The Negotiator

Beck wanted to tell her everything was going to be all right

He’d be lying if he did. For the survivors, a hostage incident didn’t end when the SWAT team busted in.

In fact, Jennifer Barclay’s wide brown eyes told him shock had inched its way in, forcing into her eyes the kind of glazed disbelief he’d seen too many times. She’d been stronger than most, but that was over.

It was a mistake of monumental proportions and he knew it, but Beck decided he didn’t care. He reached for her.

She stepped back so quickly she almost fell. Grabbing the window sill, she spoke from between gritted teeth. “You lied to me! You promised no one would get hurt.”

Immediately, Beck’s mask slid into place. Her words weren’t what he’d expected, but different people reacted in different ways. Jennifer had been holding her emotions in check for hours and now she was going to erupt. At him.

She made no attempt to hide her emotions, and it wouldn’t have mattered if she had. He understood better than she did what she was feeling.

I feel guilty because I couldn’t stop this. I feel guilty because I survived.

Dear Reader,

Thirty-five years ago this August, I was eleven years old. Sitting in the front seat of my mother’s Cadillac, I waited impatiently for my eighteen-year-old sister Dana while she purchased gasoline. It was unbearably hot and I was already upset. In just a few weeks, Dana was moving away from home, going to Austin and the University of Texas. She was growing up and leaving me behind.

Then the radio blared with a sudden bulletin. That didn’t happen quite so often in those days as it does now, and even my young ears perked up as the announcer began to speak with anxious excitement. His news was not good.

A sniper was in the clock tower at the university, and he was shooting people. In broad daylight. With a high-powered rifle. I yelled at my sister to come quick and listen. We sat in the sweltering heat of that August day and held our breath. As the news went on, seemingly forever, her eyes met mine, a mixture of horror, disbelief and fright darkening their depths.

By the end of that afternoon, Charles Whitman had shot over forty people, killing more than a dozen strangers, plus his wife and mother. The rest of us were wounded, too, because he taught us a terrible lesson that day. No one is safe.

That incident is largely regarded as the genesis for SWAT teams as we know them. Back then, law enforcement officials weren’t prepared; they’d encountered few situations like this. Today, unfortunately, we’re all much better equipped, physically if not emotionally, to deal with such horrible circumstances. Daily, SWAT teams the world over handle hostage situations, suicide threats, snipers…anything and everything that is dangerous and deadly.

The Negotiator is the first in a trilogy of books I’ve written about just such a team. It will be followed in March and May by The Commander and The Listener. Set in the Florida panhandle, each of these stories will focus on a special member of the team. No one can fully understand the stress and danger these brave men and women face every day. I hope in some small way, however, that I’ve deepened understanding for everything they—and the people who love them—do to keep the rest of us safe.

Sincerely,

Kay David

This book is dedicated to the incredibly brave police officers who struggle every day to make the world a safer place. Their jobs are too important and too dangerous for any writer to fully capture the essence of their sacrifices, but I hope these stories somehow express the appreciation I feel for their efforts.

A special acknowledgment to Laura and Paula. Your support and encouragement mean more than I can adequately express. Thank you both for having faith in my abilities and for giving me the opportunity to tell the stories my way.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

LOOKING BACK on it, that night after everything was over, Jennifer Barclay realized with amazement that the morning had started out like any other ordinary day.

She’d had no sense of impending doom, no feeling things were about to go horribly wrong. Not a single clue. If she’d known—if she’d had even the slightest inkling—she would have stayed home in bed.

But she hadn’t suspected a thing.

She’d arrived at Westside Elementary at seven-thirty and by four that afternoon, as usual, she was totally exhausted. She loved her job as a fourth-grade teacher, but by May, even she needed a break. With only another five weeks of school, the kids had been wild, and none of them had wanted to concentrate. Their heads were at the coast, a mile down Highway 98, where the white Florida sand and crashing emerald waves were just begging to be enjoyed. Truth be told, Jennifer had had a hard time focusing herself…but for a totally different reason.

