There was another volley of gunshots from inside. And a long, terrified scream.
"Jesus." Sweat popped out on Curt's brow as he held the camera steady. "He's killing them."
"Get a shot of that cop there," Finn ordered. "The one with the bullhorn."
"You're the boss." Curt focused in on a cop in a neon orange trench coat with a hangdog face and graying hair. Amid the screams and shouts, the weeping, the bitter threats and curses from inside the restaurant, the steely-eyed cop continued to talk in a soothing monotone.
"Pretty cool customer," Curt observed, then at a signal from Finn shifted, crouched to get a shot of the SWAT team taking position.
"Cool enough," Finn agreed. "If he keeps at it, they might not need the sharpshooters. Keep rolling. I'm going to see if I can work my way over and find out who he is."
The ballroom was filled to capacity. From where Deanna sat on the raised dais, she could see all three hundred and fifty people who had come to hear her talk about women in broadcasting. She was going to give them their money's worth. She'd gone over her notes thoroughly once again on the drive from Chicago, letting her concentration lapse only when she caught a glimpse of Finn on the limo's television.
He was, as Barlow James would say, in his element. And, it seemed, she was in hers.
She waited through the flattering introduction, through the applause that followed it, then rose and walked to the podium. She scanned the room, smiled.
"Good afternoon. One of the first things we learn in broadcasting is that we work weekends. Since we are, I hope to make the next hour as entertaining as it is informative. That, to me, is television, and I've found it a very satisfying way to make a living. It occurred to me that as you are professionals, you wouldn't have much opportunity to watch daytime TV, so I'm hoping to convince you to set your VCR'S Monday morning. We're on at nine here in Merrillville." That earned Deanna her first chuckle, and set the tone for the next twenty minutes, until her speech segued into a question-and-answer period.
One of the first questioners asked if Finn Riley had accompanied her.
"I'm afraid not. As we all know, one of the boons, and the curses, of this business is the breaking story. Finn's reporting on one right now, but you can catch him on In Depth Tuesday nights. I always do."
"Miss Reynolds, how do you feel about the fact that looks have become as much a part of the criteria for on-air jobs as credentials?"
"I would certainly agree with network executives that television is a visual medium. To a point. I can tell you this: If in thirty years Finn Riley is still reporting, and considered a statesman, I'd not only expect but demand, as a woman, to be given the same respect."
Finn wasn't thinking about the future. He was too involved in the present. Using wile, guile and arrogance, he'd managed to gain a position beside the hostage negotiator, Lieutenant Arnold Jenner. Jenner still held the bullhorn but had taken a short break in his appeal to his quarry to release the hostages.
"Lieutenant, the word I've gotten here is that Johnson — that's his name, isn't it, Elmer Johnson?"
"It's the one he answers to," Jenner said mildly.
"He has a history of depression. His VA records—"
"You wouldn't have access to his medical records, Mr. Riley."
"Not directly." But he had contacts, and he'd used them. "My take on this is that Johnson served in the military and has been troubled since his discharge in March of last year. Last week he lost his wife and his job."
"You're well informed."
"I get paid to be. He went into this restaurant at just past ten this morning — that's about three hours ago — armed with a forty-four Magnum, a Bushmaster, a gas mask and a carbine. He shot and killed two waiters and a bystander, then took five hostages, including two women and a twelve-year-old girl, the owner's daughter."
"Ten," Jenner said wearily. "The kid's ten. Mr. Riley, you do good work, and usually I enjoy it. But my job right now is to get those people out of there alive."
Finn glanced over, noting the position of the sharpshooters. They wouldn't wait much longer. "What are his demands? Can you tell me that?"
It hardly mattered, Jenner decided. There had been only one, and he hadn't been able to meet it. "He wants his wife, Mr. Riley. She left Chicago four days ago. We're trying to locate her, but we haven't had any luck."
"I can get it on the air. If she catches a bulletin, she may make contact. Let me talk to him. I might be able to get him to bargain if I tell him I'll put all my people on it."
"You that desperate for a story?" Insults were too common in his line of work for Finn to take offense. "I'm always ready to bargain for a story, Lieutenant." His eyes narrowed as he measured the man beside him. "Look, the kid's ten. Let me try."
Jenner believed in instinct, and he also knew, without a doubt, that he couldn't hold the situation from flash point much longer. After a moment, he handed Finn the bullhorn. "Don't promise what you can't deliver."
"Mr. Johnson. Elmer. This is Finn Riley. I'm a reporter."
"I know who you are." The voice came out, a high-pitched shriek through the broken glass. "Do you think I'm stupid?"
"You were in the Gulf, right? I was too." "Shit. You figure that makes us buddies?"
"I figure anybody who did time over there's already been to hell." The awning flapped, reminding him of the road to Kuwait, and the sparkle of pink sequins. "I thought maybe we could make a deal."
"There ain't no deal. My wife gets here, I let them go. She doesn't, we're all going to hell. For real."
"The cops have been trying to reach her, but I thought we could put a new spin on it. I've got a lot of contacts. I can get your story national, put your wife's picture on television screens from coast to coast. Even if she isn't watching, someone who knows her is bound to be. We'll put a number on, a special number where she can call in. You can talk to her, Elmer."
That was good, Jenner decided, even as he braced to rip the bullhorn from Finn's hands if the need arose. Using his first name, offering him not only hope but a few minutes of fame. His superiors might not approve, but Jenner thought it could work.
"Then do it!" Johnson shouted out. "Just fucking do it."
"I'll be glad to, but I can't unless you give something back. Just let the little girl come out, Elmer, and I'll plug your story across the country within ten minutes. I can even fix it so you can get a message to your wife. In your own words."
"I'm not letting anybody out, except in a body bag."
"She's just a kid, Elmer. Your wife probably likes kids." Christ, he hoped so. "If you let her go, she'll hear about it, and she'll want to talk to you."
"It's a trick."
"I've got a camera right here." He glanced toward Curt. "Is there a TV in the bar in there?" he called out.
"What if there is?"
"You can watch everything I do. Everything I say. I'll have them put me on live."
"Then do it. Do it in five minutes, fucking five minutes, or you're going to have another body in here."
"Call the desk," Finn shouted. "Patch me in. Set up for live now." Then he turned back to Jenner.
"You'd make a pretty good cop — for a reporter."
"Thanks." He handed Jenner the bullhorn. "Tell him to send her out while I'm on the air, or I go to black."
In precisely five minutes, Finn faced the camera. Whatever his inner turmoil, his delivery was calm and well paced, his eyes cool. Behind him was the shattered exterior of the restaurant.