Hostage Situation

As Megan and John took their seats at Candleford’s, Trish Reilly, in her favorite jeans, cowgirl boots and Midlands University Raptors sweatshirt over her white work blouse, walked the few blocks from her waitressing job at “Mac’s American Café,” to her home.

She could have teleported.

The 22-year-old waitress liked the walk, though, through this tree-filled section of old Lawrencedale, with its homes dating back to the 1920s. She liked the massive front porches and the old-fashioned stucco architecture.

She rented just such a house, though it was tiny, with only a bedroom, bath, small kitchen, living room and porch. Trish liked her little place, even though it was small — perhaps because of it.

Fate had no intention of letting her reach it that night; her phone's emergency police tone sounded urgently.

“This is Trish,” she said, putting the phone to her ear and turning off the beeper with a telekinetic touch.

“Ms. Reilly, it’s Tom Wilkins, with the Lawrencedale Police. I’ve got a situation where we could really use your help.”

“Where are you, hon?” She could hear shouting in the background.

“You know where County Road 1100 is? You take it all the way south about four miles. There’s an old farmstead right by a lake —”

“Fisher’s Lake?”

“That’s the one,” Wilkins said. “How fast can you —”

The young woman appeared out of nowhere, practically on Wilkins’ feet, interrupting his call. The policeman stumbled backwards, but Trish caught and steadied him.

“I’m so sorry, Lieutenant,” Trish said, releasing the man. “I’m still kind of new at this!” He nodded, anxious to get on with explanations. Flashing red lights lit the night around them from the tops of police cars. Uniformed men, shouting to each other, wearing heavy vests and headlamps that cut the darkness, and carrying automatic rifles hustled to take up positions around the old farmhouse.

A helicopter flew overhead.

“I’m just glad you’re here, Ms. Reilly —”

“Please call me Trish.”

“—Trish. What’s happened is that three or more armed men have invaded that house.

They’re holding the old couple who live there at gun-point.

“Evidently, they broke out of a prison in Missouri, robbed several houses and stole several cars between here and there. They tied up a teen-aged girl at the last place. She got free and called us. We tracked them down, but not before they ran to ground here.

“We know little about what’s going on in there. We think the Fishers are still alive. As you can see the lights are off in the house, so we can’t see anything, except someone moving around with flashlights.

“That’s our situation. We’ve got the FBI here, since they broke out of a federal pen and crossed state lines. If we don’t hear something soon, those federal boys are liable to take matters into their own hands.

“Trish, what can you do?”

“If I can get in there, I can disarm those men. It would sure help to know how many there are, and what kind of weapons they’ve got. Maybe I could pop in under cover of darkness and have a look around?”

“Better not chance it,” Wilkins said, thinking of Trish’s previous landing practically on top of him. “Why don’t we send you in as a hostage-negotiator?”

A tall man in khakis, wearing a Navy-blue military-style ball cap, and a blue jacket that had “FBI” emblazoned in yellow letters on the back, interrupted them.

“Lieutenant,” he said, “my men are all in position. Any word yet from inside the house?”

“No,” Wilkins said heavily. “Trish, this is Dan Teller, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Dan, I don’t know how much you’ve heard about Trish here. She’s got some special abilities that have proven very useful to us. Might come in handy.”

Teller eyed the young woman with interest. “You one of those psychic gals that was in the news last year?”

“Yes sir, that was me,” Trish said.

“Well, Tom, what do you propose?”

“I want to send Trish in as negotiator. Ted!” he called to a nearby officer. “See if you can find me a spare LPD jacket would you? Size small!”

“You can’t send her in there,” Teller said. “We’ll just give them another hostage if they don’t shoot her first.”

As if to punctuate his words, a flash of light and sharp report came from the house. “Heads down!” someone shouted. “Anyone hit?”

Wilkins put a hand on Teller’s shoulder. “Dan,” he said. “I don’t know how to tell you this — but bullets bounce off this young lady. Haven’t you been getting reports?”

“Bullets bounce off ...” Teller repeated. “Are you insane?” They both turned back to Trish, but she’d vanished.

“Where the hell’d she go?” Teller demanded.

“There she is – on the front porch,” Wilkins said.

“How’d she get there so quick? That’s 200 yards away!”

“I’m trying to tell you, Dan, she is not an ordinary woman.”

As if equally surprised, radios crackled to life with reports of Trish’s sudden appearance on the rickety front porch.

“Roger that,” Teller spoke into his radio. “All positions hold your fire, repeat, all positions hold your fire.”

As the men watched, the front door opened, admitting Trish, and then closed behind her.

A flashlight suddenly shone in her eyes, and she squinted against the sudden glare.

“Who the hell are you?” demanded a voice from the darkness.

“My name’s Trish,” said the waitress. “I’m, uh, a negotiator.”

“Well negotiate this, bitch,” said the voice’s owner, viciously backhanding Trish across the face, and simultaneously crying out in pain.

“What the fuck! What’d I hit? What’ve you got on?”

“That wasn’t very nice,” Trish said sternly. “Now you just sit right down there on the floor and don’t move until I tell you.”

Grunting as though he’d been hit in the solar plexus, the man sat.

“And give me your flashlight,” she whispered.

“Jesus Christ —” the man began, as his arm and hand gave Trish the light against his will, but Trish commanded him to be quiet, and his mouth clamped shut, stifling further comment.

Another voice came from the darkness. “Savage is that you? What the fuck’s going on?”

Trish turned the light in the direction of the voice. It illuminated a large unkempt man sitting on a dilapidated sofa, with an obviously terrified old man and woman.

He held a large-caliber hand-gun on the couple, which he immediately pointed at Trish.

“Get that light out of my eyes or you’re dead!” he shouted.

“You put that gun down on the floor right now,” Trish directed.

