Saving Scott (Kobo) (34 page)

Ashley knew
her Google skills were no match for Scott’s, but she’d picked up a few
rudimentary search techniques. She added Scott’s name to the search and found
totally different results. She clicked the first one and started reading.

Oh. My. God.

Eyes fixed
on the screen, she shoved her soup aside.
Scott, what happened to you?

She skimmed
the article, then clicked to several more. Different versions, but the same
story. Somehow, Scott had managed to end up in the middle of a robbery at a
bank in the Macquarie Building in Salem. Finding out he was a cop had pissed
off the bad guys.

Stomach
twisting, she read through the rest of the article. Hostages. Negotiations
failed. People dead. Severe injuries sustained.

The cold,
dry facts were horrific enough. No wonder Scott was reluctant to talk about it.

Reluctant?
She snorted. Reluctant didn’t come close. Getting that man to say anything
about himself was like trying to unbake a cookie.

But he’d
tried. When he’d said that one word, he’d taken the first step toward sharing.
Something loosened inside her. She grabbed the Hennessey and went next door.

Scott
answered the door wearing sweats and towel-drying his hair. He gazed at her,
then at the bottle, then looked at her again. His initial smile faded. He
swiped the towel across his hair again, momentarily hiding his face. When he
reappeared, his expression was neutral. Composed. “I take it you Googled
Macquarie.”

“Can I come
in?”

He paused,
then stepped aside and held the door open. “Have a seat. I’ll get glasses.”

She set the
bottle on the coffee table and tried to get comfortable on the couch. Why hadn’t
she thought about what she wanted to say before she barged over here?

Scott
returned with two tumblers and poured a generous shot into each. “I guess you
expect me to spill my guts.”

“You wanted
me to know,” she whispered.

He drew in a
deep breath. It seemed an eternity before he exhaled. He swirled his drink,
stared at the glass, then took a swig. “I don’t talk about stuff much.”

“I’m no
detective, but I figured that out for myself.” She patted the couch cushion
beside her. “Since I already know the basics, you don’t have to tell me
everything. I’ll accept whatever you’re willing to share. And I promise I won’t
push.”

He sat at
the far end of the couch, staring straight ahead, not at her. “I had a dentist
appointment in the Macquarie Building. On the fifth floor. There was a bank in
the lobby. And a snack bar. Run by a woman. Rina. Disabled. Handicapped.
Challenged. Hell, I don’t remember today’s PC term. She was in a wheelchair,
okay. I’d stop to buy something, chat a bit, whenever I was in there.

“Everything
was normal. Sunny day.” He let out a weak laugh. “Okay, for this part of
Oregon, maybe sunny isn’t all that normal. But people were going in and out,
the bank was busy, and I was early, so I spent a few extra minutes with Rina.
She showed me pictures of her grandkids.”

Scott seemed
to be in a trance, totally reliving that day. None of the reports she’d read
went into this kind of depth. None conveyed what it
felt
like. Ashley
longed to take his hand, to ease the obvious pain of the memory. Instead, she
picked up her glass and swirled the amber liquid, inhaling its aroma, staring
into its depths. And waited for him to speak.

“A young
woman came in. Mom. A kid in a stroller, three more running out of control. She
hollered at them. They giggled. Just being kids. One ran toward the snack bar,
asking his mom if he could have a candy bar. I was on my way to the elevator.”
He took another deep swallow of his drink.

“I was
watching the kid. Making sure he didn’t crash into the display. Smiling at the
mom, letting her know I understood that kids were kids, that I wasn’t going to
think she was neglecting her responsibilities. I didn’t see them come in.” His
head drooped. “I wasn’t watching. I never noticed.” His voice cracked.

Ashley held
her breath. Slowly, silently, she set her glass on the table. Inched her
fingers toward Scott’s leg. Barely touching him. He either didn’t notice or
didn’t care, because he didn’t pull away.

“Three of
them,” he continued. “Wearing parkas. Knit caps pulled low. Looking down. It
was a sunny day. No need for jackets. Hats. I should have noticed.”

When his
voice cracked, he stopped. She waited. The silence dragged on. Ashley braved a
gentle caress to his thigh. He rested his hand on hers.

