stood over Winston's body. "He's sick," I said, more to myself than to Hancock.
"Great. Why don't you go down to the morgue and have a chat with Winston about how well the good doctor responds to therapy?"
"Winston challenged him. I'd be surrendering to him. At least at the beginning."
"And we could etch that on your tombstone. He surrendered to a serial killer ."
"What inscription would you suggest for the hostages? How about for the baby?"
"Look, I know you somehow get through to people, people no one else can reach. You have a gift. That's why you're worth what you charge. But it's not just Lucas, Frank. You've got Zweig and Kaminsky up there. We also I.D.'d the tall white man who came out with Lucas and Zweig to kill Winston. It was Craig Bishop."
I closed my eyes and hung my head. "I thought he got transferred back to prison to await trial."
"The Bishop family has a few bucks, I guess — enough anyhow to hire a scumbag lawyer to get the transfer reversed. They argued his mental illness was too complex to be adequately treated in a prison environment. Personally I don't see anything complicated about it: Beheading your victims isn't a lot different than shooting them, when you come right down to it."
"Lucas would have to release the two social workers first," I said.
"He'd never agree to...," she started, then caught herself. "I can't believe we're actually wasting our breath on this insanity. I called you to figure out how to bluff our way into more time, not so we could spin our wheels thinking about a kamikaze mission that's never going to happen."
"Let's work Rice on the Cardinal and the helicopter, then."
"I'm not about to propose that the Catholic Church..."
"What about the helicopter?"
"You really think that could change things?"
I thought it would keep Hancock busy. "As a sign of good faith it could go a long way. Meanwhile, tell Lucas I'm thinking about his offer. Tell him I'd probably go for it if he released three hostages — the pregnant nurse first, within four hours from now, and two more when I go in."
"As a bluff. Period. Right?"
"You're the one calling the shots."
"You're not planning to go behind my back and do something stupid."
I figured whatever I ended up doing would happen right in front of her. "You have my word."
"Good. I'll bring up the chopper issue again with Rice."
"I'll be over to talk with him myself soon. Page me if you need me." I hung up. I stood there, looking out the window at everything, but nothing in particular, knowing at some level that the next chapter in my life would be the darkest.
"Are you going to meet with him? On the unit?" Cynthia asked from the bed.
I turned to her. "I don't know."
"You look like you do." Her voice was part kindness, part protest.
I am no stranger and no friend to denial. I took a few seconds to rid myself of it. "If I get out of there alive," I said, "I'll come find you."
Chapter 4
I left the Y at about 7:15 A.M. Cynthia walked me to my truck. The morning was even colder than I had expected. With the wind chill, it had to be five below — more than a match for my motorcycle jacket, worn through on the right elbow from a spill I'd taken one rainy night en route to Sturgis, South Dakota, for a Harley rally. We kissed, our breath mingling and turning white in the winter air.
As I watched Cynthia walk away, a red Cutlass Supreme, probably a ’90, pulled up.
Calvin Sanger took the cigarette from his lips, leaned across the front seat and rolled down the passenger-side window. "You're a little ways from home," he said. He had on the same clothes he'd been wearing at Lynn State Hospital — beige, wide-wale corduroys, a red flannel shirt and a brown leather bomber jacket. Everything hung loosely on his six-foot, rope-thin frame. From what I'd heard about his habits hen he was working a big story, he'd probably caught an hour's sleep at his desk
"Great. Why don't you go down to the morgue and have a chat with Winston about how well the good doctor responds to therapy?"
"Winston challenged him. I'd be surrendering to him. At least at the beginning."
"And we could etch that on your tombstone. He surrendered to a serial killer ."
"What inscription would you suggest for the hostages? How about for the baby?"
"Look, I know you somehow get through to people, people no one else can reach. You have a gift. That's why you're worth what you charge. But it's not just Lucas, Frank. You've got Zweig and Kaminsky up there. We also I.D.'d the tall white man who came out with Lucas and Zweig to kill Winston. It was Craig Bishop."
I closed my eyes and hung my head. "I thought he got transferred back to prison to await trial."
"The Bishop family has a few bucks, I guess — enough anyhow to hire a scumbag lawyer to get the transfer reversed. They argued his mental illness was too complex to be adequately treated in a prison environment. Personally I don't see anything complicated about it: Beheading your victims isn't a lot different than shooting them, when you come right down to it."
"Lucas would have to release the two social workers first," I said.
"He'd never agree to...," she started, then caught herself. "I can't believe we're actually wasting our breath on this insanity. I called you to figure out how to bluff our way into more time, not so we could spin our wheels thinking about a kamikaze mission that's never going to happen."
"Let's work Rice on the Cardinal and the helicopter, then."
"I'm not about to propose that the Catholic Church..."
"What about the helicopter?"
"You really think that could change things?"
I thought it would keep Hancock busy. "As a sign of good faith it could go a long way. Meanwhile, tell Lucas I'm thinking about his offer. Tell him I'd probably go for it if he released three hostages — the pregnant nurse first, within four hours from now, and two more when I go in."
"As a bluff. Period. Right?"
"You're the one calling the shots."
"You're not planning to go behind my back and do something stupid."
I figured whatever I ended up doing would happen right in front of her. "You have my word."
"Good. I'll bring up the chopper issue again with Rice."
"I'll be over to talk with him myself soon. Page me if you need me." I hung up. I stood there, looking out the window at everything, but nothing in particular, knowing at some level that the next chapter in my life would be the darkest.
"Are you going to meet with him? On the unit?" Cynthia asked from the bed.
I turned to her. "I don't know."
"You look like you do." Her voice was part kindness, part protest.
I am no stranger and no friend to denial. I took a few seconds to rid myself of it. "If I get out of there alive," I said, "I'll come find you."
Chapter 4
I left the Y at about 7:15 A.M. Cynthia walked me to my truck. The morning was even colder than I had expected. With the wind chill, it had to be five below — more than a match for my motorcycle jacket, worn through on the right elbow from a spill I'd taken one rainy night en route to Sturgis, South Dakota, for a Harley rally. We kissed, our breath mingling and turning white in the winter air.
As I watched Cynthia walk away, a red Cutlass Supreme, probably a ’90, pulled up.
Calvin Sanger took the cigarette from his lips, leaned across the front seat and rolled down the passenger-side window. "You're a little ways from home," he said. He had on the same clothes he'd been wearing at Lynn State Hospital — beige, wide-wale corduroys, a red flannel shirt and a brown leather bomber jacket. Everything hung loosely on his six-foot, rope-thin frame. From what I'd heard about his habits hen he was working a big story, he'd probably caught an hour's sleep at his desk
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