Amber Morn (13 page)

Roger’s voice filtered into his ears. The man was still on the phone in the other office. Vince strained to listen. Sounded like he was trying to get through to someone at Google.

Maybe Vince could stall Wicksell a little longer.

He picked up his water and downed what remained. As he set down the cup, his cell phone rang. He checked the ID.
Nancy
. He flipped it open.

“Hi, honey. You got my message.”

“Yes.” Her voice sounded tight. Vince’s heart panged. Nancy was a strong woman, but the last couple of years had taken their toll. First Tim’s death, then all that had occurred in Kanner Lake. “Vince, tell me you’re safe.”

“I’m very safe. My job’s to talk them out of there.”

No point in telling her about the sneak and snatch. Later.

“I can hear it in your voice already — the load is all on you.” Nancy’s words cracked. “And I’m just heartbroken over Frank…”

Vince listened to her ragged breathing. Sudden rage at Kent Wicksell shot through him. The man wanted to protect his own son — and didn’t care who he hurt in the process. “Me too.”

“Where’d they take him?”

“KMC.” Kootenai Medical Center in Coeur d’Alene. “Sarah Wray too.”

“Let me know when you hear anything about them, okay?”

“I will.”

“I love you, Vince.”

“Love you too.”

He laid down his cell and grabbed the mouse. Clicked the comments box. Two new messages had been posted. One from an outsider — exactly what he feared. And one from Java Joint.

>> Vince, it’s Bailey. Kent told me to talk to you. Where are you? He’s not patient at all in waiting for your answer. He has the story of what happened the night of Marya’s murder — in T.J.’s own words. He wants me to type this story into a post so everyone can read what really happened. You need to say yes to this, or he says I will die. He doesn’t care — there are other typists in here, so I’m expendable. Please answer now.

Air seeped from Vince’s lungs. Bailey Truitt — one of the kindest women he knew.

He typed quickly.

>> I’m here, Kent. We’re still trying to get through to Google, but in the meantime we can continue to talk here. No need to make threats. I’d rather concentrate on helping you. But how do we do this? If you want Bailey to type a document, that’s going to take time. In the meantime you and I won’t be able to communicate. Is this what you want?

He sent the comment and almost immediately received a response.

>> Yeah. You have enough to do. Go find that lowlife prosecutor and the judge who put my son in prison!

Vince hoped they could do that — and soon.

>> I will agree to working on finding the judge and prosecutor while Bailey types, but I expect something from you in return. This is a two-way street. I do something for you, you do something for me.

Roger stuck his head in the door. “I’ve got some calls in to Google. Waiting to hear back. Meantime, Jim says Frank’s in surgery. He’s going to be in there awhile — there’s a lot to repair. But he might make it.”

Vince soaked in the news. “Oh, that’s wonderful! I didn’t think he had much of a chance.”

“I know. It’s still touch and go, but…” Roger winced. “Also, Sarah’s had the bullet removed from her arm. She’s sedated but okay. Her husband’s with her.”

“Okay, good.” A thought struck Vince. “Did somebody alert Frank’s parents?”

“Did that first thing. Just called them back with this news. They’re already on their way to the airport.”

Frank had grown up in the area, but his parents had recently moved to Seattle because of a transfer in his father’s employment.

Vince shook his head. “Glad you remembered. I should have.”

A shrug. “You got enough on your mind.” Roger rapped the threshold with his fingers and withdrew.

Vince checked the comments box.

>> What makes you think you’re in a position to ask for ANYTHING?

Vince stared at the words. If Wicksell didn’t start showing a willingness to negotiate, the situation could go south in a hurry.

>> Kent, you want me to help get the story out about T.J. I said I would. But you’ve got to work with me. Also, you need to be mindful of something. While you are telling the nation about your son’s innocence, the media are already putting out word that you’ve taken a dozen people hostage and shot a police officer. Can you see how this makes it hard for people to believe you? It would help a lot if they can see you’re working with me as I try to help you.

Vince read over his words twice. Clicked
submit
.

He waited for a reply, muscles tense.
Come on, Wicksell, give me something.

What if the man flat out wouldn’t listen to logic? He already refused to believe the truth about his son.

Vince refreshed the comments box. No answer.

Tried fifteen seconds later. Nothing.

A minute ticked by. He kept trying.

Two minutes.

Three.

Maybe they weren’t checking comments. Maybe Bailey was typing T.J.’s story.

Maybe not.

Vince broke out in fresh sweat.

THIRTY-TWO

Bailey’s heart flailed against her chest like the wings of a trapped bird.

She sat at the computer, eyes glued to the monitor, hands clutched in her lap. Kent stalked back and forth along the tables shoved against the right wall, kicking at one, shoving a chair at another. He clutched his gun in his left hand. Fear of being trapped in his own game rolled off him in waves.

This man was deadly enough in control. But if he felt cornered, saw no way to get what he wanted, Bailey
knew
he’d gun down every hostage in that room. It was in the way he moved, every expression on his face.

Bailey sensed the rising tension of the other hostages. Brittany and Ali muffled sobs, Leslie shifted in her chair, someone farther down coughed. Mitch and Brad pointed their high-powered guns at the group with intensity, as if itching to pull the triggers.

Brad stood before Wilbur’s stool, feet planted firmly apart, his expression crimped with anger. “
Don’t
do it; don’t give in to anything! He’ll just —”

Kent threw his gun down on a table, picked up a chair, and flung it across the floor. It landed with a loud clatter and slid within three feet of his oldest son.

Mitch cursed and jumped sideways. His face flushed. “Good, Dad, hit me next time.”

