What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel by David Housewright (most read books txt) 📗

of sympathy for the young woman he had never met. Emma shouldn’t be the one to find her mother’s body …

“All right,” he said.

Jamal grabbed hold of Jenna’s upper arm and yanked her to her feet.

“All right,” he repeated.

A jinglejangle of chimes sounded around him and for a moment Jamal became convinced that he had somehow caused it.

“What is that?” he asked.

“The doorbell.”

“The doorbell?”

“Someone’s at the front door.”

Jamal felt the icy fingers of panic seize his heart, yet he quickly brushed them away. He squeezed Jenna’s forearm.

“Answer the door,” he said. “Get rid of whoever it is.”

Jamal showed Jenna his gun.

“I’ll be standing right here,” he said.

Jenna moved toward the door as another round of chimes sounded. Jamal quickly thrust the handgun under the waistband of his jeans behind his back and stood facing the door as if he were waiting for a bus.

Jenna opened the door.

Detective Jean Shipman stood on the porch in front of her. She immediately noticed the swelling on the woman’s face, and knew someone had punched her. She smiled just the same.

Jenna smiled back, an odd thing to do all things considered.

Jenna was holding the door far enough open that Shipman could see a young black man standing off to the side, his hands folded across his belt buckle. He was staring at her so she stared back. Watch the eyes, an unheard voice told her. She kept smiling and kept watching the young man even as she spoke.

“Jenna King?” Shipman asked.

“Yes.”

Shipman produced the wallet containing her badge and ID.

“Detective Jean Shipman, St. Paul Police Department.”

“What the fuck!” Jamal shouted.

He reached behind his back, found the handgun he had hidden there and brought it out.

Shipman watched him do it even as she dropped her wallet and reached under her blazer for the butt of her Glock.

She knew that the young man would get to his gun first. She crouched down, trying to make herself smaller.

“No, no, no!” Jenna screamed.

She slammed the door shut.

Shipman fell backward, yet managed to maintain her balance. She pulled her Glock, gripped it with both hands, and spun so that her back was pressed against the wall next to the door. She half expected to hear and see bullets ripping through the door, yet none came.

She could hear Jenna screaming inside the house.

“Stop it, please stop it,” she said.

“This is all your fault,” Jamal screamed back.

Shipman was shouting herself, hoping her voice could be heard inside.

“Nothing bad has happened yet,” she said. “We can still make this go away.”

She didn’t hear a reply.

Shipman told me later that she experienced what she called brain freeze. For a few brief moments the many thoughts that swirled in her head paralyzed her into inaction—kick open the door and confront the assailant, run for cover, grab her phone and call for backup, reach down for her badge and ID; what were they doing on the floor, anyway? What brought her back to the world was the sight of Bobby Dunston strolling up the sidewalk. He stopped when he saw his detective. He looked at her as if he was having a hard time believing that she was there. Shipman, on the other hand, never questioned his presence, not for a second.

“We have a hostage situation,” she said. “Unidentified black man, armed, semiautomatic handgun, five ten, hundred and sixty pounds, black slacks, white shirt, black suit jacket, black-rimmed glasses. Woman identified as Jenna King, five four, one twenty, short blond hair; face shows signs of swelling where she might have been struck several times.”

Bobby reached into his pocket. Instead of pulling his piece, however, he withdrew his cell phone.

Only he dropped his phone and reached for his Glock the moment the front door opened.

Jamal had been thinking fast. He knew if he was going to get out of the house he would need to do it now. In just a few minutes the place would be crawling with police, he decided; St. Paul’s SWAT team was probably already on its way. He gathered Jenna up, wrapped his arm over her breasts, pulled her tight against his chest, and pressed the muzzle of his handgun against her throat. He pushed her toward the door.

“Open it,” he said.

She did.

He started to ease Jenna past the door when he saw Shipman. He spun toward her, using Jenna as a shield.

“Get back, get back,” he said.

Shipman moved backward across the porch even as she trained the sights of her Glock on Jamal’s head, hoping for a clean shot.

“Get back,” Jamal repeated.

Shipman kept moving until the back of her legs hit the porch railing.

“Drop your gun,” Jamal said. “Do you hear me? Drop your gun. Drop it or I’ll kill her.”

Shipman did not drop her gun. She was too well trained for that.

By then Bobby was in a classic Isosceles Stance, both hands gripping his Glock near the center line of his body, his arms extended, his elbows bent slightly to control the recoil.

Jamal’s eyes went from Shipman to Bobby back to Shipman again and then settled on Bobby as if he was wondering where he had come from.

“Drop your gun,” he told him.

Bobby replied calmly.

“You have nowhere to go, no way to get there,” he said.

Jamal turned Jenna to face Bobby, then back again to face Shipman. He pressed the muzzle against her throat hard enough for her to cry out.

“Please, please,” she said.

“What’s your name?” Bobby asked.

“Fuck you,” Jamal replied. “I’m leaving. You try to stop me and I’ll kill her.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Bobby said.

“Don’t try to stop me. I mean it.”

Jamal edged Jenna forward, Shipman on their right; Bobby directly in front of them. Shipman was waiting for Jamal to move even with her so that if she was forced to fire, she wouldn’t have to shoot around Jenna. She would have an unobstructed line of fire. One step. Another. Another. Only Jamal halted just as he reached the center of the porch.

It was the car that stopped him. A 2017 Ford Escape. It slowed directly in front