“You can’t
be responsible for everyone,” she said. Tears burned behind her eyes. Her heart
felt as if it were clamped in a vise.

“I should
have noticed. She’s dead. I should have noticed.” He drained his glass and turned
it in his hand, as if it was easier to talk to it than her.

But he was
talking. That had to be good. “Rina?” The word barely made it past the lump in
her throat. She dug for control of her emotions. He needed someone to listen,
not judge.

He nodded. “It
was a total clusterfuck. The kid—” he choked on a sob. Sucked air. “The kid crashed
into one of them. The guy grabbed him. I was in the elevator. Punching the
floor button. The mom shouted. Rina shouted. I shoved my hand out to keep the
door from closing, but I was too late. One had a gun to the kid’s head. Another
grabbed my arm, yanked me out of the elevator. I couldn’t let them shoot the
kid.”

“Of course
not.” She moved closer so they sat thigh to thigh. His leg twitched a rapid
staccato. He cursed. She massaged the offending muscle. “It’s all right.”

He leaned
forward, and poured another drink. About twice as much as before. But he held
it the same way he had the empty one. Staring, not drinking.

How could
she help him? Because if he didn’t finish, didn’t release what was gnawing at
his insides, she didn’t think they could move forward. And for the first time,
she knew she wanted to move forward with Scott. She’d said she’d accept what he
was willing to share. But now that he’d started, she knew he needed to share it
all. Otherwise, he’d be trapped in his own personal prison. The bigger question
was would she be able to handle reliving his nightmare with him?

She took a
sip of her cognac. “Please?” she said. “I’m here. What else happened?”

“The lights
went out.”

Scott stared
at the golden cognac in his glass. Tempting as it was to down the contents in
one huge gulp, he’d taken a full dose of his pain meds. Detweiler and Kovak
were hunting down next of kin for the second victim, and Scott had no desire to
spend any more hours staring at paper or computer monitors. He’d come home and
soaked in the Jacuzzi, with nothing other than bed on his agenda. And then
Ashley showed up. Too soon. Twenty minutes later, and he’d have been out.

Face the
inevitable. She’s here. You gave her the opening. Man up and deal with it.

He forced
himself to think of it as a routine report. Give her the facts. Leave the
gut-wrenching stuff buried inside, where it belonged. He took a small sip of
his drink, letting the warmth flow through him before he went on.

“They had an
accomplice, who’d managed to cut the power to the building. He got away before
anybody knew what was happening. The emergency lights came on, but at the time,
we didn’t know it wasn’t your everyday power outage. Not until the—” He
searched for a more appropriate word than the ones he used when he thought of
them. “Creeps. The creeps pulled out flashlights, which was a clue they’d had
something to do with it.

“They herded
everyone from the lobby into the bank. I could tell they hadn’t thought things
through. They’d come in over the lunch break when the bank would be
short-staffed, but they hadn’t considered how many people used the lunch hour
to do their banking. If they’d been smart, they’d have waited until most of the
customers left.” He shook his head.

“Then again,
these people aren’t smart. Now they had twelve hostages, including four kids. I
figured if I kept everyone calm until the cops got there, we’d be okay. By
killing the power, they’d effectively locked themselves out of the bank vault
until the power came back. They made the tellers empty their cash drawers, but
they didn’t know there are silent alarms that go off when the last bill is
taken from a drawer. And that the bank had backup systems so cutting the power
didn’t disable the alarms. They’d made everyone turn over their cell phones,
purses, wallets, but at least two people had already hit 911 when they saw the
guy pull a gun in the lobby.”

He thought
again of how stupid the asswipes—creeps—had been, having everyone pile their
things into a pillowcase one of them pulled from his parka. “So there we were,
sitting and waiting for the cops to show up. Instead of cutting their losses
and surrendering, the creeps were determined to get the money out of the vault,
no matter how long it took. After a couple of hours, there was dissension
amongst the ranks. Their leader had to keep his two henchmen in order as well
as the hostages.

