The Negotiator. Kay David

The Negotiator

Jennifer cleared her throat. “Mr. French has asked the police for some colas and they’re going to send some in to us….” She faltered here, not knowing what to do. Which one to send? Which ones to keep? Her gaze fell to Taylor and the answer became clear. The little girl was diabetic; she had to go. Jennifer reached for her. “But…someone has to go get the drinks, so Taylor here is going to help us out.”

She put her hand on the child’s shoulder and squeezed, leading her to the front of the room. She didn’t explain that the little girl wouldn’t be coming back. “You’ll be fine,” Jennifer whispered. “Don’t worry.” A moment later, Taylor was gone. Howard locked the door behind her, her tennis shoes slapping as she ran down the hallway.

Jennifer listened to the sound with Beck Winters’s words ringing in her mind. We have alternative ways of resolving issues. She’d seen enough movies to know what he meant. SWAT teams stormed buildings. People got shot. Hostages were killed. Then she remembered what else he’d said. No one’s going to get hurt…I promise you that.

She didn’t know him, of course, but she believed him. Unlike her father, he had the voice of a man who would tell the truth, no matter what.

Jennifer turned back to Howard. One way or the other, she had to try. “What’s wrong, Howard? Why are you doing this?”

He lifted his dejected gaze to hers. “I lost my job.”

“I know. Remember, I tried to help but—”

“They came and took my truck.” His expression was dead and lifeless. “How can I get another job without no truck? How can I pay my rent if I don’t have a job?” He started shaking his head before she could even speak. “I ain’t going back to that shelter place. There’s bad people living there.”

Jennifer didn’t want to be naive; this man had done just what the cop had said—he’d come into her classroom with a gun and taken hostages—but this was Howard, for God’s sake. He was a lost soul. Like Danny.

“You’re jumping to conclusions, Howard. Thinking the worst possible thing. Remember how we talked about that when you left here? I told you a positive attitude would help you get another position, remember?”

“And you lied.” His voice was blunt. “I went ever’where and I had a real positive attitude, but wouldn’t nobody hire me. Said they didn’t need nobody.” He took a ragged breath and stared out the window. The light drifting through was faint and dim. “That’s why I came up here,” he said. “I wanted to make Miz Whitmire give me my old job.”

Jennifer didn’t reply but he shook his head as if she had, his hand tightening on the gun at this side. “When she saw me in the hall, she acted all crazy and ever’thing, and started talking trash to me like she always does. Then she saw my gun, and she tried to run off. She crashed into the door and hit her head. That’s how she got the bump. I didn’t hit her.”

“Of course you didn’t,” she said soothingly.

“I—I reached out to help her up and something went off in my head, like an explosion or something. I grabbed her…then I didn’t know what to do with her. That’s when I saw I was by your door. I knowed you’d help me.”

“And I will, but Howard…what on earth were you doing here with a gun anyway?”

His eyes narrowed. “I was gonna scare ’er. That’s all. Just to make her gimme the job back.”

“Well, that plan didn’t work too well, did it?” She paused, but he didn’t answer. “Let the children go, Howard. Let them go and we’ll think up a new plan.”

He didn’t appear to even notice she’d said anything. He raised his hand to his bottom lip and pulled gently, then after a minute, he spoke. “That policeman fellow on the phone—he said he’d help me. Do you think he could make her give me my job again? And make ’em give me my truck, too?”

Her heart fell. He simply didn’t grasp the seriousness of what he’d done. “I don’t know, Howard.”

He stood up and gripped the rifle’s barrel with both hands. “You call ’em,” he said, nodding his head to the phone. “Tell ’em what I want. You can do it.”

BECK GRABBED THE PHONE even before the first ring ended. “Winters.”

“This is Jennifer. Did Taylor make it out okay?”

“She’s fine, just fine. Her mother is here and they’re together. I’ve got the drinks coming. They’ll leave it at the door.”

“Are the other parents there?”

Beck glanced down the street. Behind a cordon of officers, the media was gathering, along with the gawkers events like this somehow always attracted. Mixed in the throng, there were worried school officials and moms and dads going crazy. Lena had been down twice to reassure them.

“A few of them, yes,” he said. Switching gears, he spoke again. “Let me talk to Howard, Jennifer. That’s the only way this is going to get resolved.”

“He wants me to ask you something,” she said, by way of answering. “He wants to know if you can help him get his old job back.”

“Tell him anything’s possible,” Beck said instantly, “but not until I talk to him. I can’t help him if I can’t talk to him.”

Jennifer’s voice was soft as she relayed his message. A second later, she spoke again. “He wants his truck, too,” she said. “It was repossessed yesterday. He said if you bring his truck to him, he’ll talk to you.”

“I’ll get the truck and we’ll talk. But I want another child, too.”

She was starting to sound tense, and just around the edges, a little unraveled. Beck glanced at the countdown clock he’d started when he’d gotten there. They’d been at it almost two hours already. It seemed like he’d just arrived; it seemed like he’d been born there. Catching his eye, beside the clock, were the photos Sarah had obtained. With the phone propped against his shoulder, he shuffled through the mess of papers until he came to the one he wanted. The school picture of Jennifer Barclay.

Sometimes when he watched television, he placed bets with himself. He’d close his eyes, switch channels, and listen to whoever was on the screen. Nine times out of ten, he could guess what they looked like by the way they spoke. He would have lost the farm on this one, though. Jennifer Barclay did not match her voice at all. Her chestnut shoulder-length hair was straight and shiny and her gaze was dark and sad. Except for those eyes, she looked much younger than he would have expected. He’d imagined a woman in her forties, someone with a lot of experience behind her, a person who knew and understood others well.

Flipping through the profiles of the suspect and all the hostages Sarah had gotten along with the photos, Beck found the notes on Jennifer. She lived in Fort Walton Beach, in a small condo complex a few blocks off the beach. She drove a white 1995 Toyota Camry, had no outstanding tickets or warrants and she lived alone.

She’d sounded middle-aged, but Jennifer Barclay was young, pretty and single.

She came back on the line. “Okay, he’ll do it. As soon as he sees the truck, he’ll send another child out.”

The line went dead and Beck grabbed the microphone attached to the headset he wore. “Lena? Did you get all that? You got a line on the truck?”

“We’re trying. Sarah knew he’d had a vehicle repossessed so she’s contacting the dealership now, but they’re closed. It’s going to take a while.”