Hostage

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I was just walking along minding my own business.”

The man wore faded jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves torn off. He wasn’t big, five-nine or five-ten, maybe a hundred and sixty pounds, but the muscles in his arms were well-defined, most likely from some sort of hard work rather than time at a gym. Bloodshot eyes, whiskey breath. He didn’t appear threatening at the moment, but Vaughan kept her distance just the same.

“Got some ID on you?” she said.

“No.”

“Sir, I just finished a twelve-hour shift, and I really don’t feel like spending the next two hours processing you through the system, so if you’ll just follow me over to the hardware store, we’ll get some paint thinner and you can-”

“I’m not going to follow you anywhere,” the man said.

Vaughan shook her head in disbelief. She unhooked the set of cuffs attached to the back of her gun belt, rested one hand on a canister of pepper spray and the other on the grips of her pistol, ready to use whatever force was necessary if the guy tried to resist.

“Put your hands on the wall and spread your legs apart,” she said. “You’re under arrest for public intoxication and the destruction of county property.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Surprisingly, the man complied with Vaughan’s instructions without any argument. Maybe he thought jail wouldn’t be too bad for a while. A warm place to sleep and three hot meals every day. She felt sorry for him, but she couldn’t just let him go. In his present state, he was a danger to himself and to the community.

“You have some kind of injury?” Vaughan said.

There was a gauze dressing taped to the right side of his neck, a couple of inches above his collar bone, pink in the center where a small amount of blood had started to seep through.

“Don’t worry about it,” the man said.

Vaughan cuffed his wrists behind his back and patted him down. His pockets were empty. Nothing. Not even a gum wrapper. She led him to the diner’s parking lot, guided him into the back seat of her cruiser and shut the door.

A couple of years ago, the mayor had increased the budget for the police department, but other than the watch commander, there were still only eight full-time officers, four working days and four working nights. The twelve-hour shifts could be grueling sometimes, but as long as nobody was out sick or on vacation, the current staffing provided coverage around the clock, and everyone was able to take two consecutive days off every week.

There was usually one officer out on patrol, and one working the desk at the station. Today, the officer out on patrol-the one who’d relieved Vaughan at seven-was a man named Retro, and the officer on the desk was a woman named Ashton.

Technically, Vaughan was off duty, but she wasn’t going to bother calling Retro over to the diner on such a minor bust. She would take care of it herself. The commander had pre-authorized ten hours of overtime per week for every officer for such occasions, so no problem with that. And of course the extra money would come in handy.

Vaughan climbed into the driver’s seat, keyed the microphone on her radio and said, “Unit One to base.”

Ashton answered right away. “Go ahead Unit One.”

“Ten seventeen from Second Street with a ten ninety-five. PI and destruction of property. Caucasian male, no identification. Brown eyes, brown hair, approximately thirty-five years old. Cooperative, probably homeless.”

“Clear to transport, Unit One.”

“Ten four. Unit One over and out.”

Vaughan slid the microphone back into its clip. So much for having a nice breakfast and getting to bed by nine, she thought.

3

Hope was a small town, and the police station was only a few minutes from the diner.

Which meant Sozinho needed to work fast.

He waited until Officer Vaughan started the engine and pulled out onto Second Street, and then he opened his mouth and lifted his tongue and let the key fall to his lap. He raised his buttocks off the seat just enough for the shiny little notched cylinder to slide back to his fingertips, and then he pinched it between his thumb and forefinger and discreetly worked it around until he found the hole in the left handcuff.

He twisted the key clockwise, and the cuff popped open.

Which was quite a relief, since there had been at least a five percent chance that it wouldn’t.

Sozinho waited until Vaughan turned onto Old Slaughterhouse Road, a decaying thoroughfare with very little traffic, ready to make his move as they approached the abandoned meat processing plant. This was the most direct route from the diner to the police station, according to the man in the black leather jacket. Things might have been a bit more challenging if Vaughan had taken the long way around, but she didn’t. She hardly ever took the long way, the man in the black leather jacket had said, even though it was a much smoother ride. She liked the bumpy old short cut, which worked out beautifully for Sozinho.

“I’m sick,” he shouted. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

“We’ll be there in a minute.”