Hello, Darkness (21 page)

Finally, Dean lowered his hand, but his eyes were just as effective at keeping Rondeau nailed to the wall. His voice was quiet and controlled, but menacing. “If you ever touch my kid again, I’ll wring your fucking neck. Do you understand me?”

“Sir, I—”

“Do you understand me?”

Rondeau swallowed, nodded, then said, “Yes, sir.”

Despite his meekness, it was several moments before Dean released him from his stare and stepped back. He extended his arm toward Gavin. “Let’s go, son.”

Gavin glanced at Rondeau as he walked past him. The young cop might have convinced his dad that he’d experienced an uncontrollable surge of righteous indignation for which he was truly sorry.

But Gavin wasn’t fooled. Rather than creating more trouble for himself, he would keep Rondeau’s dirty little secret. What did he care if the cop led a double life that included screwing underage girls? The girls hadn’t seemed to mind.

Once they’d left the rest room, Gavin took a glimpse at his dad. His jaw was clenched and he looked ready to make good on his threat to wring Rondeau’s neck. He was glad that he wasn’t on the receiving end of that simmering anger.

He figured that his cheekbone would soon be sporting a bruise, and possibly it was already beginning to discolor because the moment Liz saw them, she knew something had happened.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Liz,” Dean told her. “Everything’s fine, but I have to skip lunch. Sergeant Curtis has paged me.”

Apparently, while he was in the john heaving up his guts, his dad had filled her in on what was going on.

“There’s somebody he wants me to talk to. I’m sorry you cut your trip short only to rush back to this mess.”

“If it’s your mess, it’s my mess,” she said.

“Thanks. I’ll call you at home tonight.”

“I’ll be glad to wait until you’re free.”

Dean shook his head. “I have no idea how long I’ll be. This could take the rest of the afternoon.”

“Oh, I see, well…” She looked so disappointed Gavin felt sorry for her. “You’re too valuable around here for your own good. Would you like me to drive Gavin home?”

Inwardly Gavin groaned,
Please no.
Liz was okay. She was certainly great to look at. But she tried too hard to make him like her. Often her efforts were so transparent that he resented them. He wasn’t a little kid who could be won over with bright chatter and excessive interest in him.

“I appreciate the offer, Liz, but I’m going to send Gavin home in my car.”

Gavin whipped his head toward his dad, thinking he must not have heard him correctly. But no, he was passing him his car keys. Two nights ago, he had made Gavin surrender the keys to his rattle-trap. Now he was entrusting him with his expensive import.

This demonstration of his trust meant more than when he had threatened Rondeau with death. Protecting your kid was required, but trusting him was a choice, and his dad had chosen to trust him when he had given him no reason to. If fact, he’d given him every reason not to.

It was something he needed to think about and analyze. But later, when he was alone.

“I’ll call you when I’m ready to leave, Gavin. You can come back and get me. Does that sound like a plan?”

His throat was awfully tight, but he managed to squeak out, “Sure, Dad. I’ll be waiting.”

Even though her present situation was chaotic, Paris didn’t use it as another excuse to postpone the necessary trip out to Meadowview.

And perhaps after kissing Dean last night, guilt also had motivated her to call the director of the perpetual care facility and tell him that she would be there at three o’clock.

When she arrived promptly, he was in the atrium entrance to greet her. As they shook hands, he looked abashed and apologized for the tone of the letter she had received the day before.

“In hindsight I wish my wording hadn’t been quite so—”

“No apology necessary,” she told him. “Your letter prompted me to do something I’ve needed to do for months.”

“I hope you don’t think I’m insensitive to your grief,” he said as he led her down the hushed corridor.

“Not at all.”

Jack’s personal effects had been placed in a storage room. After unlocking the door, the director pointed to three sealed boxes stacked on a metal shelving unit. They weren’t large and didn’t contain much. Paris could easily have carried them all to her car, but he insisted on helping her.

“I’m sorry for any inconvenience my delay has caused you and the staff,” she said as they placed the boxes in the trunk of her car.

“I understand why you’d want to stay away. The hospital couldn’t hold good memories for you.”

“No, but I never had to worry about the treatment Jack received here. Thank you.”

“Your generous donation was thanks enough.”

After settling Jack’s outstanding medical bills, she had donated the remainder of his estate to the facility, including the sizable life insurance policy he had obtained when they became engaged. She was the beneficiary, but she could never have kept the money.

She and the director had parted company in Meadowview’s parking lot, under a broiling sun, knowing it was doubtful they would ever see each other again.

