Amber Morn (11 page)

>> I plan to work with you, Kent. But you are asking for some big things. Tell me this — do you want me to be honest with you, or do you want me to lie?

Kent slapped a hand on the table. “What the —”

“What? What’s he say?” Mitch shifted from one foot to the other.

Kent read the words aloud.

Brad cussed. “Can a cop tell the truth?”

“Both of you,
shut
up!” Kent’s fingers curled into his palms. He hit the keyboard. “Type.”

>> Didn’t I tell you to stop with the stupid questions? Of course I want the truth, or how are we going to get anything done here?

The answer came within a minute.

>> Good. I will be honest. If you and I work together, we can get things done. But communicating on the blog is not the best idea. It’s too slow. Plus anyone can jump in while you and I are trying to talk. I suggest we switch to a phone.

Kent read the words aloud.

“No,”
Brad said. “Uh-uh. The world hears about T.J.” His father ignored him.

>> I TOLD you we use the blog. Everybody heard how “bad” T.J. is — how “guilty” he is. Now they’re going to hear the truth. We STAY ON THE BLOG.

Bailey’s palms were wet. She wiped her hands on her pants. The acrid smell of Kent’s sweat stung her nostrils. He banged a thumb against the table as he waited.

>> What I’m hearing you say is that you want to tell the nation your story. What if we find another way to get your story out? We can use the media. You and I can work out how they’d give good coverage to your message. Meantime you and I can talk privately. That way other people hear only what you want them to hear, not every bit of our conversation.

Kent read it aloud, then stared at the screen. His breath sucked in and out.

Brad shook his head. “Tell him
no
. We don’t start letting him get his way already. We decided on the blog long before we got here.”

“Yeah, yeah, right.” Mitch sniffed.

Kent flicked his fingers at the computer. “Maybe, but this waiting’s annoying. Too slow. I could be stuck here at the computer for hours.”

Brad and Mitch exchanged a look.

Bailey sat with shoulders drawn in and chin down. If only she could melt into the floor. She glanced left. Leslie and Ted clutched hands. Paige hunched in her chair, still as stone and spiritless, eyes focused on the tabletop. Her fingers were tightly intertwined. Bailey’s heart twisted at her grief. Carla and the girls huddled together. Angie’s face blanched. Pastor Hank faced away from Bailey, but she knew he was sending up continual silent prayers. Most of her friends probably were. Although Wilbur looked too irritated to talk to anybody, including God.

Kent smacked Bailey’s arm, and she jumped. “Type.”

“
Don’t
say yes, Dad.” Brad pointed at Kent. “You start giving that cop what he wants, he’ll think we’re weak.”

Kent clenched his teeth. “Can’t a man just think out loud for a minute?” His eyes drove daggers at his son. “Just hold that gun and leave the talking to me.
Got
it?”

Brad pulled his chin up and glared at his father. Kent seethed back. Bailey fixed her gaze on the keyboard, fear clawing her nerves.

“Now.” Kent smacked his knuckles against the table. “You tell that cop this…”

>> What is the matter with you? Can’t you HEAR? I said WE USE THE BLOG. Maybe I WANT other people to see everything you say to me. That ought to keep you honest. You don’t like it, maybe another body out in the street will change your mind.

Kent sat back, a satisfied smile curling his lip. “Let’s see what he does with that.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Another body…

Vince ran a hand through his hair. Not good — Kent Wicksell spoiling for a fight already.

Maybe it was just the man’s adrenaline, still running high. Maybe it was pure bravado. But Vince could hardly count on that. One person had already been shot.

Fingers hanging over the keyboard, Vince calculated his response.

Ali and Brittany
. Of all the hostages, they haunted him most. He pictured the girls huddled at gunpoint, terrified. Ali Frederick with her long auburn hair and big brown eyes. Last year, she’d been pulled into the events surrounding two murders in Kanner Lake. And her mother had nearly died from cancer after that. Gayle Frederick had responded to chemotherapy and was recently declared cancer free. But the pain of the past fourteen months still showed in Ali’s eyes.

And Brittany Hanley — a beautiful girl, with her birth mother, Carla’s, black hair and dark eyes. Vince could hardly imagine the toll this new stress would take. Brittany’s entire life had been upended eight months ago — and in front of national media.

No teenager should have to face what these two girls did. They had already been through so much…

Lord, let them get out of this alive.

Roger’s husky voice filtered from the other office. He was running down crucial data, but now Vince needed to know something else — ASAP. Until he got the information, he was going to have to do some stalling.

He hoped Jim would send someone in to help soon.

Negotiation trainers always talked about “crisis negotiation teams.” A primary negotiator, a secondary, a team leader, an on-scene commander to make the ultimate decisions, the tactical team leader. Never, never should a negotiator also be commander, Vince had heard many times. For numerous reasons. Good negotiators weren’t always good decision makers. An on-scene commander couldn’t split his time between commanding and negotiating. A negotiator often needed to stall for time by “passing the buck” — telling the subject he couldn’t proceed with some compromise until a commander gave him the go-ahead.

All well and good for big city departments. But Vince was working with a minimum number of people, even with ISP’s help. He couldn’t pull numerous officers off containment. Fact was, big-city experts had no idea how small towns had to make do.

He stared at Wicksell’s last message, then typed his answer.

>> No, Kent, I don’t want another body. I have to check some things out about this blog, though. I do want a form of communication we both can rely on.

