Chapter 13
Hank, the chief of police, is waiting in the lobby, standing right beside the receptionist’s desk, when Hope walks into the
station. She does not realize that he is there waiting for her until he beckons for her to follow him to his office. He doesn’t
even give her a chance to put down her things. Something is happening. Something that must involve her. She feels her heart
pick up speed a little at the thought of a chance. But a chance to do what, she doesn’t know.
She pushes the thought out of her head as she follows Hank into his office, then pauses by the seat Hank indicates for her
to take. The chair he has pointed at is full of odds and ends in a sloppy pile: file folders, books, a box marked “Evidence”
with who knows what inside. In her short time as part of the Sunset Beach Police Department, she has learned that Hank is
a fastidious cop but a messy human. It is a dichotomy she didn’t know could exist together. But Hank makes it work.
“Oh, just push it to the floor,” he tells her. So she does, hoping the evidence—whatever it is—isn’t compromised by its encounter
with the cold, hard floor. That done, she doesn’t so much sit as perch on the chair.
Hank dispenses with preamble, which she appreciates. “We’re getting calls from over at the post office. Looks like there’s
a situation there. A barricade.”
“Hostages?” she asks. Without warning the little zing of a challenge being presented whizzes through her body, her muscle memory activated.
For a moment she forgets that challenges can bring heartbreak and devastation.
She forgets why she is here, in this police station, and not the one in Philadelphia she came from.
It all comes rushing back, but she doesn’t let herself dwell on whether that is good or bad.
“Might be too early to say for sure,” Hank answers, measuring his words. “But they’ve taken several calls from witnesses and . . .”
Hank pauses for a bit before finishing with, “It’s looking that way.”
Hope’s body inclines toward Hank, whether a reflex or an impulse, she can’t discern. Something is happening, and ready or
not, she is going to be part of it. She thinks of what she said to Alex as she walked to work: “Nothing ever happens here.”
“What do you need from me?” she asks.
Hank pauses, a frown turning down the edges of his mouth as he studies her. “We haven’t talked about this because there wasn’t
a reason to, but I know you’ve got experience with this type of thing.” He takes a deep breath. “And I know that experience
is part of why you’re here. I, um, talked to your supervisor up there when I hired you.”
Hope nods. She appreciates that he is choosing his words carefully and that he refrains from mentioning her sudden departure
back in PA. Though she had the blessing of her superiors and team, she doesn’t like to spend too much time reflecting on her
decision.
Hank presses his palms down on his desk and continues.
“Protocol says I need to call in the county. And since it’s a federal building, possibly the FBI.
” He shrugs. “I’m gonna let the two figure that out between themselves.
Either way it’ll take some time to mobilize everyone, and I fear it’s not time we have since this is already in progress.
So”—he moves his hands to press his fingertips together—“because you’ve got more experience than anyone here with this type of thing, I’d like you to head things up over there. ”
He leans back, crosses his arms across his ample midsection, and continues before she can answer. “I mean, I can do it, but
I’m gonna be tangled up in bureaucratic red tape for a while, I’m afraid. It’d be nice if I could be working over here until
I’ve figured it all out. My best bet is getting the county team here. But they’ve gotta get the team pulled together from
out in the field, the equipment, SWAT, you know the drill.” He looks at her and she thinks she sees compassion in his eyes.
He knows that this will not be easy for her, that this is the last thing she expected. “Think you can do it?” he asks.
She looks down at the floor, at the evidence box turned on its side. The box’s lid has stayed on. She blinks at it a few times.
She does not know if she can do what Hank is asking her to do. But there are hostages in a post office not far from where
she now sits who need her to try. She looks up, meets his eyes, and nods.
He claps his hands together and grins for the first time since she walked into the building. “That’s what I wanted to hear!
I’ve already sent everyone who’s available; plus the emergency personnel are there too. They’re all in the parking lot, getting
sorted out. You’ll see when you get there. I’ll let them know you’re coming.”
She nods again, stands.
From his seat Hank looks up at her. “This sounds like a domestic situation that has escalated. I’m sure you’ve seen it all
before.”
“Yes,” Hope says. In her mind’s eye she sees another man in another place. She sees the gun, hears his voice, his wife’s,
and smaller voices besides. She pushes away the threat of her memories. That man is not the man in the post office right now.
