “That’s just it-it’s going to have to be her decision.”

Cavanaugh shrugged. “Whatever. Just keep her out of here.” He dialed the phone again. “He still isn’t answering. This is not good.”

It felt better to discuss anything besides himself or Theresa. “What’s his plan?”

“That’s just it, I don’t know. After the entrance, the exit is the most dangerous time, and it’s best to have every detail worked out. You think they were trigger-happy before… They should be even more worried about it than I am. I don’t get it. Did we hear from the storage facility that had Bobby’s car?”

“Whoever left it there gave his name as Bobby Moyers. Surveillance tapes have since been recorded over, and the employee who assigned the unit got fired three months ago. Decatur PD is trying to track him down on the off chance he can give us a description.” He dialed again.

“Where’s the secretary of state now?” Patrick asked suddenly. “The luncheon should be over.”

“Yeah, it’s over,” Viancourt answered from the couch, a bitter edge to his words. He had probably hoped to attend at least part of it. “They’re bundling the secretary into a bulletproof limo as we speak. So I guess this had nothing to do with that after all. I’m glad I didn’t even suggest to the chief that we cancel it,” he added pointedly. He had been right and they wrong.

Patrick checked his Nextel, hoping the hospital would call him if Paul’s condition changed. “Maybe he was waiting for the traffic to clear.”

Cavanaugh asked what he meant.

“We’ve gotten the feeling all day that Lucas was stalling. First he refused to wait for this shipment, and then he changed his mind, even after going through the whole rigmarole of sending the Ludlow woman to rob the bank-loan department. Maybe he wanted to wait until the secretary departed, taking a lot of traffic and a lot of cops with her.”

Cavanaugh nodded. “It could be. It works in our favor as well- if we have to pursue, which I pray we don’t, at least we won’t be running into the motorcade or convention-center traffic. Of course, if he heads east from here, it wouldn’t have made any difference anyway. I need to know what he’s planning. If he waits any longer, we’re going to run into that Hall of Fame concert traffic.”

He dialed the phone again, punching the numbered plastic buttons with violence.

“What about Cherise?” Patrick said. “Did you check out what Theresa told that SRT guy?”

Cavanaugh gestured at Jason, who answered. “I spoke with her parents-as much as I could; they were