Here and Gone(90)

One of the state cops saw Audra, said, ‘Jesus Christ, it’s her.’

She hauled herself out, fighting her own exhaustion. The same cop saw the Glock in her hand, drew his own pistol.

‘Drop the weapon!’

The other cops came running, all of them drawing guns. A dozen of them, maybe more. A chorus of shouts, get down on the ground, drop the weapon. Audra raised her hands above her head, kept the Glock in her right, her finger away from the trigger. But she wasn’t ready to give it up. Not yet.

The reporters scrambled, cameras pointing. The cops moved in, tightening the circle. The chorus got louder. On the ground. Drop the weapon. They would have shot her dead, if not for the cameras, Audra was sure. She should have been terrified, but an oily calm had settled on her as soon as she’d stopped the car. Even a dozen pistols aimed at her, ready to take her head off, couldn’t shake the cool peace at the center of her.

Another voice rose over the others, and Audra recognized it: Special Agent Mitchell.

‘Hold your fire! Don’t shoot! Do not shoot!’

She pushed her way between the cops, breathless, her eyes wide.

‘Audra, give me the weapon.’

‘Not yet,’ Audra said as she stepped back to the rear door, her hands still raised. With her left she reached for the handle, pulled the door open. Whiteside spilled out, shoulder first, not quite hitting the ground. Audra grabbed his collar, hauled him the rest of the way. He cried out in pain as he tumbled onto the asphalt.

Mitchell shook her head. ‘Jesus, Audra, what did you do?’

‘This man took my children,’ Audra said, raising her left hand once more. She walked to the front of the car, slow steady steps.

The cops lined their sights on her, some shouting again.

‘Hold your fire,’ Mitchell called.

Audra rounded the front of the cruiser to the passenger side and opened the door. Sean had stirred, but Louise still dozed.

Mitchell moved to the side of the car, stared inside. ‘Oh my God,’ she said. She spun around, shouted at the cops. ‘Lower your weapons. Lower them right now.’

One at a time, slowly, the cops did as they were told. Mitchell turned back to Audra, extended her hand.

‘Give me the gun,’ she said. ‘Please.’

Audra didn’t hesitate. She lowered her hands and passed the pistol over. Mitchell popped the magazine, emptied the chamber.

Audra hunkered down by the open passenger door. She reached in, stroked Sean’s hair, touched Louise’s cheek. Louise’s eyes flickered open.

‘Mommy,’ she said. ‘Are we home?’

‘Not yet, honey,’ Audra said. ‘But soon. Come on.’

She reached in, took Louise in her arms, and lifted her out. Sean followed. With Louise’s arms around her neck, legs around her waist, Sean’s hand in hers, Audra walked through the cops and the reporters. She ignored the wide eyes and open mouths, the shouted questions.

Down the street, the guesthouse door stood open, Mrs Gerber waiting there, her hands over her mouth, tears in her eyes.

Mitchell came running behind. ‘Audra, where are you going?’

Audra looked back over her shoulder without slowing her step.

‘To put my children to bed,’ she said.





60


WHEN THEY REACHED the hospital in Scottsdale, the nurses had tried to separate them, put them in different rooms. Audra had refused, clung tight to Sean and Louise. It was Mitchell who stepped in, insisted that the hospital provide a private room for the three of them. The best they could do was a side ward with two beds.

One now lay empty, Audra and her children huddled together in the other. They’d given Louise another dose of antibiotics, and now she lay with her head on Audra’s left breast, snoring softly. Sean rested on the other side, watching the television up on the wall.

Audra had grown tired of the news cycle. The same shaky footage of her circling the car, Whiteside falling from it, the children in the passenger seat. The reporters had exhausted their hyperbole, and the story had taken on the sense of winding down, that it was ready to be told in past tense.

The only new footage in the last hour or so had been Patrick helping his mother into a black town car outside a hotel, telling the reporters no comment as they crowded around.

When it was all settled, Audra would have a comment for them. When the press came scrounging for her story, she would tell them every rotten thing her husband and his mother had done. Let their rich and powerful friends see them for who they really were. She relished the idea, but it was for another time.

Audra reached for the remote control, was about to switch the TV off when the anchor’s tone changed. He studied a sheet of paper that someone had placed in front of him.

‘Leaving events in Silver Water for a few moments,’ he said, his words faltering as he read, ‘we have a breaking report of multiple deaths in a mass shooting at a luxury home in the Las Vegas suburb of Summerlin. The name of the homeowner has not yet been made public, but we’re told he is a very prominent, very wealthy public figure in the tech industry. Details are sketchy, but it appears one or more gunmen entered the secluded property sometime between six and seven p.m. and opened fire on the occupants. The number of casualties is unclear at the moment, as is the fate of the shooter, or shooters. What we do know is that all the victims were adults, and the lives of three young children were spared. More on this breaking story as we get it.’