Takeover - Lisa Black [68]
“You think so, do you?”
“I’m probably going to get fired for giving you that car, if not thrown in jail. I’d hate to have it be for nothing.”
“Yeah, what about that?” He crouched in front of her, putting them at the same eye level, submachine gun across his knees. The sudden advance startled her. “You did that because you love that cop?”
“You’re not watching the street. They might come for your car.”
“The marble behind you, Theresa, is as smooth as a mirror. I can see any movement outside. Cops are many things, but invisible is not one of them. Now, did you come here because you’re in love with that cop?”
Love. Something she had almost convinced herself didn’t exist until one night when Paul suddenly put his arms around her, outside a ring of crime-scene tape in the Metroparks after everyone else had left. He hadn’t asked her to dinner or a movie or out for drinks, knowing that her defense system would rise if forewarned. He simply stepped inside the castle walls before she had time to lower the gate.
She swallowed. “Yes.”
“Crazy, the things people do for love.”
She couldn’t speak around the lump in her throat.
“Bo,” the child insisted.
“Is that what you’re robbing this place for?” Theresa asked him. “Love?”
“You trying to analyze me, Theresa? Figure me out? Or just distract me from the fact that Ethan’s mom has twenty-seven seconds remaining?”
“I’d like to know why my fiancé is bleeding to death and why my daughter may have to grow into adulthood without a mother.”
He edged closer to her, so close she could see the red veins standing out against the whites of his eyes, could smell the last traces of a breath mint on his tongue. “I’d really like to tell you, but I’m afraid you wouldn’t understand.”
“I might understand a lot more than you think.”
He didn’t actually roll his eyes, but he came close.
She went on. “I understand that someone didn’t take very good care of you when you were a little boy.”
The red-rimmed eyes narrowed, and his body receded from her ever so slightly. “You saying I wasn’t raised right?”
“I’m saying someone burned the inside of your left wrist with a cigarette, at least four times that I can see. I had a young man about your age in last month. The abuse had occurred when he was five, but his wounds were less distinct than yours. So you were, what? Ten? Twelve?”
He stood as quickly as if he had discovered a scorpion at his toes, checked his watch, and said, “Mama’s time is up.”
“You’re not going to shoot this little boy.”
“And who’s going to stop me, Theresa? You?”
“What will it gain you, except a quick trip to a lethal injection?”
“That’s assuming I get caught.”
“You know you’re going to be caught eventually. You’re not stupid.”
They certainly didn’t seem to be bonding—in fact, she seemed to annoy him more with every word. Yet he kept talking to her. Why?
“I’m not going to get caught.” He did not say this as if he believed it, however. The tone of his voice sounded neither boastful nor wistful; it sounded resigned, as if he knew he would do exactly that.
“Let’s say you do. If you leave here without hurting anyone, the cops will pursue you, yes. But if you hurt a child, they will chase you to the very ends of the earth.”
Bobby shifted in the background, but Lucas did not turn. “You seem to forget I’ve already killed someone.”
She didn’t want to mention Mark Ludlow again; it might make things worse. But he had freely discussed the bank teller. “You mean Cherise? What happened to her anyway?”
Without raising his voice he asked, “You think I didn’t shoot her? You think maybe I’m faking all this?”
“No.” But her voice lacked certainty.
“Anybody else here think I’m faking this?”
The other hostages, who had been present to hear the gunshot and Cherise’s voice, abruptly cut off, shook their heads. Missy even cast Theresa a murderous look.
What am I doing? What she’d said to Cavanaugh was true. Forensic work burdened her with only a limited amount of personal responsibility. Sure, she cared about solving an innocent victim’s murder, but if she could not,