The Eighth Night

‘My name is Deputy Sheriff Blake Williams. I want you to call me Bill. Can you tell me your name?’ He kept his voice low, conversational, relaxed. The girl, no the woman, he corrected himself, standing in front of him just shivered even harder, her arms folded, fingers gripping tightly to her upper arms. He thought, she can’t be cold; it’s twenty eight degrees and she's wearing a cardigan, this is fear. His boss’s voice in his earpiece urged him, ordered him, to speed  things up, but he waited as if he had all the time in the world, a slight smile on his face as he kept his gaze fixed on her.

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Just as Bill decided she wasn't going to answer, the woman moved slightly, a minute shift in body weight which made Bill’s instincts twang in response. He forced himself not to respond, not to twitch aside his jacket to free access to his holstered gun. But the woman’s attention was not on him. Instead, her head tilted fractionally to one side, her eyes unfocussed, gazing over his shoulder as if she could see past the flat, yellow glare of the gas station lights to the cool darkness of the night, listening to something he couldn’t hear. Her hands, digging into her forearms, tightened, then loosened as she spoke.
‘There are fifteen hostages in the building behind me. They will be released in the following order.’ Her voice was shaky and strangely staccato, the pauses in the wrong places. Bill’s eyes were drawn to her slender left hand, the first two fingers of which were tapping a rhythm, out of time with her voice. It gave her an unexpectedly impatient look.
‘Three groups of three hostages may or may not be released on each hour, beginning in thirty minutes time. The remaining six will be released at the end of this situation.’ She paused, and it was like an animated doll coming to rest, she simply stopped, her gaze still resting on that indeterminate place over Bill’s right shoulder. Even her shivering lessened, and she looked, Bill thought, as if she were slightly bored, not facing down any number of armed officers. Without transition, she started speaking again. ‘If you attempt to end this situation prematurely, all of the remaining, but not including, the final six hostages, will be killed. In one hour’s time, thirty minutes after the first hostages may be released, you will receive further instructions on how to proceed. There will be no negotiation, no demands from either side, no further communication except through me.’ When she stopped talking, she again appeared to lose interest, staring over his shoulder as if she were tolerating a particularly boring conversation. Bill felt a stab of irritation, but ignored it. Instead he concentrated on the next part of his job, establishing rapport and opening negotiation. No matter what people said in these situations, the one thing they always wanted to do, regardless of their stated intentions, was to talk, to explain, and to justify their actions. Sooner or later, whether misunderstood, egotistical, or just plain greedy, they all wanted to talk.
Gathering his thoughts, Bill responded. ‘OK, that is understood, and will do our best to comply with your instructions. Can you tell me a little more. Can you tell me your name, maybe?’ He smiled slightly. ‘I need to call you something if we’re going to be talking.’

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There was a pause. The woman’s eyes didn’t move back to his, and her fingers didn’t stop their restless movement. ‘You can call me bitch.’  She said after a few seconds, her voice still flat and emotionless.

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'I’d really prefer not to.’ The smile was still on his face, but his eyes hardened. Draw it out, keep her talking, came from his earpiece.  Bill wished his boss would shut up. ‘How about,’ he considered carefully, ‘Elaina. It's a pretty name. I have a niece called that.’
The woman’s eyes flicked to his with such intensity he almost took a step backwards.
Tell him your name then if you want, Bitch. He thinks it’s going to build some fucking rapport with you. Tell him anything about our situation though and it’s gonna end badly for you and for the rest of them.

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‘Is that your idea of a joke?’ The woman spat out.
‘Twenty two officers of the law, fully armed, surrounding this building should tell you we’re taking this very, very seriously. The FBI Hostage Rescue Team have been contacted. I want you,’ he emphasised slowly, ‘to realise just how serious this situation is.’
‘You have no idea how seriously I'm taking this situation, Bill, and l can guarantee it’s a lot more than you and your ‘officers of the law’.’ Her voice was heavy with sarcasm, although much of its effect was lost by the shake in her voice. The woman chewed her lips as if holding back a further retort. Abruptly she turned on her heels and walked back, her steps tight and jerky. The doors of the gas station swept closed behind her and within seconds she had disappeared.