“Let me the fuck go!” he cried, as his arm and hand, independently of the rest of him, obeyed the young woman. “You assholes get in here and shoot — “he began, but Trisha silenced him with a “Shush.”

Two more men rushed into the room, one with a flashlight, which he immediately shone on Trish.

“On your knees,” she cried, startled by their sudden appearance, and the two men pitched forward involuntarily, but not before one of them managed a shot from his handgun; a flash of light, a barking report, and a high-pitched whang as the bullet struck Trish and ricocheted away.

Outside, the gunshot cued Teller to action.

“That’s it,” he told Wilkins. “We’re going in.” He spoke into his radio. “Fire the tear gas, then follow. Take out anyone who isn’t a woman or an old man.”

“Wait!” Wilkins said. “Something’s happening!”

“Hold on the gas,” Teller spoke again into his radio.

The farmhouse’s front door opened, and Trish stepped onto the porch. A searchlight spotlit her in its harsh white beam. She held up a phone, as simultaneously, Wilkins’ phone sounded. He immediately picked up.

“Trish are you all right?”

“I’m just dandy,” she said, sounding chipper. “And we’re all fine in here, nobody’s hurt. I’m going to bring the boys out now, so tell everyone ‘don’t shoot,’ okay?”

“Sure, Trish,” Wilkins said, feeling a strong sense of unreality. “They’re coming out,” he told Teller. Make sure to hold your fire.”

“How many are there?” Wilkins asked Trish via phone.

“There’s four, but they’re just gentle as little lambs now, so don’t shoot.” “How are the Fishers?”

“They’re fine. They’re resting now. I’m sure this whole thing has been a shock. Ok, here we come.”

Trish opened the door, and the four would-be hostage takers shuffled out slowly, as if in invisible leg irons. “Now you men be good and mind those officers,” Trish told them.

A crowd of FBI and Lawrencedale P.D. men rushed forward to take custody. Four paramedics rushed into the house with two gurneys. Trish, still on the porch and feeling proud of herself, glanced at Wilkins giving orders by the squad cars, sure he had to be impressed with her.

She was surprised to feel a tiny twinge of jealousy at the sight of a tall, obviously attractive blonde woman talking to the policeman.

That must be the reporter Megan told me about, Trish thought. Now I know why Megan was keeping an eye on John.

In an instant she was beside the lieutenant and the reporter.

“Well hello,” said the tall woman. Trish felt herself being sized up, and felt awkward in her jeans and sweatshirt — now with a bullet-hole in it — next to the stylish reporter in her low heels, tailored black pants and jacket over a maroon top.

“I’m Anne Straits,” she said, “from the Journal. Congratulations on the hostage rescue. How did you do it?”

“Is this going to be in the paper?” Trish asked.

“Well it is a big story,” Straits said, glancing at Wilkins. “And it has a happy ending. And just between me and you,” she said lowering her voice to Trish, “I like the strong ‘girl power’ angle. So do you have a minute for a few quick questions?”

“I guess it would be all right,” she said, looking at Wilkins. The policeman nodded with a wry smile.

“How did you get those men to surrender?”

“I just told them to put down their guns and come on out, and they did.”

“I see,” Straits said. “What about that gunshot we heard?”

“Oh that? Well they did ruin my new ‘Middy U’ sweatshirt.” She put her hand beneath the sweatshirt and poked a red-nailed finger through the bullet-hole.

Suddenly Trish staggered backward as if walloped.

Wilkins caught her. “Trish what is it?”

“I – I’m sorry,” she said to the reporter. “Could we talk another time? I feel —” Trish looked up at Wilkins, still holding her. “I have to make a phone call right away. I have to call Megs!”

“Excuse us, Anne,” Wilkins said to the reporter, and ushered Trish to his squad car. “You can have some privacy here,” he said.

Trish nodded her thanks, as she pressed the link for Megan's phone. Wilkins closed the door. “Oh Megan, thank God I reached you! Are you and John all right?”

Trish listened. “I’m fine,” she said. “Just finished rescuing some hostages for Tom Wilkins.

"Four men with guns, out by Fisher’s Lake. I think it’s going to be in the paper tomorrow. "That reporter you mixed it up with, Anne Straits, is here.” Trish said.

“But Megan, I just had the most awful premonition about you and John, that something really bad is about to happen. It was like I could see a huge black bird circling over you and John, only you couldn’t see it, and it wanted to pluck your eyes out!”

Trish listened again.

“No,” she said, “it was definitely about you. Megs, you’ve got to promise me you’ll be really, really careful.”

She listened.

“I know you’re the worry-wart,” she said, more gently. “But I love you Megs. You’re the big sister I always wanted, and my best friend rolled into one!”

She listened to Megan’s response.

“I’m sorry if I sounded crazy for a minute, Megs, but I just had to tell you. Please be careful.” Trish chuckled. “And happy anniversary, by the way. Bye.”

Trish hooked the phone back onto her jeans and opened the car door. Wilkins stood by.

“Everything all right?” he inquired.

“I don’t know,” Trish said. “I’m worried about my friend.”

“Megan Harris? If ever there was a lady who could take care of herself —” He stopped. The young woman — really not much more than a girl in her jeans and sweatshirt — looked shaken.

“Maybe you’d like to talk about it,” he said. “Why don’t you let me treat you to a cup of coffee or a soda or something? You like Java Central?”

She smiled up at him from the passenger seat in the squad car, and suddenly felt on the verge of tears at his kindness.

“That would be wonderful, Tom. I would love that.”

“Okay. Stay here for a minute. I’ll check out with the boys, and we’ll drive right over in this car.”

He shut the car door gently, and a few minutes later, they pulled their safety belts on, and the policeman and the waitress headed for the coffee shop in the black and white squad car.