"She doesn't want me anymore. What's the point? We made it all together. I thought we should end it all together. Here, in our home. The five of us, going together."

Thought we should. This time his use of past tense told her they might be turning a corner. "The five of you need to come out together, Mr. Brinker. Your children sound frightened. I can hear them crying now. You and your wife are their parents, you and your wife are responsible for keeping them safe and well."

"I don't know what to do anymore."

"Look at your children, Mr. Brinker, look at your wife. I don't believe anything's more precious to you. You don't want to hurt them. You can make the center hold. Look at the yellow walls. You gave them that sunny room, even when you weren't sure it would work. Put the guns down now, Mr. Brinker. Put them down, and bring your family out. You said you'd done your best. I believe you. Now, I believe you'll do your best again, and put the guns down. Bring your wife and your babies out."

"What's going to happen? I don't know what's going to happen."

"We're going to help you. You and your family. Will you come out with your family now? It's the right thing to do for them."

"I don't want to go into the black without them."

"You don't need to go into the black at all. Will you put the guns down, please?"

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"I know. Can you listen to me now, Mr. Brinker?"

"Yes. Yes."

"Put the guns down. Please put them down and step away from them. Will you do that?"

"Yes. All right. I'm sorry."

She wrote Coming out. Surrendering. Signaled that message to Tactical command. "It's going to be all right. Did you put the guns down?"

"Yes. I put them on the shelf. High, where Penny can't reach them."

"That was the right thing to do. I want you to come to the front door. You and your family. Don't be afraid. No one's going to hurt you. I need you to keep your hands up, just so everyone can see you did the right thing and put the guns down. There'll be police outside, but no one's going to hurt you. Do you understand?"

"I can't think."

"It's all right. Will you bring your family out, please?"

" I… I can't keep my hands up and talk on the phone."

Phoebe closed her eyes, took a breath. "That's fine. Why don't you give the phone to Kate now? And you can all come outside together."

"All right. Kate? You need to take this call."

"God. God." The woman's voice wrenched out the words. "We're coming out. He doesn't have a gun. Please, please, don't shoot. Don't hurt him. Don't hurt him."

"No one's going to hurt him. No one's going to get hurt today." When they came out, what struck Phoebe right to the bone was the sound of the little girl crying for her daddy.

In what had become his workroom, he drank cold, sweet tea with a small sprig of fresh mint and watched the media coverage of the crisis in Gordonston.

He hoped they'd all die.

He didn't care about the Brinkers-they meant nothing to him one way or the other. But if that whining college guy put bullets in his family, then himself, Phoebe would take a hell of a hit.

That would be worth the airtime.

Then again, if she took too hard a hit, he might not get the chance to pay her back, his way.

Bitch would probably slide out of it anyway, even if she fucked up and the idiot put a bullet in the brain of the fat-cheeked toddler whose picture they'd shown on screen half a dozen times already.

She wouldn't take the blame for it, no matter how much she'd earned it.

With the tea, he sat down at his workbench. He'd heard the call come through on his police scanner while he was finishing up breakfast. It had given him a hell of a lift. Guy, wife, three kids. A bloodbath like that would get lots of attention.

He'd been right, and on his workroom TV, he watched while the local station preempted the Today show with live at-the-scene coverage.

And he'd seen Phoebe stride by the cameras, ignoring reporters in that superior, I'm-so-fucking-important way of hers.

He'd thought about putting a bullet in her brain. Oh, he'd thought about it, even dreamed about it, just the way he figured Mr. College Professor was thinking about putting one into his whole stupid family. But that was too easy. That was too quick. Bang! And it's over.

He had a much better plan.

He kept the TV on while he worked. Usually, he had the spare scanner on down here, and maybe the radio. Television was too distracting when he was working. But he considered this an exception.

His lips thinned as the reporter on screen announced the Brinker family had come out, safe and sound, that the asshole surrendered peacefully.

"Pulled that one off, didn't you?" he muttered to himself as he turned screws. "Yeah, that one was easy. Didn't have to break a sweat, did you? Nice family, nice neighborhood. Just some stupid shit looking for some attention. You got them out just fine, didn't you? Phoebe. " He had to stop, put his tools down, because the anger, the rage, made his hands shake. He wanted a cigarette. Actually yearned for one. But he'd made himself quit. It was a matter of willpower, and practicality. He didn't need crutches. He couldn't afford to need crutches. He couldn't even afford the rage. Cold blood, he reminded himself. Cool head. When payback came, he'd need those, and a strong body, a clear purpose.

So he closed his eyes and willed everything inside him to slow, to still.

It was her voice that had his eyes opening again, had them burning toward the TV.

"Stuart Brinker surrendered peacefully. His wife and their children weren't harmed."

"Lieutenant MacNamara, as hostage negotiator, how did you convince Professor Brinker to surrender to the police?"

"I listened."

The glass flew across the room, shattered against the set before he realized it had left his hand. Amber rain dripped down over Phoebe's face.

Have to work on that, he told himself. Have to work on that control. Won't get the job done flying off the handle. No sir. But he smiled as the rivulets of tea slid down Phoebe's face. He imagined them red, long thin rivers of blood.

Because it pleased him, he was able to pick up his tools again with a steady hand.

He went back to work on the timer.

"It got to me. Some of them do, more than others."

After shift, Phoebe sat with Liz over a couple of glasses of wine in Swifty's. It was too early for music, so the booth was a quiet corner, an island to sink into and unwind.

"How so?"

Phoebe started to speak, then shook her head. "I didn't mean to talk shop. We should talk shoes or something."

"I bought this pair a couple weeks ago? Pumps, leopard-skin design.

I don't know what I was thinking. Where am I going to wear leopardskin pumps? Anyway, we'll get to that. Tell me about the incident. I know how it is," Liz went on. "I talk to a lot of rape victims, to a lot of kids who've been sexually abused. And sometimes it gets to you more than others. You get it out, or it roots. So?"

"The kids. You have to try not to think about them as kids. Just hostages. But…"

"They're kids."

"Yeah. And in this case, part of the key to talking him down. He loved them. You could hear it."

"And the question is, how do you hold what you love at gunpoint?"

"Because you're broken. Something was broken inside him. He wasn't mad, there wasn't any rage in him. It wasn't payback or punishment. It can be more volatile when it's not about payback. Maybe that's part of what got to me, too. I hear this guy, I hear him standing on the edge of an abyss. And he doesn't believe he can come back from it-that he deserves to."

"Why take the family, too?"

"He's nothing without them. They're essential to who he is. He doesn't want to die without them. So…" She lifted her wine. "Altogether now." She drank, blew out a breath. "He's been depressed for more than a year, and things have been slipping away from him. Career, marriage, both on pretty shaky ground. Wife wants a bigger house, oldest daughter wants a car of her own, he gets thumbs-down on the full professorship. Stuff you handle or fight about. But he just sank down, and kept sinking. The wife's so busy taking care of the kids and the house because he's barely able to get out of bed. She gets fed up, kicks him out. 'Things fall apart; the center cannot hold.' He couldn't hold it."