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‘She’s not a part of it, I'm sure of it. Whatever involvement she has, she’s being coerced.’ Bill stated as soon as he entered the control wagon. He pulled his earpiece out and rubbed behind his ear thoughtfully.
‘It's one possibility,’ his boss replied with the tone of over-stated patience he used when he wanted to cut the other down to size and simultaneously demonstrate that he was at least two steps in front of Bill and waiting for him to catch up. ‘She matches the description of that British female reported missing last week.’ He handed Bill a ‘Missing’ sheet headed with the Department of Criminal Investigation's distinctive logo. Bill scanned it quickly, but his boss read out loud from his own copy. ‘Ellie Farringdon,  27, Caucasian female, English, slight build, mid length brown hair, grey/green eyes, light complexion, went missing a week ago. Car also missing.  Didn’t turn up for work one morning. Colleague went round in the afternoon, let herself in with the key under the mat.’ He shrugged at Bill’s look.  ‘Don’t ask. Nothing missing, TV was on, her purse was on the table, no signs of a struggle, etc. Reported missing the same day.'
'Now she turns up a week later and five miles away. Who is she?'
'If you mean what's a British woman doing holding up a gas station in the middle of nowhere, that's something we need to figure out, and fast.'
'So had the DCI found anything before tonight?”
“Nothing, and she's not exactly been a high priority. She's an adult with no known mental health issues or health problems. Got a good job, well liked. She just disappeared one night and hasn't been seen since.'
'So what next boss?”
Watkins pulled off his baseball cap, rubbed his bald pate thoughtfully, and replaced the cap on back to front. Bill suppressed a smile. In the office, when his boss switched the direction of his cap, they privately called it putting his thinking cap on. If he'd ever played poker, Bill thought, his idiosyncrasies would soon give him away.
‘The CCTV footage from the gas station is downloaded each night and stored remotely at its head office. They’ve sent us the last three days worth, plus the day Ellie Farrington went missing. I’ve got Sue back at the office reviewing it now.’
‘Why three days?’
‘Oh l don’t know Bill,’ his boss replied testily. ‘Because it’s better than one day’s worth, and we’ve not got time to review more? Is that a good enough answer?’
Bill smiled disarmingly. ‘Just trying to learn on the job, boss. So what are you hoping to find?’
“One: Even if this gas station was chosen at random, the hostage takers must have been here first, and there has to be reasons why this one in particular was chosen. Twp: Connections. There has to be a reason why Ellie Farrington is fronting this. She doesn't fit the usual profile for a hostage taker, though God knows criminals don't fit neatly into profiles any more. If you're right, and she's been coerced, then why her, and what's the point? Why not just use a phone like most of them do, why bother sending someone out?'
'Have we tried the phone in the gas station?' Bill asked.
'Oh drat, didn't think of that, good job you're here.' Watkins raised his eyebrows. 'Of course we tried. The line's dead. Phone company's checking the line now to see if the phone's been disconnected, or if the line's down.'
'So what else do we know?'
'Very little else. The teller on night shift tonight is one Dwayne Michaels, 31. We assume he’s still in there, possibly one of the fifteen hostage.’
Bill scrubbed at his face. There was something they were missing, and he hoped it wouldn't be too long before they started to see the complete picture. Right now, it felt like too many separate strands of information, with little to weave them together. He missed being at the office, where they'd be able to construct an evidence board and collate information as it came in. The police wagon, with its bank of monitors, communication devices, gun store, protective gear, and four marshals, was feeling smaller and stuffier by the minute. The chug of the air conditioner as it almost completely failed to keep the air cool only added to the feeling of claustrophobia.

