IN THE HOUR THAT FOLLOWED, FOWLER NEVER ONCE PICKED UP THE PHONE. BUT members of Adam Nu’s team got hold of snow camouflage and crept close to the house with listening devices. They returned around ten minutes to eleven, and I recommended that Tom McGoey call a quick meeting of the minds.
We gathered outside the two vans in that makeshift shelter, which was surprisingly warm and dry, given the weather around it.
“He’s into hour four holding the hostages by himself,” I began. “This is not a good thing. With a partner, Fowler can sleep. Without a partner, each minute gets more difficult for him. He’s got to monitor the people he’s holding. He’s got to be suspicious of every creak in the floorboards.”
One of the SWAT guys who was wearing the snow camouflage, a small, tough-looking officer named Jacobson, said, “He’s whacked on something.”
“You had visual on him?” McGoey asked.
“For a second, when we tried to place a listening device. Fowler moved through our line of sight carrying his works.”
“What’s he shooting?” I asked.
“H
e’s moving fast, jittery,” Jacobson said. “My bet’s meth.”
It made sense. In jail these days, meth was passed around like hors d’oeuvres at a party. In the past few years it had become just as popular on the streets of DC. And Fowler was a known user.
“Okay, so depending on how long he’s been on this particular tweaking binge, he could go rhino on us at any moment,” Nu said.
A meth addict on a binge is chaos walking and talking. In the first day or two, his emotion swings. Gregarious one moment. Paranoid the next. Euphoric, and then drowning in the depths of depression. At a certain point, however, usually after he’s spent many days awake, the drug triggers a bout of wild rage, and the tweaker goes rhino trying to destroy anyone and anything around him.
“Any sense of how close we are to that?” I asked Jacobson.
The SWAT officer shook his head. “Not from what we saw.”
“Do we have the listening device planted?” McGoey asked.
Jacobson shook his head again. “Too much snow and ice. We were nervous that if he heard us try to clean the outer window, he might open fire on the hostages.”
“Smart,” I said.
Nu informed us that his men had been able to get permission to enter the homes adjoining the Nicholson residence and were already moving into position.
“I’m putting two snipers to a house, and assault teams in range of every door—front, back, patio, kitchen, garage. If we can distract Fowler at the front door—where these kinds of guys tend to concentrate their attention—we may be able to go in through the back.”
“Alarm system?” I asked.
“Good point,” Nu said. “I’ll have it shut down.”
The discussion had turned to going after Fowler. It frustrated me, but if the man wasn’t going to talk to us, what else could we do?
“Let’s talk about timing,” McGoey said. “I think the longer we wait…”
I noticed something that made me stop listening to him in the middle of his sentence. I saw, over Nu’s shoulder and out through a slit in the tarps, a bundled-up woman tromping through the four inches of snow that now coated the city. She was walking right toward us. I caught a glimpse of her face in a flashlight beam.
It was Bree.
What was wrong? Why was my wife here?
CHAPTER
12
“EXCUSE ME, GENTLEMEN. I’LL BE RIGHT BACK,” I SAID AS I BROKE AWAY FROM the group, and Bree entered the shelter.
“Hey,” I said, going to her. “What’s wrong?”