“I tried to
reason with him. Convince him to give himself up, that nobody had been hurt,
that we could work something out. I tried to explain that the longer he kept
people inside, the worse it would be. He wasn’t ready for that, especially with
the other two trying to do things their way. The hostages were all trying to
reason with them. And the kids were starting to cry.”

The memory
sent a film of sweat over him. He concentrated on the warmth of Ashley’s hand
on his thigh, using it like a climber relied on his safety rope.

“Rina.” He
swallowed, trying to erase the image of her face. “Rina. She meant well. But
tact wasn’t her strong suit. Her language could get a bit … colorful. Being
feisty was her nature—a defense mechanism to counteract her being confined to a
wheelchair, I suppose. I tried to calm her down. Told her to let me handle
things.

“I did what
I could, but I’m not a trained negotiator. One of them came over, like he was
going to hit her. Or shoot her. They all had their guns out. I stepped between
them. So he vented on me.”

Ashley
started to speak, but he put a finger to her lips and shook his head. He didn’t
need sympathy. Or pity. Or anything else. He returned his gaze to his drink.
Her eyes, glistening with unshed tears, were more than he could bear.

“The cops
had cleared the rest of the building. I begged the creeps to let Rina and the
mom with her kids leave. As a gesture of good faith. No go. The creeps made
their demands. No hostages released until the power came back on and the vault
opened. They wouldn’t budge and refused to pick up the phone again. A
negotiator isn’t worth squat if the people on the inside won’t talk.”

“So you
assumed responsibility,” she murmured.

“I’m—I
was
a cop. That’s what we’re supposed to do. Take care of the good guys and catch
the bad guys.” He sipped from his drink. Between the alcohol and the pain meds,
his brain was slowing down. The images were blurred, not 3-D hi-definition the
way they were in his nightmares. It was almost as if he were watching, rather
than remembering. Much less painful.

Soft, warm
hands eased the glass from his grasp. For the first time other than in
nightmares, he allowed the memories through the walls he’d built.

“If they
were focused on me, they weren’t hurting Rina. Or anyone else. But everyone was
getting restless. People were scared. Tempers were short. That’s when people
stop thinking clearly, both the good guys and the bad guys. One of the creeps
was losing his patience with Rina, who was wheeling her chair back and forth,
muttering colorful epithets. I think he’d decided the bank job was a failure
and was ready to start shooting anyone who bugged him. Starting with Rina.”

She stroked
his hair. “You intervened again.”

He nodded. “This
time, he had the gun pointed at me. Rina yelled at him that I was a cop. That
they’d never get out of the bank alive if they killed a cop. That freaked them
out. They subdued me, found my badge and gun.” His guts twisted with the
recollection of the futility he’d felt at that moment. A cop
never
relinquished his firearm. “I’d lost any advantage I’d hoped to gain. And they
had another weapon.”

“Subdued
you? How? Did they shoot you?”

Now
that
would
have been the ultimate humiliation. Being shot with his own weapon. Bad enough
they’d tied him up, dragged him into a storage closet, and beaten the crap out
of him. “No. When someone’s pointing a gun at you, and someone else is pointing
a gun at a mom with four kids, you don’t fight back. They did what they should
have done at the beginning. Searched everyone. But nobody else had a weapon.
That calmed them down a little.”

“What did
the cops do? On television, they always figure out a way to sneak someone inside—disguised
as a paramedic, or a pizza guy.”

“The creeps
weren’t talking to the cops outside. I tried to get them to open negotiations.
I offered to be their spokesperson. Told them I knew what the cops needed to
hear. If they had, I’d have been able to work in some code. Let them know what
the situation was. Find out what was going on outside.”

“So the cops
didn’t smash their way into the bank?” she asked. “Isn’t that what SWAT does?”

“There wasn’t
a good, safe way to get inside without risking the lives of the hostages. And,”
he added, “it takes a lot of planning before a SWAT team will enter a building,
especially with hostages inside. They don’t show up and storm the door.
Coordinating the effort takes time.”

“Which you
were trying to buy.” Her hand was back on his thigh, as if she were trying to
share his injury. He regrouped, trying to distance himself, the way he had when
the shrink had insisted he “share his feelings.” Somehow, sharing his feelings
with Ashley was a whole lot better. Not easier. Just better.