Vince posted his message and wiped his forehead. Man, it was hot in here. He reached for the desk phone, held it up with dial tone buzzing as he refreshed the comments box.

>> What do you have to check out?

Vince put the phone back down.

>> Kent, sometimes these comments don’t work right. The letter verifications often have to be typed in more than once before they’ll “take.” And sometimes the system goes down for maintenance and then you can’t access the blogs at all. I need to call Google, make sure nothing’s going to be shut down on us.

Vince posted the comment, then called Jim at the Lakeshore site. “How’s it looking down there?”

“I’m handling it.” Jim sounded distracted. “Al reports we’ve got a few volunteer firemen gathering at the media site, wondering what they can do. Is it okay if one of them comes up and helps Roger?”

“Yeah. Actually, we need two people. Roger needs help now, and if I can move off this blog, I’m going to need a scribe.” The scribe would take notes on communications over the telephone. “If Justin Black’s down there, he’d be my first choice.” In his younger days Justin had been on a SWAT team in Nevada and done some negotiating.

“He’s not here, but I’ll try to reach him. How about Larry to help Roger?”

Larry Emmet was sixty-seven, a retired teacher and avid outdoorsman who exuded energy. “Fine. Send them both over as soon as you can.”

Vince hung up the phone and clicked the mouse.

>> I don’t believe you, Edwards! I’m sick of you trying to get me off this blog!!

Vince’s throat ran dry. So much anger. Gave him a bad feeling in his gut.

Roger appeared. “Found the
Spokane Review
article for you online. I’ll let you read it, then I’ll tack it up.” He laid it on the desk. “The judge is in Spokane. I’m trying to reach his cell phone. Also working on the prosecutor and defense attorney.”

Vince glanced at the article. He’d get to it as soon as he could. “Thanks. While you’re in here, would you get me some water? And call John Truitt immediately — ask if there’s an easy way to hide this blog from the public. If not, we’re going to have to work with Google.”

“Right-o.” Roger left the office.

There was another issue, one Vince hoped he wouldn’t have to mention to Kent. Blogs were a form of national public communications. If one was being used in a crime, the FBI would become involved. Jurisdiction could get sticky. Vince didn’t need to be slowed down by fights over who did what.

Roger brought Vince a cup of water and hurried back to his phone.

Vince guzzled a drink, then focused on the keyboard.

>> Kent, most of the time the blogs are fine. But you can’t always rely on them. What if I’m about to tell you something about T.J., and suddenly everything goes blank? Since you want to use this blog, I have to make sure it will be reliable for us. I am making some phone calls right now. Please give me a minute to do that. I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.

Lying in negotiations was a real gamble. Vince wasn’t happy he’d resorted to it so soon. Sometimes a negotiator had to stretch the truth. But he’d doggone well better not be caught, or he’d lose all credibility with Kent.

Within minutes Roger hustled back, a pad of paper in his hands. “First of all, no surprise — John wants to come down here and help. He does know all about this blog. Says he’s the one who puts up a lot of the posts. Even though it looks like they’re posted at 7:00 a.m., he actually puts them up the night before from home.”

Vince was already shaking his head. “No, can’t have him here. He’s too close to the situation. Just… thank him and have him stand by his phone. But what’d he tell you?”

“He gave me the user name and password. Here.” Roger tore off the top piece of paper from his notepad and laid it on the desk. “I’ll put it on the board too. He also said taking the blog private is easy, but he questioned whether you could do it without them knowing. You go to “Setting,” then “Permissions” to make it private for just blog authors. First you’d have to sign in under Bailey’s user name and password so you wouldn’t be blocked. The question is what it does to the blog. Will some message about the new restriction come up that they’ll see on their end? John didn’t know.”

Not what he wanted to hear. Vince rubbed his forehead. “Okay, call Google. If we can’t go private the normal way, maybe they can do it on their end. But stress that I need it done without the other party knowing about it. And I need their answer soon as you can get it.”

Which may not be very fast,
thought Vince as Roger walked to the situation board and started writing. It was Saturday. Techs worked 24/7, but online, not by phone. An online answer could take days, and besides, no techie would have the authority to take some public blog private. They’d need a decision maker in the company.

Vince positioned his forefingers over the keys. One important rule in negotiating: Never give something without getting something back. If he agreed to use the blog, he wanted a concession in return. And it wouldn’t be a small one. But first he needed some time.

>> Kent, we’re having trouble contacting Google to make sure they’ll take care of us. It’s not helping that this is Saturday. I will keep trying.

The answer shot back.

>> Stop talking about it and just do it! You’ve got five minutes.

Five minutes
. Hardly. But Vince couldn’t afford to be silent for long. Talking — about anything — was good. As long as they were talking, Kent’s attention was on him, not on harming the hostages.

But for now, he’d take the five minutes. It was important to learn a little more about the man he was dealing with.

Vince picked up the
Spokane Review
article.

TWENTY-NINE

Bailey listened to the clock tick.

Kent waited for Vince’s response impatiently, scratching his arm, tapping a foot. He was beginning to mirror Mitch. Bailey clasped her hands in her lap, nerves pinging. She felt Kent looking at her, as if he sought distraction. She slid him a glance.

He smirked. “Bet you never thought your blog would be used for such a great purpose, huh?”

She made no response.

“Make you proud?”

Bailey licked her lips. “You want me to be proud that you’ve used Scenes and Beans to take my friends hostage?” Her voice wavered, and she worked to steady it. “To shoot Frank?”

Kent shrugged. “He was a cop.”