82 Desire

Abasolo rolled their eyes at each other, acknowledging their sympathy with the woman.
    Abasolo said, “Guess we’re getting both of them at once. How do you want to play it?”
    “By ear,” she answered, and he gave her a thumbs-up. That was what they both liked.
    Unlike the Favret residence, the Seaberry house was well lit; almost festive-looking. The two officers marched up the front walk and mounted the steps before they heard the yelling.
    “Goddammit, you can’t do that,” was the first thing they heard. “I’m your goddamn boss, goddammit.”
    The two men were evidently standing in the foyer having an argument.
    “I don’t have any choice.” The second man spoke in a lower voice.
    “ Goddamn you!”
    And then a child said, “Daddy? What’s wrong?”
    “Get the hell out of here! Megan, get that kid the fuck out of here.”
    Abasolo raised an eyebrow. Skip shrugged and rang the doorbell. Within, all went silent.
    Skip rang the bell again, and almost as quickly as the silence came, the door opened a crack, and then closed quickly. Seaberry shouted, “You little idiot. You little idiot.”
    The woman spoke in a calm, authoritative voice. “Douglas. Douglas! Step back now. You may not touch that child.”
    And then there was the sound of one human being hitting another, followed by a loud, female moan. Skip gave the police knock.
    “Mr. Seaberry! Open up.”
    The boy opened the door again, eyes like shiny brown quarters, face reflecting the end of the world. Favret was holding the woman, trying to lower her to the floor, or perhaps keep her from falling, and Seaberry was halfway up the stairs.
    Skip said, “I’ve got him,” and followed. “Better call for backup.” Let Abasolo deal with the three below—she’d come too far to let anyone else do this.
    Seaberry reached the second floor and kept going. He had a big head start, and he was in good shape. He reached a third floor and sprinted to the end of a long hallway, where there was a room set up as an office. She heard steps pounding behind her.
    Seaberry said, “I’ve got a gun.”
    He didn’t, yet, not that Skip could see. But he picked up something from the top of a desk, and she had no choice but to dive for him. She had him on the floor, but she still couldn’t tell whether he really had a gun. She was wrestling him, grabbing for his arm, when someone entered the room. Adam. Thank you , she thought, and Seaberry fired. A body crashed to the floor.
    Shocked, furious, she tried to knock the gun out of his hand, but he rolled her over, getting her on the bottom. He stood up in one graceful movement and she heard him say, “Omigod, what have I done?”
    “Adam?” she said, terrified, unwilling to take her eyes off Seaberry. And Abasolo answered, “It’s okay. Take it easy now. Just give me the gun.”
    Seaberry was pointing it at him. Favret was on the floor, gut-shot.
    Seaberry backed away from Abasolo. “Stand back. Just stand back away from me.” He was backing toward the far wall of the house, where Skip saw an open window. Abasolo took a step toward him, and he fired again. Glass shattered—he’d hit a picture on the wall—and the moment of confusion was enough for him to swing himself up on the ledge.
    Abasolo leaped toward him, but he didn’t fire again. Skip scrambled up and ran, arms open, to the window, grabbing at whatever she could catch.
    The man’s weight dropped, but her grip held, and so did Adam’s. They had him, but he was dangling. Skip’s arm felt as if it were coming out of the socket.
    Oh, shit, she thought, I don’t know if I can do this.
    She heard a sound behind them, and Seaberry’s wife screamed, “Douglas. Oh, Douglas, hold on.”
    You’re telling the wrong guy , Skip thought. Oh, God, I can’t handle this.
    Abasolo said, “Breathe, Skip. Keep breathing. Mrs. Seaberry, go back downstairs and take care of your child.”
    “Edward… ?”
    “Call 911 again. Ask for an ambulance. Tell them the situation.”
    Skip thought she was going to pass out. “Adam. My hand’s slipping.”
    “Breathe, baby. Just breathe. Don’t think about holding on. Think about breathing.”
    When the car came, sometime in another millennium, she thought: It’s too late. I can’t make it till they climb two flights of stairs. No way in hell.
    She kept breathing. She breathed till two guys got there, and among the four of them, they hauled Seaberry in the window.
    When they brought him down, the kid was