‘Who was on duty the night Ellie Farringdon went missing?’ A fourth voice asked. Sue occupied the only free space, a tiny fold out desk little bigger than the chair she was sitting on, its surface covered with sheets of printed paper. ‘Dwayne Michaels.’ She said triumphantly, answering her own question as she waved a sheet of paper in the air.
‘That doesn't necessarily mean anything Sue. He works four night shifts a week.’ growled his boss. 'Still, it's a start.' He conceded.
‘I believe it is a start, and we've got to start somewhere.’ Replied Bill. ‘How much longer until the FBI get here?’
‘They're not,’ his boss replied tersely. 'They have a four hour response time.' His next sentence hung in the air, unsaid. In four hours time, one way or another, this would be over.
‘What did she mean?’ Bill mused out loud. He turned to his boss. ‘She said the final six hostages ‘will’ be released, but the three lots of three ‘may or may not be’. If there’s a condition to their release each hour, why didn’t she tell us what it is?’
‘Maybe she just meant, if we don’t try to storm the place?’
‘No, she said if we did that, all remaining hostages would be killed, except for the six. It doesn’t make sense. Is releasing hostages in stages without making any demands in return meant to prevent something happening, or ensure it?’
'Until we know for sure, we assume she's leading this hostage situation.' He held up a hand to forestall Bill. 'I agree it's unlikely, but you never know, she could be dating one of the hostage takers. It's not uncommon for some women to have unaccountable tastes in men.' Bill ignored the comment, which was uncomfortably similar to something his close friend, and partner, Roland Kerry, had made the night before in reference to Bill's girlfriend. Roland had made it clear that he considered Bill to be punching above his weight where his rodeo queen girlfriend was concerned. 'Women in distress like you, and you like women when they need you. Hell, have you ever even seen a woman out buying milk, got her number and taken her on a date?Not once,' he had added. 'Not even in junior school. Remember Suzie Scott, you pulled out out the way of some kids on bikes, she acted like you saved her from falling off the earth, and you've fallen for that look ever since. That's why this negotiator gig's not for you. Every time there's a woman involved, you'll try to save her. Should have been me,' he added morosely, 'l don't have the commitment issues you've got.'
'Did you lead with that in the interviews bud?' Bill asked, mockingly innocent. 'Hi, I'm Rollie and l should get the job 'cos l don't care about people.'
'Hmm, and yet I'm the one married with kids. Go figure.' The conversation had petered out into awkward silence as so many had recently, neither willing to broach the true source of their irritation with each other.

Bill pushed his thoughts aside, and focussed back on the problem at hand. ‘We also need to consider the possibility that drugs are involved here. Ellie Farrington was behaving more than a little oddly. She definitely appeared detached, far too calm for my liking.’
‘You’d prefer someone a little less stable for your first hostage situation?’ Roland asked.
‘I’d find her easier to read if she was,’ he admitted, seeking to put into words the feelings on unease he’d felt when talking to her. ‘Maybe she’s overloaded, shut down emotionally to protect herself.’
‘Or maybe she’s taken a little something, to take the edge off?’ Sue interjected. Bill shrugged. Until he saw he again, or they discovered more information about her, and the situation, it was all conjecture.

Bill lowered himself onto the top step of the wagon, and stretched his long legs out in front of him as he leaned against the door. Overhead, there were stars out, but the flat yellow glare of the gas station lights blocked out the darkness. He looked at his watch. 2.15am. It was going to be a long night. Assuming this played out fully, and Bill was quietly confident it wouldn't. Three sets of hostages released each hour meant at worst three and a half hours until they found out where this was leading. The local police force had been receiving calls all evening about missing people, but initially they had taken no action, they were all calls about people who had been missing for less than two hours. Eventually, the sheer number of calls for the same reason had sparked an investigation, which had lead back to this gas station. It had been in darkness, until the first police cruiser had pulled in, at which point the lights had flooded on, and the row of hostages had been seen through the door, bound and gagged in a line.

He was tempted to take a few strides away, to let the cool night air surround him, but he knew he couldn't afford to be out of range of the situation for even a few minutes. As the primary negotiator he would be kept up to date with any developments, but for the next few minutes, he had time to collect his thoughts and plan his next contact with the woman he now knew was Ellie. No wonder she had reacted so strongly to a name that sounded so much like her own. Elaina, he mused, where had that come from? He had no strong feelings about that name, his niece was called that, but it had just been the first one that had sprung to mind.
If he had been a boastful man, he would have claimed that he had already linked the missing British woman with the fragile, defenceless looking woman who had been standing in front of him just a few minutes ago, but the fact was that he been involved elsewhere and hadn't taken much notice of a missing persons case. He admitted to himself that he had made a series of assumptions at the time – single foreigner, no strong local connections. He privately thought she'd probably up'ed and decided to fly back home on a whim. Aside from a quick glance at the report, he had given her no thought, and the fact was that her case wasn't a federal matter, and as such didn't concern the office.

