Izzy had. They sprouted on the highways in the Deep South. They showed a picture of a beautiful little black baby and a slogan: THE MOST DANGEROUS PLACE FOR AN AFRICAN AMERICAN IS IN THE WOMB. A picture of President Obama and the words EVERY 21 MINUTES OUR NEXT POTENTIAL LEADER IS ABORTED.

“White people are the ones who put up those up. Race isn’t exactly a walk in the park in this country,” Dr. Ward said. “If the antis frame their opposition to choice as antiracism, it looks like they’re trying to help black women. But a law that keeps black women from having abortions also keeps white women from having them. The only person who can give birth to a white baby is a white woman. Those same white women are working outside the home and bucking traditional family values, and by 2050 whites will be in the minority. When you look at it like that, it’s a little clearer who those billboards are really benefiting.” He looked at Izzy’s expression and smiled a little. “You think I’ve lost too much blood.”

“No. No. I just never thought of that before.”

Dr. Ward leaned back against the frame of the couch. “It’s all I think about.” He glanced at her tourniquet. “You are one damn fine nurse.”

“Stop flirting now.”

“You’re a little skinny and pale for my tastes,” he joked.

“Well, too bad. You’re a unicorn—a smart guy who isn’t threatened by women. I think you might be the biggest feminist I’ve ever met.”

“You bet I am. I love women. All women.”

Izzy cut a glance toward Janine, still passed out on the floor. “All women?”

“All women,” Dr. Ward repeated. “And you should, too.” He turned to Izzy. “Like it or not, you’re in this fight together.”

—

WREN HADN’T COME HERE FOR an abortion. The numbing relief Hugh felt knowing that was eclipsed by the truth that she was still being held hostage, because she wanted to get birth control.

But she hadn’t wanted him to know.

Hugh would have taken her, if she had just asked.

Why hadn’t she asked? Why had she gone to Bex? Why hadn’t his sister confided in him?

He knew Bex had been looking for mercy, for Hugh to say, This wasn’t your fault. But he hadn’t been able to do it. Because if it wasn’t Bex’s fault that Wren was in there, then Hugh had to admit that it might be his own.

He wouldn’t have flown off the handle, if Wren had come to him. It wasn’t in his DNA. In fact he was so good at plastering his emotions with a thick layer of calm that it took someone who had known him all his life to know there were cracks beneath the surface. When Annabelle left Hugh, she had slapped him to see if she could get a rise out of him. Hugh had told Bex, afterward. She said no one could blame her for leaving me for someone with human emotions, he’d said. He had rested his elbows on his knees and buried the heels of his hands in his eyes. The thing is, if you saw the stuff I do every day on the job, you’d do anything to not feel.

Bex. How the hell could Bex have brought his daughter here?

He knew the answer to that. What his sister had envisioned was a free clinic, a half-hour appointment, and a prescription for the Pill. The only person who would get hurt in this scenario was Hugh, for not being in the know. Bex hadn’t thought about protesters or gunmen. She wouldn’t have, swimming in the back of her consciousness, statistics of violence at other women’s health clinics. Only someone who had been doing what Hugh had been doing for years would assume the worst could happen.

The thing was, the worst hadn’t happened … yet. Bex was safe, now. And Wren would be, no matter what it cost him.

Beyond the command tent, the reporters had formed a line, each faced by a cameraman, like they were arranged for some courtly dance. Hugh heard the closest reporter spout absolute and total bullshit to fill up time on a live feed. “The question, of course,” the reporter said, “is where did the gun come from? Who sold him the gun? It’s worth remembering that a dishonorable discharge may be a military court ruling, but it’s still a felony, and for Goddard to have a gun would be illegal—”

Hugh closed his eyes. He pushed away the voices of the reporters and thoughts of Bex and Wren hiding from a lunatic with a gun. No distractions, he told himself. No distractions.

He dialed his phone, and George picked up on the third ring. “That was great,” Hugh said. “You released someone who really needed help. I knew you and I could work together.” Hugh wiped his forehead. It was hotter than hell.

“I’m not working with you,” George said. “You’re a fucking cop.”

