Last Call for the Living (31 page)

He pulled back, appalled, eyes plaintive and confused. He looked around for Hicklin, as if to petition him for help. But Hicklin was gone. Limping down the hallway, the keys to the pickup dangling from a finger.

Charlie heard the screen door to the carport slap shut.

Then gunfire.

*   *   *

The tactical responders
compartmentalized the house by corners and then by window. The Peacekeeper showed up. It took twenty minutes once the call came over the radio. The eight-man tactical unit hurried down side streets. Gear next to the bed or in the trunk of a cruiser.

Honey, I've got to go and I can't say why.

The first four grouped up and made a decision to engage. They made a positive ID as Hicklin stepped out into the carport and tried to enter a pickup truck. The suspect fired twice from the carport and took cover back inside the residence. Then from compartment 1-1 three more shots were fired. Suspect was accurate. He hit one member of the tac team. The body armor saved him.

Return fire.

It terrorized the whole neighborhood. More units arrived. People were urged to go back inside their homes. The neighbors retreated reluctantly, disappointed, as if they wanted to watch a ball game from the pitcher's mound.

More units arrived. Inner and outer perimeters were established. The command bus was en route. The APV sat idling. Another twenty minutes passed. A quiet street turned into a live-fire training ground. It turned into a circus.

Explosive entry experts consulted with their squad leader. Armor-plated vehicles were parked strategically along the perimeter.

State and Federal were fifteen minutes out.

The street was overtaken by law enforcement. Some asshole had already called the local affiliates. Sport-utilities and cruisers arrived in a spectacle of flashing lights. A helo's blades thrummed the air above. Someone said he killed a Sheriff up in Jubilation County. Raped a kid. Burned down a church. There were two hostages inside.

The state and federal agents in charge of the investigation were five minutes out.

A tense hour passed.

By then the hostages were walking out.

Unharmed.

And the boy was yelling, imploring them not to kill the man still inside.

*   *   *

I could of
told Charlie a lot of things I didn't. Like who his granddaddy was. His grandmamma. Could of told him how Lucy and I met and how I was just a big bad asshole back then. But there was some normal shit going on. Downright picturesque at times. Could of taken the boy fishing. Knew so many good holes around the house up-country. Raised in a double-wide with no mailbox. Maybe take him out with a couple .22s and hunt squirrel. Teach him how to fry 'em up real nice. I could have filled him in on why I did what I did, and why it put me in prison. And then why I did what I did there, and so on …

*   *   *

“It's her, isn't
it?”

He looked out a window. Hicklin seemed satisfied, at peace. The phone rang. He ignored it.

“It's her,” he acknowledged after a moment. “But she don't want to remember me.”

Hicklin reloaded the 12-gauge. Charlie could tell he was in a lot of pain.

Hicklin looked up at him and smiled.

“Now it's time to say good-bye, Charlie Colquitt.” His intentions registered immediately.

“You're crazy!” Charlie said. “Why not make a deal with them? Don't you want to live? Just give up.”

“I am giving up. My own way.”

There was no more arguing. Hicklin raised the shotgun and pointed it at Charlie.

“Gather up your mother, Son. Let's go.”

*   *   *

Another firefight
ensued, Hicklin burning up the shotgun, the SWAT returning fire. He was lucky to survive the barrage. A salvo of rounds shredded the windows and blinds, the frame house getting thoroughly ventilated. He momentarily thought about packing it in, thinking about what he was up against.

They stared down iron sights of G36 assault rifles, firing controlled bursts.

Beautiful weapons.

Glass popped above and around him. He glimpsed little black helmets shaped around the ears, body armor, big yellow letters identifying them as not to be fucked with.

He ducked into the bedroom. The bathroom. Put a large bath towel in the sink and soaked it. He saw Lucy's artificial eye bobbing in a bowl on the counter. The water in the bowl shimmered to the vibrations from the helicopter blades overhead. The whole house shook.

Thankfully Charlie was outside and safe. To Hicklin that was what mattered most. Saving himself seemed a dim possibility. Hardly necessary.

He crawled below the window frames, staying out of sight. Cuts from the broken glass were unavoidable, his body already bruised and wracked with fever. To the front door and down the hall to the living room. He flipped the coffee table over and summoned enough strength to drag the couch around the corner to the carport entrance, forming a makeshift barricade. He worked the pump of the shotgun. Could feel warm blood and sweat soaking through his shirt, through the vest. He took a look inside the kitchen. Fired through the bay windows.

Let's just shake things up outside, shall we? Keep them piggies off-balance.

Hicklin quickly ducked and withdrew into the living room. Here it comes, he thought. And it did come. A barrage of .223 loads, some frangible rounds mixed in, breaking apart as they struck the fridge and cupboard. Followed by a salvo of jacketed rounds that tore ass through everything. He hit the floor and covered his head, sensing the house coming apart all around him.

It finally went quiet.

He glimpsed a command bus rolling beyond the first perimeter of vehicles, hoping that Charlie was okay in all that mess.

Hicklin squatted where the couch used to be and lit a cigarette. Blood dripped from an elbow, but he didn't feel a thing. Adrenaline had him jacked up. He could have sawn off his own leg and probably not felt it. Figured he could just go on and try and kill as many law officers as possible. They had the best hand, although he'd absorbed enough tear gas in prison to be able to handle it now. Had plenty of tolerance for the stuff, built up like antibiotics in his system.