She’d had to change her schedule.

Jennifer always visited her mother on Wednesdays and Saturdays, but this afternoon she wouldn’t be able to make it to the nursing home. She’d had to arrange an after-school meeting for the children participating in the annual beach cleanup, and the disruption to her usual orderly agenda bothered her a lot. Her friends teased her, but for Jennifer, routine meant everything. During her childhood, no plans had ever been made, much less kept, and now nothing was more important to her than the steady, day-to-day patterns she lived by.

She hurried down the hallway toward her classroom and tried to convince herself to stop worrying. Half the time Nadine Barclay didn’t even know who she was, never mind if Jennifer was there or not. Alzheimer’s had robbed Jennifer’s mother of her family and her memories. Jennifer wanted to be a good daughter to her mother, though. She showed up twice a week whether Nadine knew it not.

Whether Jennifer wanted to or not.

Reaching her classroom, she walked inside and closed the door behind her. In between the last bell and the scheduled meeting, she had exactly five minutes to gulp the diet cola she’d retrieved from the teachers’ lounge, but she hadn’t even taken her first sip when the door opened. She closed her eyes for just a second, then turned to see who was standing in the doorway.

Ten-year-old Juan Canales smiled shyly at her.

“Juan!” Putting aside her plans to snatch a moment of peace, Jennifer grinned and held up the icy drink. “Come on in. I just went and got a Coke. If you don’t tell anyone, I’ll share it with you!”

He replaced his indecisive look with one of contained excitement. His family was very poor, and she doubted he and his siblings got enough to eat. Sodas would have been out of the question. The Canales family represented the flip side of Destin, the beautiful resort town Westside Elementary served. Juan’s mother cleaned rooms for one of the elegant beach hotels and his father clipped the bushes surrounding its luxurious pool. When Jennifer handed the little boy the filled paper cup, he gripped it with two hands and sipped slowly.

Jennifer studied Juan surreptitiously as he drank. He was one of her very best students, and even though she knew she wasn’t supposed to have favorites, Jennifer had to admit, he was one. Smart, clever and as sweet as he could be, Juan Canales made Jennifer ache to have children of her own. He was a perfect example of why she’d become a teacher, too. He seemed as starved for information as he was for everything else.

He finished his drink with noisy gusto and she poured the last of the Coke into his cup with a smile.

“I wasn’t all that thirsty,” she confided. “I’m glad you’re here to help me.”

His eyes rounded with pleasure. “Muchas gracias…uh…thank you very much, Miss Barclay. It really tastes good.”

Within a few minutes, a dozen other ten-year-olds had arrived, and Jennifer started passing out permission slips. She walked up and down the aisle between the desks and spoke. “I have to have these back by next week, signed, sealed and delivered. You can’t participate in the beach cleanup if I don’t have this on record, okay?” Returning to the front of the room, she stopped beside her desk and rested one hip on the corner. “We’re cleaning up at Blue Mountain. Does everyone know where that is?”

The question prompted chatter and Jennifer grinned, letting it wash over her. God, she loved her job! The students, their enthusiasm, their joy—they represented everything good in her life. Actually, they represented everything in her life. Even her free hours were devoted to the school and if she wasn’t visiting her mother, she was here.

Again, sometimes she took ribbing over this. “There’s more to living than just work,” her best friend Wanda would say. The black woman, who was Nadine’s nurse, constantly gave Jennifer a hard time. She was right, of course, but Jennifer had her life organized just as she liked it.

She held up her hands for silence, but before she could speak, she heard a noise in the hallway. Jennifer glanced curiously at the door and the small window in the upper half.

Howard French stood before the glass. The strained expression on the young man’s face brought Jennifer to her feet, bells of warning sounding inside her head. He’d been fired from the maintenance staff just last week. What on earth was he doing here now?

Starting toward the door, she thought of how she’d tried to help him. She’d complained after he’d been let go, but it’d been pointless, and she’d known that before she stepped inside Betty Whitmire’s office. The school’s local board member, Betty hated the simple man. More than once, Jennifer had cringed, hearing Betty’s stinging voice down the hall. “If you can’t do better than that, French, we’ll find someone who can. Mopping the floor isn’t brain surgery, you know!”

