Click!
The room was suddenly awash with light.
Emanating from the intense lens of a flashlight.
Pescoli blinked.
A bright circle of light, enough intensity to light up the room, nearly blinded her. She held her arm over her eyes, tried to focus to the darkness beyond the flashlight. Squinting, she pleaded, “Don’t hurt him! Please, Padgett. Do not hurt him.”
Tucker, momentarily shocked to silence, started screaming again. As Pescoli adjusted to the light she saw her child, red faced and terrified, clutched in Padgett Long’s arms. She had his squirming little chest pinned to hers, the flashlight in her mouth and her gun aimed straight at Pescoli. “How does it feel,” she mumbled around the flashlight, “to lose your son like I did?”
Her arm still held against the light, Pescoli’s mind raced. She had to keep Padgett’s attention on her, not the screaming baby. If she just could move. Her gun was only inches away. Lying useless under an ancient sink.
With all her effort, she tried to ease toward it, stretch out her arm.
“Don’t even think about it,” Padgett warned.
“Drop the gun,” Santana said. “Drop the gun and give me Tucker.”
“As if,” she said around the flashlight. But her gaze had moved to Santana.
He kept talking. Low and sure, barely moving forward.
Pescoli stretched. Her fingertips less than an inch from the butt of her weapon.
“Just listen, Padgett,” Santana said, his own gun drawn, but unable to shoot as the baby was Padgett’s shield. How could he be so cool, so quietly determined, when she was going crazy, wanting to scream, to yell, to pummel her son’s abductor with her fists. She forced her body to move, but it wasn’t enough. Damn it. And the world was spinning, the gun so near but so far....
“You said you lost a son, you know what it’s like. Don’t do this.”
Pescoli inched her body closer to her pistol. Her fingertip swiped the butt of the gun.
“I said, ‘don’t even think about it,’ ” Padgett shouted, turning, her weapon leveled at Pescoli again.
Pescoli froze.
“That’s better.”
Was Santana still moving ever so slowly forward? He was still six or seven feet away from Padgett and the baby, an old wringer washer, Padgett’s cover, between them.
“Drop the weapon,” Santana said again.
“Nuh-uh. No way.” Padgett’s attention was split for a second, then she focused on Regan again. “Do you feel it? Like I did? You ruined my life,” she muttered furiously, her teeth still clenched around the flashlight. “You killed him. The only man I ever loved.”
“He was a cold blooded killer.”
“And he protected me. He cared for me. And the baby . . . I had to give up the baby. His baby.” She was getting more amped up by the second.
“I had nothing to do with that,” Pescoli said..
“I gave him up at that horrible place in San Francisco. Cahill House. You know the one. They said they’d give him to a good family and I couldn’t care for him, that I wasn’t fit and he died! Did you know that? My son died.” Tears filled her eyes. “And then you killed him. The man I loved. My son’s father.”
“His body was never located,” Pescoli said.
“But we all know he died in that icy lake. And it’s your fault.”
“He kidnapped me,” Pescoli said, but it was no use trying to talk sense into this crazy woman.
“Because you were getting in his way! No, no, this is all your fault. Don’t try to turn it around. And the upshot is because of you, Detective, I’m all alone. No son. No protector.” Her gaze moved to Santana. “While you have both.” Her lips twisted in an evil smile as once again her eyes focused hard on Pescoli. “So now,” she said. “So now you know what it’s like. To lose a child. To feel the pain.”