This is not that.
“We don’t have too many facts except what’s come from some witnesses who didn’t stick around long enough to ask questions.”
Hope takes this in. “And it’s just a gun?” she asks.
Hank purses his lips. “We don’t know. So far reports are just a gun.”
“But no explosives?” Even the threat of a bomb can change everything.
Hank holds up his hands. “Not that we’ve heard so far.” Hope knows that in a situation like this, anything could come up.
Expect the unexpected.
“So I don’t guess anyone has made contact with the suspect?”
“Not yet. They’re getting our guys ready to approach, just to get a visual, confirm what the witnesses are saying if we can,
but we can’t do much past that without backup.” He grimaces. “We’re, uh, a little out of our depth with this one.” He looks
away from her, out the window beside his desk, as if he can see the post office from there, which he can’t. “That’s why it’ll
be good to have you over there.”
“Thank you,” she tells him, “for trusting me.” He shrugs as if it is nothing, and perhaps it is for him. But it is a lot for
Hope. Her mind goes back to the flowers left behind on her kitchen counter. Happy birthday to her. If she’d come into work
in Philadelphia today, she would’ve found all kinds of nonsense waiting for her, meant to tease and taunt her, all part of
tradition, all in good fun. There would be jokes and gag gifts and, eventually, cake. For a moment she feels homesick.
“I know you walked to work, so I’ve arranged for an officer to give you a ride over there.” Hank rises from his desk and Hope
heads toward the door.
Hank pauses before he opens the door, looking awkward as he says, “Good luck out there.” He waves his hand in the air. “Or whatever you’re supposed to say at times like these. Like I said, we don’t have them very often.”
Hope manages another thank you before he opens the door to reveal an officer waiting in the hall, a woman with her hair slicked
back in a no-nonsense blonde ponytail, whose name tag reads “Brower.” The two nod in greeting before Brower waves at Hope
to follow her, so she does. They walk out to a marked SUV and wordlessly drive over to the post office. At less than a mile
away, it is a quick trip.
Brower puts the car in Park and looks out at the scene, then over at Hope, speaking for the first time. “Weird, huh?” she
says. Hope nods in agreement. It is, indeed, weird.
Brower cuts the engine and opens the driver’s side door. “I’m supposed to take you over to talk to the witnesses.”
“Okay,” says Hope, feeling her nerves sparking just below the surface of her skin. She hopes all of this will be like riding
a bike. And that could be the case. Just as long as she doesn’t let herself think about the last time she did this, all should
be well. “I’ll follow you,” she tells Brower.
Brower’s blonde ponytail bounces girlishly as they cut through the clusters of cops milling around. Brower explains as they
walk that they have two witnesses on the premises, women who work at the post office who had, according to their story, gone
out to get lunch when everything occurred. “They moved them over here,” Brower says, gesturing toward where they’re headed,
another office building several hundred yards away with a separate parking lot.
They cross blacktop and ragged strips of grass before stopping at the civilian car with the front and back doors open and
two figures visible inside it. A uniformed officer hovers nearby, his car parked behind theirs, blocking them in. Whether
that’s on purpose or just happenstance is unclear.
“This is going to be the staging area,” Brower adds, pointing at the building and the empty parking lot. “The chief says it’s a good place for the NOC and equipment and such.”
Hope nods and does not say she’d already assumed that. “I guess we should see what they have to say,” she says instead and
walks over to the two women who are smoking cigarettes and watching the goings-on in the post office parking lot like some
might watch a sporting event. The deputy who seems to be guarding the women nods at Hope and Brower as they approach, allowing
them to pass. Hope raises her hand to the two women, hoping to appear friendly. She sees them sit up a little straighter.
One, as if caught doing something wrong, drops her cigarette to the ground and grinds it under her shoe, then looks up at
Hope and sheepishly picks the butt up again, pinching it between her thumb and forefinger uncertainly. Beside her, Brower
sticks out her hand and the girl drops it into her palm, looking relieved.
“Don’t want to be a litterbug,” the sheepish one says. Brower walks away, probably to dispose of the butt, as Hope asks for
their names. The girl who dropped her cigarette says, “Stacy.” The one who holds on to hers says, “Martha,” exhaling a plume
of smoke as she does.