The Desperate Minutes Part 1

The Desperate Minutes.

by Brian Evankovich.

The bedroom hadn't smelled the same since Lisa left. Nothing was the same. I couldn't smell the musky scent of her perfume anymore. After-shave and dust had replaced the feminine touch that used to give this room so much life. I suppose that's what happens after a "trial separation", as she called it. So far, though, this "trial" had lasted six months, so far.

I stood in front of my dresser, and the big mirror reflected my stocky image. Heck, today was Sat.u.r.day. I didn't have to shave for work or get dressed up, and it felt good to wear a simple T-s.h.i.+rt and jeans.

I held a gun in my hands. A blue-steel Smith & Wesson revolver, a big .357 Magnum with a four-inch barrel. Most guys I knew had taken to fancy automatics, but I still preferred a plain old revolver. I broke open the cylinder and shook out the six rounds in the chambers, dropped them into the open drawer level with my waist, b.u.mped it shut. I crossed the cluttered bedroom to my nightstand, opened the top drawer, set the gun inside and locked it. I'd had the lock installed when Tommy was born. No way he would be getting inside.

I allowed myself a smile. It was Sat.u.r.day, and I would get Tommy to myself all day. No work to do, I'd made sure of that. Today was for my son and me.

I looked around the room and shook my head. I'll never qualify as a neat freak. Clothes strewn about; my briefcase in one corner, still unopened since Friday night; the bed unmade and rumpled; my exercise bike gathering dust. A shade covered the window that looked out the front of the house. The morning sunlight streamed through with the clock on the nightstand reading just after ten. On the evening news last night, the weatherman said it would be clear and sunny all day. Perfect for what Tommy and I had planned.

I closed the bedroom door and went into the kitchen, was.h.i.+ng the remaining dishes in the sink. A car pulled up in the driveway. A door slammed. I went to the front door and pulled it open. Lisa was already backing out, not even looking at me as Tommy rushed up the front steps. "Daddy!" he shouted. He put his hand up for a high-five and I slapped his palm, pulling him into my arms for a big hug.

"Hiya, Tommy," I said. Looked over his shoulder as his mother pulled out into the street and zoomed off. I sadly watched the car go. I wanted to help settle our problems; she wanted nothing to do with me. Too many late nights, too many broken promises.

"Come on," I said quietly. Tommy rushed past me into the living room, clothes for the weekend weighing down his stuffed backpack. I shut the door and locked it.

Tommy tossed his backpack on the floor.

"Tommy, you know where that goes."

"All right," he said sheepishly, picking it up. He went down the hall to his bedroom. I didn't watch him but knew he'd put it on the rack I had made for him. He came back out.

"Can we go now?"

"Let me get my keys and wallet, and we'll go."

We got in the car, my old '68 Corvette, which I only took out on the weekends, and headed to the local amus.e.m.e.nt park.

Tommy and I spent the day there. I mainly watched while he and a bunch of other kids raced through the smaller rides, though I did ride the cowboy horse next to his on the Ferris wheel. He looked wistfully at a roller coaster as it raced through several loops, and I told him he could ride when he was older.

"That's not fair, Daddy!"

"A lot of life isn't fair, son," I said.

Around four o'clock we got back in the car. I turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed and sputtered and failed. I closed my eyes and tried again. It grumbled to life and I let out a sigh of relief, but pretty soon I'd be wis.h.i.+ng the car had broken down.

I glanced at Tommy, sitting there beside me, as we sped along the freeway. Only six years old and growing faster than I could keep track. Sometimes my job kept me pretty busy and even when Lisa and I were living together, I hadn't seen much of him. My work contributed to our separation, but Lisa just didn't understand. Or maybe I wouldn't look at her side of the story, wanting to cling to my childhood dreams more than anything while my family dissolved around me. Where do you set the priority? The last time I'd spoken to Lisa, she'd said that when I was ready to put her and Tommy first, we could talk seriously.

"What do you mean, put you two first? What do you think I do every day of my life?"

"You spend too much time running through alleys and sitting in the car all night to even know what's going on at home."

I said, "What do you think pays the mortgage, honey?"

She didn't seem to want to compromise; it was her way, or no way.

"Why can't you just go back to the police department?"

"We've covered this, Lisa."

"Why not? They offered you an inside job! What's wrong with that?"

"I had a chunk of bone blown out of my leg, remember? They told me I'm no good on the street anymore. That's why I started my detective agency, so I could be on the street. That's where I'm happiest, Lisa."

"Obviously there's no room for Tommy and I."

And so it went. It made me sad. When we'd fallen in love ten years ago, we couldn't imagine anything tearing us apart. Now I was having trouble imagining getting back together. The separation had dragged on for six months so far; I didn't think she would actually divorce me, but maybe that was wishful thinking.

We got home and I eased the Vette into the garage. We went inside. As the garage door shut behind us, the phone rang. And rang. I told Tommy to go hang up his jacket.

"Aren't you going to answer, Daddy?"

"No."

Probably work calling. No way would I pick up. Today was for Tommy and me.

The phone rang once more and went silent.

We wandered out to the living room to watch TV and relax. "What's for dinner, Daddy?"

"What do you feel like having?"

"Pizza!"

I eased my tired body onto the couch and Tommy climbed up after me. "I think we can arrange that."

Something crashed loudly against the door. A loud thud, like somebody dropping a big encyclopedia on a desk. A s.h.i.+ver went down my spine and instinct took over. I sprang up from the couch.