Now, he wondered where exactly she was from; she certainly didn’t have the kind of posh British accent you heard on television. It was interesting; softer, almost musical. Bill pulled himself up short with a snort of irritation. Good God, he hadn’t met her in a bar; she was potentially a hostage-taker in a serious crime, at best a hostage herself, at worst, a drugged up, unstable hostage taker with the potential for murder. Out of the two options, he didn't buy this boss's girlfriend theory. He gazed down at one of the two sheets of paper he was holding. One held a company issued headshot of Dwayne Matthews, the kind seen on security passes, just a head and shoulders photo of a nondescript young man. Mousy brown hair gelled straight back from a high forehead, pale skin with some bad acne scars on his cheeks. Was he a part of it, or was he tied up with the other hostages, or worse, lying hurt, injured or dead in a corner, waiting to be discovered.
It was the other sheet however that held his attention. One half of the paper showed a similar photo to Dwayne’s – a head and shoulder picture of Ellie, the one used in her ‘missing’ poster. Hair tied back, with stray wisps framing her face. Pretty, but not beautiful, slightly fuller in the face than the woman he had been talking to a few minutes ago, her expression relaxed and open, a suggestion of a smile. There was a second picture next to it, a full-length shot of Ellie taken from the video cameras, which were recording every second of the siege. Looking closer, he could see the signs of captivity; horizontal cuts and bruises around her neck, possibly a result of being tied up. She had dark circles under her eyes. Then there was the awkward way she was standing, as if she had injuries that couldn’t be seen. Or, thought Bill darkly, as if she were anticipating harm to come. Unusual eyes, he thought, switching back to the fist photo of her, grey with green flecks. In the glare of the gas station lights, her eyes had been shadowed, unreadable. Dark brown hair, figure pale and slim. There was softness about her in the first photo that was missing in the second, and he traced the outline of her face with a finger. So different to the women he usually dated, was dating now in fact. Jessica, nearly as tall as Bill, toned and spare from years of riding, and with a mass of careful, long, blonde curls. She was exciting and challenging, and, Bill had to admit, just a little bit exhausting. Ellie seemed smart and quietly intelligent. An armed officer walked past, and Bill pulled himself together with a wry shake of the head. What was he doing, he smiled, his innate good sense returning. He knew nothing about this woman, beyond that first conversation. Maybe there had been more truth to Rollie's jibes than Bill cared to admit. But still, he folded her picture up, and slipped it into his back pocket before walking away.


Ellie stopped under the air conditioning unit by the door for a second, letting the cold air wash over her. God, but she was tired. And it was only just beginning. The thought slipped into her head before she could stop it. No, she thought angrily, it’s nearly over. Just a few hours more. She forced herself to move forwards, her momentary impulse to turn around and run back towards the US Sheriffs, and freedom, squashed. Deputy US Sheriff Blake Williams, she reminded herself, with the kind, sad eyes and quiet voice, thought she was a bad person; a hostage taker and potential murderer. Even if she could explain herself to him, explain her motives, would he understand, she wondered. She wanted to believe he would, that he might even have come the same decisions, if given the same choices, but she realised it was probably wishful thinking on her part. Elaina he had called her, not Ellie, but she didn’t have the time, or the energy, to wonder why. She walked stiffly past the row of hostages. They sat on the floor, wrists and ankles joined with police style handcuffs and mouths bound with thick, silver tape, small cigarette sized bulges above their hearts, eyes fixed hungrily on her. She kept her own face averted. Was it better to look at them, or not? She couldn’t decide, wasn’t sure whether it would make what she was about to do easier or harder. The little girl, maybe five years old and pretty as a picture in her pink party dress whimpered as Ellie passed her, the urine stain on her dress clearly visible as she pressed herself in closer to her mother. Ellie felt a sob rise in her own throat. What had she done, she wondered, agreeing to this? The children would have to go first, she reminded herself again, or she wouldn’t be able to do this at all. Steeling herself, she twisted the handle of the office door, entered, and closed it softly behind her.