Terminal

Sean smiled when he realized the police had surmised he’d taken the Masons hostage as a result of being kept off the medulloblastoma protocol. In a way, they weren’t far off.

“I appreciate your concern and your presence,” Sean said. “But I don’t have a lot of time to talk. I’ve got to get back to work.”

“Just tell us what you want,” Sergeant Hunt said.

“Time,” Sean said. “I only want a little time. Two or three, or perhaps four hours at most.”

Sean hung up. Returning to his bench, he lifted his pipette and went back to work.

RONALD HUNT was a six-foot redheaded man. At thirty-seven, he’d been on the police force for fifteen years, ever since graduating from community college. His major had been law enforcement, but he’d minored in psychology. Attempting to combine psychology with police work, he’d jumped at the chance to join the Hostage Negotiating Team when a slot became available. Although he didn’t get to use his skills as often as he would have liked, when he did he’d enjoyed the challenge. He’d even been inspired to take more psychology at night school at the University of Miami.

Sergeant Hunt had been successful in all his previous operations and had developed confidence in his abilities. After the successful resolution of the last episode which involved a discontented employee at a soft-drink bottling plant who’d taken three female colleagues hostage, Ronald had received a citation from the force for meritorious service. So when Sean Murphy hung up on him, it was a blow to his ego.

“The twerp hung up on me!” Ron said indignantly.

“What did he say he wanted?” Hector asked.

“Time,” Ron said.

“What do you mean, time?” Hector asked. “Like the magazine? Does he want to be in Time?”

“No,” Ron said. “Time like hours. He told me he has to get back to work. He must be working on that project he’d been forbidden to work on.”

“What kind of project?” Hector asked.

“I don’t know,” Ron said. He then pushed the redial on the portable phone. “I can’t negotiate unless we talk.”

Lieutenant Hector Salazar and Sergeant Ronald Hunt were standing behind three blue-and-white Miami police cars parked in the Forbes parking lot directly across from the entrance to the Forbes research building. The squad cars were parked in the form of a letter U facing away from the building. In the heart of this U they’d set up a mini-command center with a couple of phones and a radio on a folding card table.

The police presence at the site had swelled considerably. Initially there had only been four officers: the original two uniformed patrolmen who’d answered the call, plus their sergeant and his partner. Now there was a small crowd. Besides dozens of regular uniformed police, including Hector, there was the two-man negotiating team, a five-man bomb squad, and a ten-man SWAT team dressed in black assault uniforms. The SWAT team was off to the side warming up with some jumping jacks.

In addition to the police, Forbes was represented by Dr. Deborah Levy, Margaret Richmond, and Robert Harris. They had been allowed near the command post but had been asked to keep to the side. A small crowd, including local media, had gathered just beyond the yellow crime scene tape. Several TV vans were parked as close as possible with their antennae extended. Reporters with microphones in hand and camera crews at their heels were scouring the crowd to interview anyone who seemed to have any information about the drama transpiring within.

While the crowd of spectators swelled, the police tried to go about their business.

“Dr. Mason says that Murphy flat out refuses to get back on the phone,” Ron said. He was clearly offended.

“You keep trying,” Hector advised him. Turning to Sergeant Anderson, Hector said: “I trust that all entrances and exits are covered.”

“All covered,” Anderson assured him. “No one is going in or coming out without our knowing it. Plus we have sharpshooters on the roof of the hospital.”

“What about that pedestrian bridge connecting the two buildings?” Hector asked.

“We got a man on the bridge on the hospital side,” Anderson said. “There aren’t going to be any surprises in this operation.”

Hector motioned to Phil Darell to come over. “What’s the story on the bomb?” Hector asked.

“It’s a little unorthodox,” Phil acknowledged. “I spoke with the doctor. It’s a flask of nitroglycerin. He estimates about two or three hundred cc’s. It’s sitting in an ice bath. Apparently Murphy comes in every so often and dumps ice into the bath. Every time he does it, it terrifies the doctor.”

“Is it a problem?” Hector asked.

“Yeah, it’s a problem,” Phil said. “Especially once it solidifies.”

“Would slamming a door detonate it?” Hector asked.

“Probably not,” Phil replied. “But a shake might. A fall to the floor certainly would.”

“But can you handle it?”

“Absolutely,” Phil said.

Next Hector waved Deborah Levy over.

“I understand you run the research here.”

Dr. Levy nodded.

“What do you think this kid is doing?” Hector asked. “He told our negotiator he wanted time to work.”