Now the three boxes sat on Paris’s kitchen table. There would never be a good time to open them, and she would rather have it over and done with than continue to dread it. Using a paring knife, she slit the packing tape on all three boxes.

In the first were pajamas. Four pair, neatly folded. She’d bought them for him when he was first admitted to Meadowview. They were soft now from being laundered countless times, but they still had the cloying, antiseptic smell she associated with the hallways of the hospital. She closed the box.

The second contained mostly papers, those notarized, triplicate documents from insurance companies, county courthouses, hospitals, medical and law offices, which reduced Jack Donner to a Social Security number, a statistic, a client, an entry for an accountant to tabulate.

As executor of his will, she’d had to deal with all the legalities inherent in a person’s demise. All the wherefores and hereins were past tense now, the documents obsolete. She had no need or desire to read them again.

Only the third box remained. It was the smallest of the three. Even before opening it, she knew the contents would be the most upsetting because the articles inside were Jack’s personal possessions. His wristwatch. Wallet. A few favorite books, which she had read aloud to him during her daily visits to Meadowview. A framed photograph of his parents, who were already deceased when Paris met him. She had thought it a blessing that they hadn’t lived to see their only child so reduced.

Shortly after moving him to Meadowview, she had emptied his house. His clothes she had given to a charity. Then, steeling herself, she had sold his furniture, his car, snow skis, bass-fishing boat, tennis racquets, guitar, eventually the house itself, to pay the astronomical medical bills that the insurance didn’t cover.

So this was all that Jack Donner had owned when he died. He’d been left with nothing, not even his dignity.

His wallet was soft from wear. His credit cards, long expired, were still in their slots. Behind a plastic shield, her own face smiled up at her. Noticing a sliver of paper behind the photo, she pinched it out. It was a newspaper clipping that Jack had folded several times so it would fit behind her picture.

She unfolded it and saw another picture of herself. Only this one wasn’t a flattering studio portrait. This one had been snapped by a photojournalist. He had captured her looking tired, bedraggled, and disillusioned as she stood gazing into the distance, her microphone held forgotten at her side. The headline read, “Career-making Coverage.”

Tears blurring her eyes, she rubbed the edges of the clipping between her fingers. Jack had been proud of the job she’d done, proud enough to save the newspaper article about it. At any point in time afterward, had he realized the cruel irony of his pride in her work on that particular story?

Funny, that a total stranger to them, someone they never even met, would have such a catalytic impact on their lives. His name was Albert Dorrie. He changed Jack’s and her destiny the day he decided to hold his family hostage.

It had been an uneventful Tuesday until the story broke just before lunchtime. When those in the newsroom heard that a woman and her three children were being held at gunpoint in their home, they were galvanized into action.

A cameraman was assigned to go to the scene. As he hastily gathered his equipment, the assignments editor ran a quick inventory of his available reporters. “Who’s free?” he barked.

“I am.” Paris remembered raising her hand like a schoolgirl who knew the correct answer.

“You’ve got to record the voice-over for that colon cancer prevention story.”

“Recorded and already with the editor.”

The veteran newsman rolled his cigarette, which was never lighted inside the building, from one side of his nicotine-stained lips to the other while contemplating her with a scowl. “Okay, Gibson, you get on it. I’ll send Marshall to take over for you when he finishes at the courthouse. In the meantime, try not to fuck up too bad. Go!”

She piled into the news van with the video cameraman. She was hyper, anxious, excited to be covering her first late-breaking story. The video photographer facilely navigated Houston freeway traffic while humming Springsteen.

“How can you be so calm?”

“Because tomorrow there’ll be some other nutcase, doing something equally psychotic. The stories are the same. Only the names change.”

To some extent, he was right, but she figured his mellow mood was largely due to the joint he was smoking.

Barricades had been placed at the end of a street in a middleclass neighborhood. Paris leaped from the van and ran to join the other reporters who were clustered around the SWAT officer currently acting as spokesperson for the Houston PD.

“The children range in age from four to seven,” Paris heard him say as she wedged herself into the mass. “Mr. and Mrs. Dorrie have been divorced for several months. She recently won a child custody dispute. That’s all we know at this time.”

“Was Mr. Dorrie upset over the custody ruling?” one reporter shouted.

“One would assume, but that’s only speculation.”

“Have you talked to Mr. Dorrie?”

“He hasn’t responded to our attempts.”

Paris’s cameraman had caught up with her. Reaching through the crowd, he passed her a microphone that was connected to his camera.