"Get in the corner, Tommy!"

I watched the door in slow motion as it crashed open, swinging in an arc, smas.h.i.+ng against the wall. My hand snapped up under my left arm looking for a gun that wasn't there. The man was about ten years younger than me, maybe 25 or 26, with a frizzy haircut and wide eyes, breathing heavily, his face flushed red from exertion. His clothes were threadbare and dirty, but the gun in his hand was a Government Model .45 automatic.

"Don't move!" he shouted, pointing the .45 right at my face. "Get on the floor!"

"Daddy! Daddy!"

Tommy rushed to me, I s.n.a.t.c.hed him up and held him close to my chest.

"Don't shoot!"

I took a few steps backward as the intruder advanced, the gun shaking in his hand. His chest went up and down as he tried to get his breathing under control. "Don't do anything stupid!" he shouted. "I'll kill you! I'll kill you!"

"Don't hurt my son! Put the gun down, we'll do what you want!"

"They're not gonna take me alive! No way!"

We'd moved to the middle of the room. Behind me, the couch, easy chair to the left, placed in front of the sliding gla.s.s doors leading to the patio. Tommy cried against my shoulder, clutching me tight. I stopped, planting my feet.

"Listen," I said, "I don't have any money. You can have whatever you want, but don't hurt my son."

"Aw, h.e.l.l!" the kid shouted, lowing the gun and pacing the floor, breathing fast. "Aw, h.e.l.l!" he shouted again, running his empty hand through his hair.

"Let me put the boy down in the bedroom." Where I had my gun.

He snapped the gun up, his face red. "No! No! Put him in the corner! And shut him up! Stop his crying!"

"Quit yelling and waving that gun around and maybe he will."

"Don't get smart, don't push me!"

"Okay, okay. Just relax."

I patted Tommy's back, telling him everything would be okay. He nodded, took a deep breath and his crying continued only as light sobs. I put him down in the recliner, picked up a pillow off the floor and handed it to him. He clutched it to his body like a s.h.i.+eld and I turned to face the intruder.

"Now what?"

"Now, uh, now we sit down. Yeah. Sit on the floor. On the floor!" He jabbed the gun at the carpet for emphasis. "Sit down!"

I sat, folding my legs under me. Tommy and I looked at each other. His body twitched, his eyes bleary and red.

"It's okay, Tommy," I said calmly. My heart didn't beat any faster than normal, I noticed. Good. I had to be strong for my son, that was the important thing right now.

"Why don't you sit down yourself?" I told the intruder. "Put the gun away. Calm down. I ain't going anywhere. Think I want you to hurt my boy?"

"Yeah, yeah. Relax, yeah." He still breathed quickly and I thought he'd pa.s.s out from hyperventilation, but I've never been that lucky. He took a few steps back and sat down on the floor against the big wooden cabinet holding the TV and stereo.

"What's your name?" I asked our new friend.

He didn't answer right away, just sat there staring into s.p.a.ce, catching his breath. When it slowed to normal, he said, "Jake."

"Jake what?"

"Just Jake. What's yours?"

"Hood," I said. "David Hood. That's my son Tommy."

His eyes roamed over Tommy and me. It felt odd to be making tea-party conversation with him. Then again, if I kept things light and got him distracted, maybe I could gain an edge.

"Hi," he said.

I said, "Who you running from?"

"Cops."

"You gonna get up and shut the front door?"

"Huh?"

"The front door, Jake. There's a draft. In fact, just walk on out of here. No hard feelings."

"No. No, I ain't shutting the front door. Forget about it." He stiffened suddenly and jerked the gun up at me. "You shut it! Go on! Shut the door!" I took a deep breath. Looked at Jake, looked at the gun. If he'd had a revolver I'd be a little more confident trying to tackle him, but he had one of those single-action .45s, the hammer c.o.c.ked back, and I wasn't going to take the risk. I rose to full height and stood there a moment.

"I'm going to go shut the door," I said slowly. He aimed the gun at Tommy. My son squealed.

"Do anything stupid and I shoot the boy."

"I won't do anything stupid, Jake."

Footsteps pounded up the porch. "Police!"

Jake screamed curses at the cops and sprang to his feet, swinging toward the door, blasting away with the gun. The thunderous booms shook the walls. "Get back! Get back! I'll kill them both! Get back!"

One of the cops ducked around the doorway, the other dropping p.r.o.ne to fire.

"Don't shoot!" I shouted to the officers. "There's a boy here!"

"Get back!" Two more blasts. The cops scrambled back, one shouting into his radio. Jake pivoted around to face me, the .45 smoking in his hand. "Sit down! Now!" I quickly sat beside the recliner. Tommy held the pillow close over his face now, still crying.

"Shut that kid up!"

He closed the distance between us in a flash, holding the gun inches from my face. I shrank back against the chair.

"Shut him up!"

A car screeched to a halt outside. Shouts, more cars, engines revving. Jake turned away from me, stalking toward the open door. He waved the gun out at the cops. I couldn't see how many there were, but there'd be plenty very soon.

"I got hostages! Do anything stupid and I'll kill them all!" He slammed the door.

Tommy whispered, "Do something, Daddy."

I reached behind me and patted his hand. "Just stay quiet, son."

"But -- "

"Stay quiet."

Jake lowered the gun and came back into the living room.