No choice but to wait for them. Their firepower was superior. He couldn't compete with assault rifles and flash bangs.

He smoked, watching the now-silent television. Chanced upon the remote on the floor and changed the channel a couple times. Stopping for a Western. Gary Cooper was talking to a beautiful blonde. The actor looked mean and hard and angry.

A bullhorn voice from outside.

Hicklin got up gingerly and walked to the nearest window, admiring the pandemonium he was responsible for.

The phone rang.

*   *   *

Charlie yelled at
Hicklin, demanding to remain with him inside the house. Lucy pulled at her son's arm like she would at a child having a temper tantrum. Hicklin pushed them out, jabbing with the muzzle of the shotgun.

Once they were in the front yard Hicklin retreated, standing on the threshold, shotgun still trained on Charlie and Lucy. He wrestled free of his mother as armed responders approached. He faced Hicklin, who shook his head, then cracked a weak smile and kicked the front door shut.

Officers grabbed Charlie and ran with him across the street. He was hustled between vehicles, followed by paramedics and police. Everyone had a gun drawn.

Charlie puked. Someone put a blanket around him. A woman spoke gently to him. He couldn't understand her above the noise and shouting. He didn't know where they had taken his mother. He wiped his mouth on the blanket and looked back at the house, eyes stinging from tears.

*   *   *

Sallie Crews and
her convoy arrived, adding to the jam on Tulip Street, the growing chaos. She opened the door of the Bureau sport-utility and sprinted to the command bus. The Lieutenant briefed her. Hostages were safe. A lone gunman remained. Three tactical teams in place, the APV on standby. A negotiator in the bus was trying to make contact.

Crews looked at Hicklin's file on a computer screen.

H. Hicklin, the
H
for Hobe.

She looked at the Lieutenant, who nodded.

This one wasn't coming out alive.

*   *   *

Hicklin answered the
phone.

Who's this?

My name is Larry Schoenbaum. I'm with the Crisis Negotiation Unit. How are you, Hobe?

How the hell ye think I am?

I see your point, Hobe. Hobe? That's an interesting name.

Not if your family's from Jubilation County. Reckon you're the Crisis Negotiator?

Yes.

Because this here probably qualifies as a crisis.

It's what you're willing to make of it, Hobe. Just call it a situation that can be resolved with no harm done. Can we talk?

Sure.

I like that. You can't imagine how badly these deals usually start. I feel like we're having a drink together.

I could go for a beer myself.

It's against protocol, Hobe, but if I could I'd grab a six-pack and come in. We could talk, Hobe. Minus that 12-gauge, of course.

Every time you call me by my name, I just get all weepy and want to be loved.

What are you thinking about right now?

Well, Larry. I'm thinking 'bout killin' as many of y'all as I can before I get killed. Pure and simple, wouldn't you say?

Not what I wanted to hear, Hobe.

I'll bet. But you still got my attention.

Good. Any way I can change your mind about how you're feeling right now?

Something you said about a six-pack?

You want a beer?

Goddamn right. Bottle of Wild Turkey got blasted to hell. All the woman has here in the house is schnapps. Jesus Christ. You ever taste that shit? I ain't that desperate.

If I bring you some beer what will you give me?

I guess I might not aim so straight in your direction.

That's not what I wanted to hear, Hobe.

You might want to go back to negotiator school, get yourself another playbook.

What we need to consider here are the options available to you, Hobe.

I'm listening, Larry.

By the way, you a smoker?

Lifelong.

I just started again.

Well, I'm awfully sorry about that, Larry. I somehow feel responsible.

Hold on while I light this cigarette.

What're you smoking?

A Marlboro Medium.

Yeah, them don't kill you as quick as the Reds. The Ultra Lights make me cough real bad.

Those Ultra Lights are for sorority girls and chesters, Hobe.

Chesters? Haven't heard that one in a while.

Oh yeah?

Why? You know some?

I've put away quite a few, Hobe.

You worked pedophiles? CAP? A detective?

Yeah.

How's the boy?

Who?

That young man I sent out. Charlie Colquitt.

He's fine, Hobe. Shaken up but being taken care of. He asked about you.

He did?

Yeah.

What'd he say?

He wanted to know if we were going to kill you.

What did you tell him?

I said of course not.

You lied.

Lie? That's not what I do. He's pretty upset. Seems he took a real liking to you.

Well, I did to him. Take good care of him.

We will. Maybe when we work this thing out, you could see him again.

I ain't wanting to see him again.

But you obviously care about him.

Exactly. If I didn't care I'd want to see him again, and that just ain't the answer.

Answer to what?

It's between me and him.

I understand.

Do you?

Yes, I think so.

Damn if I ain't thinking you're a good man, Larry. Mexicans I dealt with inside called folks like you
buena gente.
“Good people.”

Well, thank you, Hobe. I like you, too. I'd hate to see this go down how it's leaning right now. Why don't we take a break and then talk some more? Think about options. I know we can work it out without any shooting. What's the worst that can happen? You go back to prison for life? Seems like you did all right there. You can hack it. And you'll be able to see Charlie.

I can't go back inside. No fuckin' way.

Well, maybe something else can be worked out. There's plenty of people here interested in what you might have to tell. FBI, GBI, DEA, Bureau of Prisons. All of them would like to know more about your associations inside. We understand you're not some small-time peckerwood. In fact, the word “deal” might come up.