06 A More Perfect Union by J A Jance

Author:J A Jance [Jance, J A]
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

13

I have no idea how long I waited. A half hour? Longer? It seemed forever, sitting there in the dark. There was no sound in the house. I knew Linda Decker had driven away. I had heard the door slam and the engine of a car turn over. What about the cop? Had he left along with them?

If I was really alone, I knew I should crawl back down the stairs and try to find some kind of tool that might help me break out of my prison, but I was understandably reluctant to search around in the dark. My knee still hurt. So did my nose.

I had started picking my way down the steps when I heard the distant wail of a siren. It was coming closer.

Cops don’t believe in coincidences. They can’t afford to. If there was a siren outside the house, it was because of me, because I was locked up in Linda Decker’s basement.

The siren came almost to the house and then wound down to silence as I listened. Several car doors slammed shut and I heard a series of shouted commands. I should have felt relief. Here were the reinforcements I had wanted riding to the rescue, but now that they were outside, I didn’t feel better. And I didn’t call out to them. Some instinctive warning system told me that although they were cops and I was a cop, this time we weren’t on the same side.

Heavy footsteps mounted the outside steps and entered the kitchen, accompanied by a series of barked commands. “She’s got him locked up in the basement,” someone said. “That’s his car out there in the driveway. The red Porsche.”

Whoever had come to the door hadn’t left when Linda did, but he was cautious. He had called for a backup and then waited outside until they showed.

“Stay clear of that door,” another voice ordered. It was a much deeper voice than the first one, that of an older man, someone in authority. “Is he armed?”

The first voice answered. “I don’t think so. She said she took his gun away. It’s right here.”

Linda must have given him my Smith and Wesson. I listened as heavy footsteps creaked across the kitchen floor. There was a short silence, then the second voice, the older one, said:

“Beaumont?” The way he said it made my name sound ominous, threatening. “We’ve got this place surrounded. You can’t get out.”

“Surrounded?” I yelped the word. “Of course I can’t get out. She locked the door. Who the hell do you think I am? I’m not armed. She took my gun.”

“We know who you are, Beaumont. On the count of three, we’re opening this door. I want to see you with both hands up behind your head or we’ll shoot first and ask questions later. One. Two. Three.”

Hands behind my head? What was going on? I sat down as the door flew open. There was no one there, only a doorway full of brilliant daylight from the kitchen window shining down the stairs, hurting my eyes, and casting long shadows of bars down the stairway.

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