Kent stomped toward him, finger raised and shaking. “I don’t want to hear nothin’ else out of either of you!” He glowered at Brad. “Just keep your opinions to yourself and let me
think
!”

Brad and Mitch fell into a sullen silence. Minutes strained by. Kent stomped around, heels hard against the floor. Bailey stole a glance at her friends. Angie clutched her palms together in a sign of prayer. Brad saw her and laughed with derision.

Kent whipped toward him, hands clenched. “I swear, Brad, I’m going to throw you out that back door —”

“I wasn’t laughing at
you
.” Brad jerked his gun. Bailey cringed.

“Fine, don’t laugh at anybody. Just shut up!”

“I’m tired of you telling me to shut up!”

“You weren’t here, you wouldn’t be hearing it.” Kent’s voice lowered to cold rage. “I let you come along, but I’m still in charge. Got that?”

“Fine, Dad, you handle it. Mitch and I’ll just stand here aiming our guns all day while you pace around and talk to yourself. Why don’t you just tell that cop where to stick it?”

“Because he’s
right
.” Kent spat the word. “Everyone out there” — he waved his arm toward the covered windows — “is going to be watching. And they’ll want to see
something
from us.”

Bailey gave her head the slightest shake. Didn’t they think of this before?

“Yeah, well, make it something later. Like I said, too soon and you tip your hand.”

“Why don’t you just ask him what he wants?” Mitch’s torso rocked. “Ain’t no skin off your nose to go that far. See whether you want to play along or not.”

“If I may.” Jared Moore dared to raise a hand, his voice calm. Kent and Brad glared at him.

Mitch stretched his neck right, left. “You got to go to the bathroom again?”

Jared kept a steady gaze on Kent, signaling that he recognized him as the man in charge.

Kent puffed out air. “What?”

Jared cleared his throat. “I know the media, how they think. We got two sides here, both needing something. You want people to hear your story. Reporters
want
that story. Every reporter wants to get it first. But once your story’s in that reporter’s hands, it’s out of your control. He or she can put his own spin on it. He can make you look bad or he can make you look good. Instead of worrying about this blog, I suggest you choose one or two reporters to feed information to. Give them T.J.’s document. Tell them they’ll keep hearing first as long as they represent your story well. Ask Chief Edwards to set that up for you, and in return you’ll talk to him about doing ‘something for him,’ like he says. That way you’ll move forward in a positive manner without relinquishing control,
and
you’ll have better access to the media.”

Jared fell silent. Mitch and Brad considered him, then cut their eyes to Kent.

“Who you got in mind?” Kent surveyed Jared with suspicion. “And don’t you dare say Robert Maxey from the
Spokane Review
.”

Brad and Mitch scoffed.

Jared tapped a finger against the table. “I was thinking television, not newspaper. Faster dissemination that way. I’d say Jeremy Cole from Channel 2 and Teresa Wright, the Channel 4 evening anchor. That way you have two stations in case one of them doesn’t work for you.”

Kent sniffed. “How would I get to ’em?”

“Email them. Chief Edwards could get their addresses.” Kent considered him for another moment, then sneered. “Well, thank you for your idea, Mr. Reporterman. But
I’ll
make the decisions in here.”

His eyes swung to Brad.

He snatched up his gun and stood staring at a blacked-out window. Mitch and Brad exchanged glances.

Fresh fear stabbed Bailey. To watch Kent Wicksell fight with himself, to know that any one of them could be gunned down just to prove he was in control…

Kent jerked around and stared at the computer. Then filled his lungs, nostrils flaring. He strode back to the computer like a man on a new mission. Smacked a palm against the table. “Type.”

>> You want something, cop? Fine, here’s what I’ll give you. I’ll move off the blog, and me and you can use the phone — on these conditions. First you get me the email addresses of Jeremy Cole at Channel 2 and Teresa Wright at Channel 4. I will send T.J.’s story only to them, IF they will read the ENTIRE THING on TV. And they have to make us LOOK GOOD to people. Long as they do that, we’ll stay on the phone.

Bailey posted the comment, keeping her face expressionless. But a tinge of hope blended with her fright. Kent Wicksell’s need to be in charge made him unpredictable, but it was also his weak spot. Jared had seen that.

Brad smacked his tongue against his teeth. “Terrific. Only I don’t see no TV in here. How we going to know what they’re doing?”

“You think I haven’t thought of that?” Kent shot back. He turned his narrowed eyes on Bailey. “You got a cable outlet in here?”

She shook her head.

He cursed under his breath. “Well, then, a snowy picture will have to do.” He pressed his knuckles into her shoulder. “Tell him we want a TV.”

A TV?
The hope withered. That meant someone had to bring it. Bailey imagined someone from the outside world stepping into this nightmare. He’d probably either become a hostage too or be shot as he tried to leave.

“
Do
it.”

Heart sinking, Bailey placed her fingers on the keys.

>> We want a TV brought in so we can watch the news.

“Hey, Dad.” Brad leaned one elbow on the counter, a smirk on his face. “I got an idea. Tell ’em you want that man who dragged the cop away to deliver it.”

THIRTY-THREE

>> I’ll move off the blog…

Satisfaction trickled through Vince as he finished reading the message.
Yes.
Finally Wicksell was showing a willingness to compromise.

What had happened to change his mind?

Never let your guard down
. The words of an expert from Vince’s training whispered in his head. A volatile HT could turn negative just as quickly.

Vince’s brain churned logistics. He could agree to contacting the reporters. No doubt they would love being handed semi-exclusive stories, even if it was their day off. And thanks to the Patriot Act, he could better control what they said. Established after 9/11, the Patriot Act gave law enforcement greater latitude in instructing the media during terrorist acts — and this would be considered as such.