The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

dusk: “John Bowditch. This is Major Jeffrey Carter. I’m with the Maine State Police. I’d like to talk to you. We are not planning an assault. You are in no danger. I repeat: We are not planning an assault.”
    We waited, but there was no reply. The only sound was the static and pop of police radios from the dozen parked cruisers. A line came back to me from a video we watched at the academy: “A hostage situation is a homicide in progress.” “Call him Jack,” I said.
    “What?”
    “Jack, not John. He hates the name John.”
    He switched on the mic again. “Jack, this is Jeff Carter again. It’s imperative that we have a conversation right now.”
    I whispered to the lieutenant, “Why isn’t he asking about the hostage? Shouldn’t we find out if he’s OK in there?”
    “He doesn’t want the H.T. to think the hostage has any bargaining value.”
    “H.T.?”
    “Hostage taker.”
    The major’s voice came back over the speaker: “What I’d like to do, Jack, is give you a cell phone. That way, we won’t have to shout at each other.” He made a hand gesture to a trooper in full-combat armor to start forward. “I have a man bringing you a cell phone. This is not an assault. He’s just bringing you a phone so we can talk.”
    The trooper began creeping forward, using the cover of the pines to draw close to the building.
    Then came a muffled shout: “Don’t come up here!”
    The trooper froze in place.
    There was something about the voice that raised the hairs along my neck.
    “OK, Jack,” answered the major. “What ever you say.”
    Slowly the trooper backed away from the cabin.
    I grabbed the major’s shoulder. “It’s not him.”
    He swung around on me. “What?”
    “That’s not my father,” I said. “I don’t know who it is, but it’s not him.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Positive.”
    “Could it be Bickford?” asked the FBI agent.
    For the first time in hours I felt something like real hopefulness. “What if he’s not in there?”
    “Somebody shot at my men,” snapped the sheriff.
    “What if it’s just Bickford?”
    “The dogs tracked him here, for Christ’s sake.”
    Suddenly the strange voice shouted again: “I hear them outside the walls! Don’t come in here!”
    Major Carter switched on the loudspeaker again: “Nobody’s coming in, Jack. You have my word on that. Jack, we’ve got your son, Mike, here.”
    I knew I was there to help negotiate, but the thought of actually talking my dad into surrendering left me wondering if the major knew what he was doing.
    The FBI agent wondered, too. “You can’t put a family member on the horn.”
    “Under normal circumstances, I’d agree,” said the major. “But Bowditch called his son last night. We have reason to believe he trusts Mike to get him out of the situation.”
    “I think it’s a big mistake,” the FBI agent said.
    The major started to hand me the mic but held it back a moment. “Talk slowly and normally. You’re going to tell him that you’re here, and he’s in no danger. You can vouch for that.”
    “I can?”
    “Yes, you can. You’re going to say that he should let us give him a phone. That’s all. Don’t mention the hostage, don’t make any promises. Our only goal right now is to convince him to take the phone. Staying on the loudspeaker like this, forcing him to shout, just ratchets up everybody’s adrenaline. We need to take this situation down a notch.”
    “What if he’s not in there? What if this is just some sort of mistake?”
    “You’re going to help us find that out.”
    I took up the microphone. “Dad, this is Mike. You need to take the telephone, OK?” The major motioned to me: Slow it down. “It’s just a cell phone. Will you let them bring it to you?”
    The trooper inched his way up the path, looking as unthreatening as a man in full-body armor can look.
    OK, I thought. Throw the phone.
    But the trooper kept going. I heard one of the hounds whining behind me, then a whispered hush from the dog’s handler.
    The window was totally dark. If someone inside was looking out, I couldn’t see him.
    Just throw the damned phone.
    The trooper was now no more than ten yards from the porch. Slowly he lowered the hand with the phone in it, getting ready to pitch it underhand in front of the door. The placement had to be perfect. If my dad was inside, he’d probably make Bickford reach for the phone, but he couldn’t risk having his hostage escape.
    Three things happened next.