Hugh closed his eyes. It was going to be considerably worse when the SWAT team arrived, which could be any minute now. Which meant he had limited time to woo his hostage taker.

“I’m a negotiator,” Hugh corrected. “You’re the only reason I’m here.”

He forced himself to block out the people around him—emergency personnel and media. If he was going to do his job, he had to create a space that was just him, George, and no one else. It was a seduction, and Hugh would say anything he had to in order to reach the endgame.

“Look,” Hugh said, “a lot of these guys out here, they make assumptions. Not me. I know you’re smart. The fact that you let that woman get medical attention proves it.”

That woman.

As if Bex hadn’t basically raised him after his father died and his mother started drinking.

He hesitated, waiting to see if George would take the bait. “Are there others inside who need help?”

“I’m not letting anyone else go.”

“This could be a win-win, George. If there are more people in there with you who are hurt, and you send them outside, then you don’t have to worry about them … and it makes you look compassionate to everyone out here.”

A young detective tapped Hugh on the shoulder. She held up a cellphone. “His pastor,” the detective whispered.

Hugh nodded and held up a finger for her to wait a moment. “George, is anyone else in there hurt?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because you opened the door, and I kept my promise. I waited. I didn’t rush the clinic and storm in. You can trust me.”

“To do what? Screw me over in the end?”

The detective scribbled on a piece of paper and waved it beneath Hugh’s nose. BORN AGAIN.

“No. To do unto others as you would have them do unto you,” Hugh said.

“You a Christian?”

“Yes,” Hugh said, although he wasn’t a religious man at all. “Are you?”

He could hear George’s breathing. “Not anymore.”

Hugh looked down at the piece of paper that the detective had handed him. “God will forgive you for what you’ve done, George.”

“What makes you think I’ll forgive Him?” George said, and the line went dead.

Hugh grabbed the cellphone from the detective. “Hugh McElroy,” he said. “Who am I speaking to?”

“Pastor Mike Kearns,” a man replied. “I lead the Eternal Life Church up in Denmark.”

“Thanks for calling, Pastor. I understand you know George Goddard?”

“George used to be our church handyman. Landscaping, carpentry, you name it. I don’t think there’s anything he can’t fix.”

“When did he stop working for you?”

“Six months ago, give or take?” Shame crept into the pastor’s voice. “We had some storm damage and the budget got tight. Now, we have volunteers doing what George used to do.”

“Have you been watching the news today, Pastor?”

“No, I’ve been officiating at a funeral—”

“George Goddard shot up the Women’s Center in Jackson and is currently holding several hostages.”

“What? No. No, that isn’t the man I know.”

Hugh didn’t have time for this man’s existential crisis. “Did he exhibit any violent tendencies when you employed him?”

“George? Never.”

“Was he pro-life?”

“Well,” the pastor said, “our congregation believes in protecting the rights of the unborn—”

“Enough to kill people to get your message heard?”

The pastor drew in his breath. “I don’t appreciate being tried for my faith, Officer—”

“Lieutenant. Lieutenant McElroy. And I don’t appreciate people who waltz into a clinic and start killing innocent bystanders.”

“Killing? My God.”

“You can have Him,” Hugh said under his breath. “Listen, Pastor, I don’t mean to attack you. But there are people in that clinic who might die. Anything you can tell me about George Goddard that could help me understand him and his motivations would be greatly appreciated.”

“I met him a little over fifteen years ago,” Pastor Mike said. “He showed up one night in the church, carrying his baby. She was sick, feverish. His wife was gone.”

“Dead?”

“No. She left him, but he never would say why.”

Hugh’s mind began to turn, mixing possibilities. Had she run because her husband was violent? Had he stolen the baby and left her? Was she still alive somewhere?

“Do you know her name?” Hugh said, pulling the cap of a pen off with his teeth.

“No,” the pastor said. “He wouldn’t even speak of her. It was always just George and Lil.”

“Lil?”

“His daughter. Good girl. Used to sing in the church choir.”

All Hugh had known about George’s daughter was that she had come here for an abortion. But now, he also knew her name. Hugh held his hand over the speaker of the phone. “Lil Goddard,” he barked at the young detective. “Find her.”

—