The chief was focused on the man with the gun, who was ranting about getting ripped off and not being able to trust anyone. Hadley ignored him. She stuck her hand up in the air to get someone's attention. The chief's eyes never wavered from the window where the shooter was hunkered down, but behind the squad car's tail, Kevin Flynn poked his head up and nodded once. He had been the MKPD's least experienced officer before she was sworn in, and his persistent attempts to be helpful and friendly didn't lessen the gall of playing catch-up with a guy eight years her junior. She hoped he was good at charades-there was no way she could use her radio this close to the house-as she laid her gun on the grass next to her.

First she jerked her thumb toward the rear of the farmhouse: back there. She used two hands to make the universal feminine shape, out, in, out: a woman. She drew a finger across her throat: dead. She held one hand like a pistol and "shot" herself in the chest.

Flynn shook his head as if to clear it, then nodded again. His red hair disappeared, to pop up again moments later, behind the chief. The chief heard whatever it was Flynn said to him. His eyes narrowed and his skin seemed to stretch across his cheekbones. He murmured something to Flynn, who slid into one of the cruisers and grabbed a mic.

"What's going on?" the shooter asked. "What's he doing on the radio?"

"I just told him to ask the state troopers to stay back a ways." Van Alstyne held up one hand. "I want you and me to have the time we need to talk our way out of this thing. Can't do that with a bunch of staties with guns hanging around."

More likely Flynn was telling the SWAT team to detour its sharpshooters farther along the road leading to the Christies' half-mile drive. If they went the long way around and stuck to a narrow approach through the sheep pasture, they could make it to the barn without being seen. Once inside, they would have an ideal vantage point through the haymow and upper windows.