The semi-automatic weapon trimmed the bushes over her head as effectively as a hedge-clipper might have. She hugged the ground and prayed he wouldn't fire through the wooden deck of the porch because then one of those high-powered slugs might somehow find her; eyes closed, she hugged the ground and prayed for the first time since she was fifteen, the bullets raging over her head.
The firing stopped.
She waited.
"Tell yo' boss send me somebody ain't a lyin' redneck bitch," Whittaker said. "You go tell him that, Georgia."
She waited.
She was afraid to move.
She took the walkie-talkie from her belt, pressed the Talk button.
"Observer Two," she said, "what've you . . . what've you got at the window?"
Her voice was shaking. She cursed her traitor voice.
There was a long pause.
"Hello, Observ . . ."
"Shooter's gone," a man's voice said. "Just the girl in it."
"You sure?"
"Got my glasses on it. Window's clear."
"Inspector?" she said.
"Yeah, Georgia?"
"I think I'd better come in. I'm not gonna do any more good here."
"Come on in," he said.
From where Mike Goodman stood with Brady and the assorted brass, he saw the Tac Team come up into firing position behind the inner-perimeter cars, saw Georgia sprinting back like a broken field runner toward the cover of Truck One, which Brady had set up as his command post. She was clearly frightened. Her face was a pasty white, and her hands were trembling. One of the ES cops handed her a cup of coffee when what she really needed was a swig of bourbon, and she sipped at it with the cup shaking in her hands, and told Brady and the ES commander and the chief of detectives and the chief of patrol that there were now at least two weapons in there, the nine-millimeter and an AK-47 that had almost taken off her head. She also told them the takers wanted a chopper and a jet to Jamaica . . .
"Jamaica?" Brady said.
. . . and that Whittaker didn't appreciate Southern belles doing the police negotiating, witness him having called her a redneck when her mother was a librarian and her father a doctor in Macon. The brass listened gravely and then talked quietly among themselves about the use of force. Georgia merely listened; she was out of it now.
Di Santis was of the opinion that they had probable cause for an assault. Given the priors on both perps and the strong possibility that they were the men who'd murdered the bakery-shop owner, he was willing to take his chances with a grand jury and a coroner's inquest if either of the perps got killed. Brady was concerned about the girl in there. So was Brogan.
Curran thought they should try a chemical assault, there being no gas-carrying vents to worry about the way there'd be in an apartment building, and anyway who cared if a fire started in an already condemned building? Brady and Brogan were still worried about the girl in there. Suppose those two punks began shooting the minute they let loose with the gas? Two assault weapons in there? The girl would be a dead duck. They decided to try another negotiator in the bushes there, see if they couldn't get somebody on that porch, talk some sense into those bastards.
Trouble was, Brady had already used up all his skilled negotiators who weren't on vacation, and the only people he had left were himself and his trainees. Ever ready to step into the role of fearless leader, Brady was willing to risk the AK-47 and whatever else they might throw at him, but Di Santis pointed out that the three negotiators who'd made the least headway there in the bushes had all been men and that it might be advisable to try another woman. Georgia agreed that a woman might have better luck with the young girl up there who, like it or not, was the mediator of choice until the two shitheads came around. That left either Martha Halsted or Eileen Burke. And since Eileen, through no choice of her own, had had previous experience on the door, it was decided they'd let her have another go at it. Brady sent Goodman over to Truck Two to fetch her.
"Inspector wants you to talk to you," he said.
"Okay," she said.
"You blowing him or what?" Martha asked.
"Stick it," Eileen said.
But as she walked away, she could hear Martha and the other trainees whispering. It didn't bother her anymore. Cops had been whispering behind her back ever since the rape. Whispering cops were more dangerous than The Preacher and his bullhorn.
The crowd was silent now, waiting for the next technical effect, this here movie was beginning to sag a little, ho-hum.
Even The Preacher seemed bored. He kept rattling his gold chains and scowling.
Brady and all the brass looked extremely solemn.
"Hello, Burke," he said.
"Sir."
"Feel like working?" he asked, and smiled.
"No, sir," Eileen said.
The smile dropped from his mouth.
"Why not?" he said.
"Personal matter, sir."
"Are you a goddamn police officer, or what are you?" Brady said, flaring.
"Steve Carella's a personal friend," she said. "I know him . . ."
"What the hell. . .?"
"… I know his wife, I know his . . ."
"What the hell has that got to . . .?"
