Blowout

leather jacket, peeled off his leather gloves, and tossed them to Sherlock. He pulled on the vest over his shirt. When he put on his leather jacket, he zipped it over his belt holster. He said low to Sherlock, taking her hands in his, “Another day in Paradise, right, sweetheart? Pray a little.”
    She wanted to wrap her arms around him and not let him go. She didn’t want him to step anywhere near that harmless-looking house with a gun-wielding maniac inside. She said, “I will pray, you can count on that.” Her mouth was dry with fear. She swallowed, but her voice still came out scratchy and hoarse. “Take care, Dillon.” She stepped back. She felt someone against her back, felt a man’s hand on her arm. It was Ben, with Callie beside him.
    Savich took the bullhorn from Joe Gaines, and began his trek to the driveway. A large oak tree stood tall just off center in the front yard. He saw a basketball hoop set up over the double garage doors. The net was ripped, showing lots of use. There were a couple of girls’ bikes leaning against the closed left garage door. He walked past dormant rosebushes lining the front of the house. The curtains were drawn over the single large front picture window. He was aware of the low murmur of cop voices behind him, and farther away, the worried and excited conversation of the neighbors. He wondered if there would be another shot and he’d be dead before he hit the ground.
    He stopped just before he stepped off the driveway onto the sidewalk that led to the narrow front porch. He raised the bullhorn. “Martin, Austin—my name is Dillon Savich. I’m an FBI agent. I know your mother. It’s because of her that I’m here. She’s really worried about you. If you talk to me I can tell you all about it.”
    Dead silence.
    “Your mother, Samantha Barrister, is worried about you, Austin. Let me come in and tell you what she said to me.”
    Savich didn’t move, just held the bullhorn loosely at his side.
    There was movement inside the house, then a woman’s low voice. The wife was alive, thank God.
    Savich stood still as a stone, the cold seeping through his boots and gloves. He finally saw the front door crack open, saw a flicker of movement, and knew it was Martin Thornton—Austin Douglas Barrister—standing close behind the partially open doorway, out of the line of fire from the police at the curb.
    He didn’t say another word, just waited.
    “You’re a liar,” Austin said. “My mom’s been dead for thirty years. You hear me? Someone killed her! So who the hell are you? Why are you lying to me like this?”
    The voice was low and scared, and there was something else, a loss of control, close to the surface. But he’d asked a question, and that was positive.
    “I’m not lying, Austin,” Savich said, and took another step up the short sidewalk.
    “My name’s Martin. Austin, that’s someone else. Don’t you move!”
    “All right, I won’t. But I’m not lying to you.”
    “Sure you are. Who told you about my mother?”
    “Let me come closer and I’ll tell you all about it.”
    A moment of silence, then, “All right, you can come up on the porch, but no closer.”
    Savich walked up the sidewalk, slow and easy, stepped up onto the porch and waited.
    “Talk.”
    “I saw your mother a week ago Friday night, near Blessed Creek. I was driving to the cabin where my family and I were staying for the weekend when I had a blowout. I’d just finished changing the tire when a hysterical young woman ran out in front of my car, claiming someone was trying to kill her, and I had to take her home, right away. I couldn’t get much else out of her. I followed her directions, and ended up at a huge house on top of a knoll. That was your old home, Aus—Martin. I had her sit on the sofa in the living room as I searched the house, but I didn’t find anyone. When I went back to where I’d left your mom in the living room, she was gone.”
    Martin Thornton yelled, “She’s dead, do you hear me? Dead for thirty years. You made this up, mister. Did my father send you? No, there’s no way he could have found me.”
    Savich continued, keeping his voice calm. “I dreamed about Samantha the very next night after I was called back to Washington on an emergency. And again this past week. She mentioned you, her son, her precious boy. Since we couldn’t locate you, we put out an alert, and Chief Gerber called us when you shouted out your real name just a little while ago.