Jennifer was halfway to the door when Howard burst inside. He stumbled once, then straightened, giving his arm a short jerk. A screaming woman lurched in behind him, her hands on her head in a useless attempt to ease the grip Howard had on her hair. He turned and locked the door behind him, pulling the shade down with his other hand. For a moment, the scene made no sense, no sense at all, then the woman shrieked again, and things became distressingly clear. Disheveled and obviously distraught, Betty Whitmire had an ugly bruise on the side of her face and a rip in the sleeve of her dress. Jennifer’s heart stopped, then leapt inside her chest and began to pound, disbelief leaving her mouth dry.

She spoke without thinking. “Howard? My God—what’s going on? Wh-what are you doing with Mrs. Whitmire?”

He didn’t answer, and Betty’s labored breathing was raw and guttural in the shocked hush of the room. Behind Jennifer, one of the children started to sniffle. The sound seemed to bring Howard out of his apparent trance.

“You got to help me, Miss Jennifer,” he cried. “I’m in trouble.”

Not knowing what else to do, Jennifer took two steps toward the crazed man and his hostage.

“Don’t come no further!” he screamed. “Don’t do it!”

She wanted to argue, but nothing came out. She was paralyzed, and all she could do was stare as he swung up the barrel of a rifle and pointed it directly at her.

THE DUFFEL BAG was already strained at the seams when Beck Winters threw in one more book, then yanked the zipper closed. He was taking his first vacation in eight years and he wasn’t really sure what people did on vacation. He wanted to have plenty to read in case he got bored. He just couldn’t stand having time on his hands and nothing to do. His brain would sense the emptiness and before he could stop it, his thoughts would take him places he didn’t want to go.

Looking around one more time, he walked out of the bedroom. He was almost to the front door when the telephone rang. As if getting a reprieve, he dropped the bag and raced into the kitchen. “Beck Winters,” he answered eagerly.

“We’ve got a call.” Lena McKinney’s throaty voice filled the line. The SWAT team’s lieutenant, Lena kept the two cells of the group organized and motivated as they covered the Emerald Coast of Florida from just past Pensacola all the way down to Panama City Beach. The fifteen members were close as a family, albeit a dysfunctional one at times.

“I know you’re about to leave but Bradley’s got the flu and he’s whining like a baby. But he couldn’t work this one even if he felt okay. We’re at Westside Elementary. Get here as fast as you can. We’ve got a man gone barricade. There are hostages, too.”

Beck didn’t bother to ask any questions because Lena hung up before he could voice them, just as he’d known she would. If she was there and had called him, the team was already on-site with the perimeter secured and a sniper in place. Now they needed someone to talk. A negotiator. Kicking the duffel aside, Beck ran out the front door without wasting another minute. It’d been planned for a long time, but obviously his vacation would just have to wait.

Thank God…

He hadn’t a clue what to do with himself anyway. “HOWARD…” Jennifer made her voice as soft and nonthreatening as she could. “What’s going on? Why do you have a gun? Why are you hurting Mrs. Whitmire like that?”

He looked at the woman whose hair he still held. He almost seemed surprised to see her. Jerking his head up, he met Jennifer’s gaze, his eyes wide and confused, his hand trembling on the weapon. “She was ugly to me,” he said simply.

“That doesn’t mean you have to be the same way to her.” Jennifer held out her hands. “Put the rifle down, please, Howard. It’s scaring the children.”

The gun stayed level as he glanced behind her. Jennifer tried not to look down the barrel but she couldn’t help herself. She felt her eyes go inexorably to the bore, and for just a second, black dots swam before her. She was a child herself, ten years old, terrified and helpless. Her vision tunneled, bloody images hovering on the edges like the ghosts they were.

Howard’s voice yanked her back. “I—I don’t care,” he said. “N-nobody cares about me so why should I care about them?”