“Then how do you know he’s in there, holding his family at gunpoint?” another reporter asked.

“Mrs. Dorrie called in a 911 and was able to convey that message before she was disconnected, we believe by Mr. Dorrie.”

“Did she say what kind of firearm he has?”

“No.”

Paris asked, “Do you know what Mr. Dorrie hopes to gain by this?”

The SWAT officer said, “At this time, all I know for certain is that we have a very serious situation on our hands. Thank you.”

With that, he concluded the briefing. Paris turned to the cameraman. “Did you get my question on tape?”

“Yep. And his answer.”

“Such as it was.”

“The newsroom called. They’re gonna come to you live in three minutes. Can you think of something to say?”

“You focus the camera, I’ll think of something to say.”

She staked out an advantageous spot from which to do her live cut-ins. The Dorrie house could be seen in the background at the far end of a narrow, tree-lined street, which on any other afternoon would probably have been serene.

Now it was thronged with emergency vehicles, police units, news vans, and people who had come to gawk. Paris asked one of the Dorries’ neighbors if she would talk to her on camera about the family, and the woman happily consented.

“I always thought he was a nice man,” the woman said.

“Never woulda thought he’d snap like this. You just never know about people. Most are crazy, I guess.”

An hour into the standoff, Paris spotted Dean Malloy arriving in an unmarked car. He seemed impervious to onlookers and walked with confident determination as uniformed officers escorted him past the gaggle of reporters and toward the SWAT van that was parked midway between the barricade and the house. Paris watched him enter the van, then called her assignments editor and reported this update.

“Will you shut the hell up!” he shouted to the voices in the background. “Can’t hear myself think.” Then to Paris, “Who is he again?”

She repeated Dean’s name. “He’s a doctor of psychology and criminology, on staff with HPD.”

“And you know him?”

“Personally. He’s trained to negotiate with hostage takers. He wouldn’t be here if they didn’t think they needed him.”

She went live with this breakthrough, scooping all the other stations.

By hour three of the standoff, everyone was growing a little bored and perversely wishing that something would happen.

Paris got a lucky break when she noticed a small woman standing at the edge of the crowd of spectators. She was being supported by a man at her side while she wept copiously but silently.

Leaving her microphone and cameraman behind, Paris approached the couple and introduced herself. Initially the man was antagonistic and told her bluntly to get lost, but the woman finally identified herself as Mrs. Dorrie’s sister. At first she was reluctant to talk, but Paris eventually learned the stormy history of the Dorrie marriage.

“This background information could be very useful to the police,” she told the woman gently. “Would you be willing to talk to one of them?”

The woman was wary and frightened. Her husband remained hostile.

“The individual I have in mind is not an ordinary policeman,” she told them. “He’s not a SWAT officer. His sole purpose in being here is to see that your sister and her children come out of this situation unharmed. You can trust him. I give you my word.”

Minutes later, Paris was trying to coax a uniformed policeman to carry a note to the SWAT van and hand-deliver it to Dean. “He knows me. We’re friends.”

“I don’t care if you’re his sister. Malloy’s busy and doesn’t want to talk to a reporter.”

She signaled her cameraman forward. “Are you rolling tape?”

“I am now,” he said, swinging his camera up to his shoulder and looking into the eyepiece.

“Be sure to get a close-up of this officer’s face.” She cleared her throat and began speaking into the microphone. “Today Officer Antonio Garza of the Houston Police Department impeded efforts to rescue a family being held hostage by an armed gunman. Officer Garza declined to convey an important message to—”

“The hell you doing, lady?”

“I’m putting you on TV as the cop who screwed up a hostage rescue.”

“Give me the friggin’ note,” he said, snatching it from her hand.

It was a long, agonizing quarter of an hour before Dean stepped from the van and walked toward the barricade. He batted aside microphones thrust at him as he scanned the faces in the crowd. When he saw Paris waving at him from outside her station’s news van, he made a beeline toward her.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Paris.”

“I wouldn’t ever take advantage of our friendship. I hope you know that.”

“I do.”

“I wouldn’t have drawn you away if I didn’t think this was vitally important.”

“So your note indicated. What have you got?”

“Let’s get inside.”

They scrambled into the back of the van, where she had persuaded Mrs. Dorrie’s sister and brother-in-law to wait. She made introductions. Space was limited even though the cameraman had remained outside. Paris didn’t want to spook them with the camera and lights.

Dean hunkered down in front of the distraught woman and spoke quietly and calmly. “First of all, I want you to know that I’m going to do everything within my power to keep your sister and her family from getting hurt.”

