The Surrogate Thief(4)

Ron waited for a pause in the argument before punching the button on his console that made the throw phone ring whether it was off or not, noting in the back of his mind that Linda was standing her ground, giving as good as she got.

The phone rang twice before Matt picked it up.

“What?”

“It’s Ron, Matt. I was a little confused when you put me down just then. I thought we were working a few things out.”

“Like what? Like how you’re going to blow me away as soon as I shoot this bitch?”

“That’s not what I was hearing,” Ron said quietly, knowing that the man’s emotions needed to resettle after his last screaming match. “Before we were interrupted, we were talking about what you’ve just been through—how we might be able to put your life back together.”

There was a third man in the van with Ron: an official liaison with the incident command post outside, equipped with a pair of headphones connected to the ICP, and assigned the task of passing notes to and from the negotiator as directed. The notes were color coded according to their urgency. The one he placed before Ron now was purely informational. Klesczewski glanced at it and passed it along to the officer at the board, who wrote, “Fired from job two days ago.” With this morning’s restraining order and his by now admitted alcohol dependence, that earned Matt Purvis the “triple” designation Ron had mused about earlier.

“There’s nothing left to put together,” Purvis was yelling. “Don’t you get it? I’m not fucking around here. I will kill this bitch because she’s world-class evil, and then I’ll kill myself to save you the trouble.”

“Jeez, Matt. I’m hearing a lot of frustration.”

“No shit, Sherlock. You’d be frustrated, too, all the crap I have on my plate.”

“Maybe you’d like to get some of that out of your system.”

There was a pause, then a tentative, “What’re you saying? More talk? I’m sick of talking.”

The liaison handed Ron another, higher-priority note. Ron silently read “Let’s get moving”—clearly Washburn’s words—crumpled it up, and dropped it on the floor. There were others like it already scattered about, making him ever more grateful for the protocol prohibiting all but a select few from entering the van. The incident command post was only fifteen yards away, near the trailer park’s entrance.

“I’m talking about blowing off a little steam. You ever scream at the night sky? Just let her rip?”

“Everybody’s done that.”

“That’s all I’m saying. Maybe it’ll help a little—clear your head some.”

Matt Purvis was incredulous. “What? Step outside and start yelling? That’s crazy. You’ll shoot me.”

“Why would we do that, Matt? You haven’t done anything to us.”

“I’m in here with a gun, for Christ’s sake.”

“Every Vermonter I know has a gun,” Ron countered.

“I’m threatening to shoot my wife.”

“Matt,” Ron persisted, “I hear you telling me you want us to kill you, but we’re not going to do it. We’re here to see you and Linda both end up safe. So you can step outside and scream your lungs out. We’ll just watch.”

Purvis was clearly baffled by this turn of events. “You’re crazy.”

Ron laughed. “You’re not the first to say that. Go on—give it a try.”

“Just step out and yell?”

Ron could hear the fascination growing in the other man’s voice. He glanced up at the whiteboard as if for confirmation and read what they’d learned earlier from one of Matt’s drinking buddies: “Acts out in public.”

“Sure,” he suggested.

The regular phone rang inside Matt’s trailer.

“Hang on,” Purvis said, and put Ron down with a bang, again not actually severing the connection.

Ron killed his mike switch, swore softly, and said to the note taker, “He just got a phone call.”

He hunched over, listening carefully.

“Who?” he heard Purvis say. “A reporter? I don’t . . . What?” His voice grew. “A nut with a gun? Who the fuck told you that? . . . Yeah, the cops’re here . . . It’s none of your business . . . I got fired, all right? I got fired and my bitch wife slapped a restraining order on me and I’m about to be thrown out of my house for back rent and life is shit. Is that what you want to hear?”

Klesczewski punched a transmit button on his console, switching his line over to the incident command post. He slipped one of his earphones off so he could listen to Purvis and the ICP at the same time.