“That’s not true, Howard. I care about you and so does everyone—”

“He’s insane!” Betty Whitmire cried. Her voice was shrill and discordant, destroying Jennifer’s effort for calmness like a train whistle shattering the night’s silence. “He grabbed me in the hall and dragged me in here. He’s going to kill us all!”

Jennifer stared at her in disbelief, wondering—not for the first time—how on earth the woman had managed to land her position on the school board. Her people skills were nonexistent, and she was totally clueless when it came to the kids. Neither the parents nor teachers respected her, but Jennifer had to admit one thing: Betty was involved. There wasn’t a detail about any of the schools she didn’t know.

Hearing Betty speak, one of the children started crying in earnest, small terrified sobs escaping. Jennifer turned and tried to look reassuring, but when she saw them, she wanted to cry herself. They’d fled their desks and had instinctively huddled at the back of the room. Cherise was the one sobbing, and Juan was patting her awkwardly on the arm, whispering something to her. His best friend, Julian, hovered nearby, an uncertain expression on his face. Jennifer caught Juan’s eye and nodded slightly, hoping her approval would make its way across the room.

Looking at Howard once more, Jennifer spoke above the pounding of her heart. She made her words sound certain and composed, even though she was panicking inside. “Betty, please stay quiet. You’re not helping matters. Howard is not going to shoot you. Not you, not anyone. Isn’t that right, Howard? In fact, he’s going to turn you loose right now.”

He tightened his grip on Betty’s scalp, but then unexpectedly opened his fist. She cried out and fell down, unprepared for the sudden release. From the floor, she shot Jennifer a look of confusion mixed with gratitude, then she scrambled past her on all fours, heading for the children. Jennifer didn’t turn but she could hear the chairs scraping and the muffled voices as they moved to accommodate her.

Taking advantage of the confusion, Jennifer forced herself to move an inch nearer the man and the gun, a trickle of sweat forming along her shoulders then drawing a line down her back. She was lucky enough to have a phone in her room, but there was no way she could get to it and dial for help. Howard stood between her and the wall where it hung.

She truly was confident that Howard wouldn’t shoot. He just wasn’t that kind of man. When the class hamster had died, he’d cried more than any of the kids. If anything, he was too quiet and unassuming…and every time she looked at him, Jennifer saw her brother. Unlike Howard, Danny had been brilliant, but in their eyes lived the same haunted expression. It was filled with confusion, uncertainty and a complete lack of self-confidence. She’d been trying to help the janitor since the day she’d met him. A penance, she knew.

Even still, a thousand thoughts crowded Jennifer’s head. Could she grab the gun? Should she even try? What would happen if she didn’t? Her forward movement finally registered and Howard yanked the weapon up, tucking the stock under his arm.

“Don’t come no closer, Miss Jennifer. I mean it. I’m serious.”

Her mouth felt full of beach sand, but she held out her hands and spoke in an appeasing way. “Okay, okay, I’ll stay right here. But talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

The air seemed to go out of his body and he slumped against her desk. The black, empty barrel of the rifle remained pointed at Jennifer’s chest. “I’m in trouble,” he said again. “Big, big trouble.”

Another child started to cry. “Let the kids go, Howard,” she whispered. “Let Mrs. Whitmire take them out and then you and I can talk. You can tell me what happened.”

He shook his head morosely. “I can’t let ’em go,” he said. “I can’t. It’s too late.”

“Too late for what?”

He shook his head and said nothing. The bore of the weapon dropped an inch.

“How can I help you if you won’t tell me what’s going on?” she asked. “Let them go. I’ll stay. I promise.”

“Won’t do no good. Not now. Everbody hates me and they all think I’m stupid. It’s too late.” He dipped his head and shook it again, the picture of total dejection. “They hate me. All of ’em.”

The gun slipped a second inch lower. Jennifer licked her lips, swallowed hard then took a quiet step forward. Another foot and she could touch the barrel, grab it, twist it away from him. She held her breath, trapping it inside her chest and holding it captive, afraid to even breathe. Slowly, so slowly the movement was practically imperceptible, she began to raise her right hand. Howard continued to talk.