“That’s what Paris said. She gave us her word that we could trust you.”

Dean cast a quick glance at Paris.

“But I’m afraid the policemen will storm the house,” the woman said, her voice breaking emotionally. “If they do, Albert will kill her and the children. I know he will.”

Dean asked, “Has he threatened their lives before?”

“Many times. My sister always said he would wind up killing her.”

He listened patiently to what she had to impart, interrupting only when he needed a point clarified, gently prodding her when she faltered. The van grew warm and stank of marijuana. Dean seemed unaware of the uncomfortable surroundings, of the sweat that beaded his forehead. His eyes never wavered from the sobbing woman’s face.

He asked pertinent questions and must have committed her answers to memory because he wrote nothing down. When she had told him everything she knew that could be relevant, he thanked her, reassured her that he was going to bring her sister and the children out safely, then asked her if she would stay close by in case he needed to speak to her again. She and her husband agreed.

As they emerged from the stuffy van, Paris passed Dean a bottle of water. Absently he drank from it as they walked toward the barricade. A deep worry line had formed between his eyebrows.

Finally she ventured to ask if the interview had been helpful.

“Absolutely. But before it can help, I’ve got to get Dorrie to talk to me.”

“You have his cell number now.”

“Thanks to you.”

“I’m glad I could help.”

Garza and other uniformed policemen held back the crowd of reporters calling questions to Dean as he stepped through the barricade. He started to walk away, but paused long enough to turn back and say, “You did good, Paris.”

“So did you.”

She remained where she was, watching him until he disappeared into the SWAT van, then called her assignments editor and told him what had happened.

“Good work. Helps to have friends in high places. Since you’ve got a rapport with the head kahuna, stay put, see it through to the end.”

“What about Marshall?”

“I’ve made it your baby, Paris. Don’t disappoint me.”

An hour later, she learned along with all the other media that Malloy was finally in conversation with Dorrie. He had persuaded the man to let him speak to Mrs. Dorrie, who had tearfully told him that she and the children were still alive, physically unharmed but terribly frightened.

Paris went live with that report at the top of the five o’clock news. She repeated it at six o’clock because there’d been no further developments and, at the conclusion of the newscast, did a general recap of the events that had taken place throughout the long day. She also fielded extemporaneous questions from the anchors.

Jack arrived at seven with burgers and fries for her and her cameraman. “Who’s been smoking weed?” he asked.

“She has,” the cameraman replied as he popped a french fry into his mouth. “Can’t get her off the stuff.”

But when he finished his meal and stepped from the van, he hesitated. “Jack, about the…uh…”

Jack smiled guilelessly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The cameraman was visibly relieved. “Thanks, man.”

When they were alone, Paris shot Jack a look of vexation. “A fine manager you’ll make.”

“A good manager instills loyalty.” His easy grin turned to an expression of concern as he reached out and stroked her cheek.

“You look exhausted.”

“My blusher wore off hours ago.” Recalling Dean’s disregard for his personal discomfort, she added, “How I look on camera doesn’t seem very important in light of what I’m reporting.”

“You’ve done a fantastic job.”

“Thanks.”

“No, I mean it. The station is all abuzz.”

That morning, when she’d left in the news van, she had approached the story as an opportunity to strut her stuff, win some attention, create the buzz Jack had mentioned.

Over the course of the day, that had changed. The turning point had been Dean’s conversation with Mrs. Dorrie’s sister. It had opened her eyes to the grim reality of the story, given names to the people involved, made it a human tragedy rather than a vehicle to propel her career forward. It seemed distasteful to benefit from the misfortune of others.

“Have you seen Dean any more?” Jack asked, breaking into her thoughts.

“Only once. He came out midafternoon to ask Mrs. Dorrie’s sister about the children’s favorite foods, toys, games, pets. He wanted to personalize his conversations with Mr. Dorrie.”

Jack frowned thoughtfully. “It’ll be personalized for Dean if this goes south.”

“All he can do is his best.”

“I know that. You know that. Everybody knows that except Dean. Mark my words, Paris. If five people don’t walk out of that house, he’ll beat himself up over it.”

Jack hung around for another hour, then left with her promise to call him if the situation changed. It didn’t. Not for hours. She was sitting in the passenger seat of the van, organizing her notes and trying to find a new angle to the story, when Dean tapped on the windshield.

“Has something happened?” she asked.

“No, nothing. Sorry if I alarmed you,” he said, coming to stand beside the open window. “I just had to get out of that van for a while, get some fresh air, stretch my legs.”