The Negotiator. Kay David

it wasn’t. No one in their right mind would actually buy contacts that shade. The color was too unnerving, too strange.

      His eerie gaze swept over her bloody clothing then came to a stop on her face. She forced herself into stillness and looked directly at him. When he spoke her name, she recognized his voice.

      She knew without asking that this was Beck Winters.

      SHE WAS COVERED in blood and bits and pieces of something else Beck noted but didn’t need to analyze. For one inane moment, he wanted to pull her into his arms and tell her everything was going to be all right, but he’d be lying if he did. It wouldn’t be all right. Not for a very long time—if ever. Not for her, not for the kids, certainly not for Howard French. For the survivors, a hostage incident didn’t end when the team busted in.

      In fact, Jennifer Barclay’s wide brown eyes told him shock had inched its way in, leeching the color from her face and forcing into her eyes the kind of glazed disbelief he’d seen too many times. She’d been stronger than most, but that was over.

      It was a mistake of monumental proportions and he knew it, but Beck decided he didn’t care. He reached out for her.

      She stepped back so quickly she almost slipped and fell. Grabbing the windowsill behind her, her eyes blazing, she spoke from between gritted teeth. “You bastard!”

      Immediately Beck’s mask fell into place. Her words weren’t what he’d expected, but different people reacted in different ways. He’d once rescued a woman who’d slapped him as he’d carried her out under fire. Jennifer Barclay’s anger was a coping technique. She’d been holding her emotions in check for hours and now she was going to erupt.

      At him.

      Beck took a step away from her and held up his hands, palms out. “Calm down, Miss Barclay, please…. It’s over now. You’re safe—”

      She blinked, and he saw some measure of relief in her expression, something that seemed to loosen for a moment, but she put the response behind her so fast, he almost missed it. Her voice was low but scathing as she lashed out at him. “You lied to me! You promised—promised—no one would be hurt.” She flicked her eyes downward to where Howard lay. “He’s dead!

      “You don’t understand—”

      “You’re damned right I don’t understand!” She pushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. They were red and rimmed with exhaustion, her face contorted with the obvious anguish she was feeling. “He wouldn’t have killed anyone—”

      “He raised his gun at that child.”

      “He wasn’t going to shoot! He was trying to stop Juan from grabbing the gun—”

      “That’s not how it looked to us.”

      “But he wouldn’t have shot! He wouldn’t have done that.”

      “How can you be sure?”

      “I know him, that’s how!” Her gaze filled with angry tears. “My God, I told him to go that window and then you shot him! What happened? I can’t believe this….”

      Beck watched the emotions cross her face. She made no attempt to hide them, but it wouldn’t have mattered if she had. He understood better than she did what she was feeling.

      I feel guilty because I couldn’t stop this.

      I feel guilty because I survived.

      I feel guilty because I helped.

      Before he could say more, Lena broke in. Introducing herself formally, she put her hand on Jennifer’s arm and spoke gently. “Miss Barclay, why don’t you come with me now? We’ll get you cleaned up, then we need to talk to you. Everyone in the room will have to speak to an officer and give their version of what happened.”

      Jennifer turned her back to Beck and answered Lena quickly, her voice filled with dismay. “Of course…but not the kids—”

      She wanted to protect them above all, Beck realized. That was the only thing that mattered to her.

      “I’m afraid they’ll have to. It’s standard, but it’s necessary, too. Especially after a shooting.”

      “My God, I don’t believe this…. My students…”

      “I know, I know.” Lena’s attitude was sympathetic and calm. “I’ve already spoken to Mrs. Whitmire. Our information officer called Dr. Church, the school counselor, and she arrived some time ago. She’s with the kids right now, and so is our department psychologist, Dr. Worley. You should talk to the doctors, too. Not just tonight but in the coming days as well.”

      Jennifer Barclay’s full lips were drawn in a narrow line across the bottom of her face. Beck could see traces of pale-pink lipstick she’d put on earlier that day. When her life had been normal. “I don’t need to do that.”

      “You will.”

      Her gaze shot to Beck as he spoke. Her look was controlled and measured. “What makes you think I’ll need help?”

      “No one goes through something like this without needing to talk about it later. If you don’t, you’ll pay for it in ways you can’t even imagine.”

      “I don’t have to imagine anything, Mr. Winters.” She held out her hands, palms forward, mimicking his earlier action. The smooth skin was sticky with blood and her fingers trembled even as she spoke. “Thanks to you, I’ve gone through the real thing. I think I’ll be able to handle the instant replays on my own.”

      IT WAS AFTER midnight when they finished. The questions had been endless, and Jennifer had described the situation so many times, she almost felt as if she were telling a story. A story that had happened to someone else, not her. Dr. Church had counseled every one of children and had tried to talk to Jennifer, too. She’d nodded and told the woman she’d call, but she wouldn’t. There’d been a police psychologist, too. Another “professional.”

      Pointless. Simply pointless.

      Jennifer would go home, take a hot bath and get into bed. That’s what would help her, not talking with some half-baked psychologist. Maybe she’d call Wanda, too. If the other woman had heard what happened—and who wouldn’t?—she’d be worried sick.

      The press had been satisfied with Betty Whitmire’s histrionics and thankfully had left thirty minutes before. Jennifer trudged through the now dark and empty parking lot to her car. She was glad she didn’t have to face the cameras and microphones because she didn’t think she could. Nothing seemed real to her. How could it? One man she’d known was dead and another was wounded. A second wash of shock came over as she recalled Lieutenant McKinney’s words during the debriefing.

      “Mr. French said nothing to you about shooting Robert Dalmart? Nothing at all?”

      “No. I—I had no idea….”

      It must have been an accident. Howard wouldn’t have shot down Robert like some kind of animal. The police lieutenant had told Jennifer that Robert would probably survive, but he’d been injured badly.

      The rush of a passing truck caught her attention and Jennifer glanced up in time to catch the white oval of the driver’s face. Where was he going? How could he pass by so casually? Didn’t he know lives had just been ruined?

      She knew she was being ridiculous, but she didn’t care. Howard French had been shot before her very eyes. A man who had reminded her of her brother. A man who had trusted her. A man she only wanted to help, but had led to his death instead.

      In the back of her mind, a silent voice countered her words. He’d promised no one would be hurt.

      She reached her car and pulled out her keys but they wouldn’t go into the lock. Something was wrong. She struggled with them for a moment, then her hand began to shake and she dropped the ring, somewhere underneath the car door. It was the final straw. She laid her head against the roof of the vehicle and began to cry.

      “Can