“It’s all wrong,” he mumbled. “All wrong. I’m not that way. I’m a nice person. I really am.”

Without any warning, he looked up. Jennifer stopped instantly, her hand halfway up her side. He didn’t even seem to notice. “I’m a nice person,” he cried. “I’m nice!”

“I know that,” she said soothingly. “I know you are, Howard.” Her shoulders tightened, a reflexive action. “But nice people don’t point guns. So why don’t you hand it over and we’ll talk?” She took another step and reached out, her fingers brushing the cold, hard metal of the barrel.

She didn’t know what happened first—the ringing phone or Howard’s reaction—but an instant later, the opportunity was lost. Wild-eyed, he grabbed her and pulled her close.

“THEY’RE NOT ANSWERING.” Beck turned to Lena and shook his head, the phone pressed to his ear. They were inside the War Wagon, a modified Winnebago motor home stocked with the equipment and supplies that would be required during any situation. Parked down the block from the school, he could see the side of the building, an older structure with tilt-out windows facing a worn playground. They were less than a mile from some of the most expensive real estate in Florida, but no one would know it from looking at the school. There was a world of difference between its run-down appearance and the elegant high-rises that dotted the sparkling beaches.

“Are you sure the phone’s right there in her classroom? We never had phones inside the rooms when I was in school. Maybe I should drag out the bullhorn.”

Lena stared at him, her gray eyes impatient and stormy as usual. “Wake up, Beck. This is the computer age. A lot of the classrooms have their own phones now. Besides that, the guys are already in place in the hallway and they can hear it ringing. It’s the right phone.”

“Maybe he took ’em somewhere else.”

“They’re there. A teacher saw the suspect grab a member of the school board who happened to be in the hall and drag her inside a classroom. She’s pretty sure she saw a gun, but isn’t positive. The responding officers didn’t even try to go in. They just called us.”

“How many are inside?”

“We don’t know yet. Another teacher was having a meeting with some of the students. Fourth graders. Their teacher’s name is Jennifer Barclay.”

He gripped the phone tightly. He’d faced countless calls like this one since he’d joined the team, but Beck never did it without nervousness sucker punching him in the gut, especially if there were kids involved. He knew too much, he thought all at once. When he was less experienced and more reckless, he hadn’t understood what was on the line.

Now he understood all too well.

He forced himself to focus. “Any background info yet?”

“Sarah’s working on it, but she hasn’t found a lot yet.”

Beck nodded. The only nontactical member of the team, Sarah Greenberg served as the information officer. She labored just as hard and was just as sharp as any of the other cops. Her job was to gather any details they might need to resolve a situation. Next to time, information was key.

“Who’s in there?”

Lena spoke as she brought a pair of high-powered binoculars to her eyes. “Cal and Jason are inside at one end of the hallway, and the rest of the gang’s at the other end. We don’t have much recon yet—can’t see inside. The perp pulled the shade on the window in the door and apparently they’re nowhere near the only window in the classroom. I’ve got the floor plans to the school and the guys have those already. Randy’s across the street.”

“Where?”

She nodded toward the row of the small frame houses opposite the school. “There, the fifth one down with the green shutters, the two-story with the oleanders in front. The owners are gone. Neighbor had a key and she let us in the back door.” She handed Beck the glasses. “He’s in the upstairs corner window.”

Beck stared through the lenses and the head of Randy Tamirisa, the team’s countersniper, leapt into focus. He was lying motionless behind his weapon, the sight trained on the school. Beck couldn’t see his face, but he didn’t need to. Black hair and even blacker eyes, Randy was an enigma to Beck, the exact opposite of most snipers. They’d never gotten along; hotheaded and heavy-handed, Randy didn’t have the discipline Beck felt was necessary to be on the team, but Lena disagreed and she was the boss. Randy’s perfect shooting range score didn’t hurt, either.