Amber Morn (19 page)

“I got an idea.” Brad’s voice sounded singsong. Taunting. Brittany couldn’t see his face without looking halfway over her shoulder — and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She focused on the table.

Footsteps. He’d gotten off the stool. Brad sauntered over to where his father had stood. Brittany could feel his evil.

Carla tensed.

Suddenly all of Brittany’s courage melted away. Just like that. She pulled in her shoulders — but her gaze drifted up to Brad’s face before she could stop it.

He gave her a smile that chilled her soul. “Maybe we
will
let your mom go with you. On one condition. First you and me take a little trip down the hall.”

FORTY-FOUR

Vince looked up from the monitor to find himself alone in the office. He could hear Roger and Jack talking in the lobby. Justin must have taken a bathroom break. Vince had been concentrating so hard on T.J.’s story, he hadn’t noticed him leave.

His gaze returned to the screen.
New evidence, Wicksell? Where’s the proof?
There was nothing in that document but T.J.’s version of events. Anyone with half a brain could have made up that alibi while cooling his heels in a jail cell.

But something nagged at Vince…

Wait, hold those thoughts. He needed to forward the email to the reporters.

Frowning, he typed in their addresses and shot them the document. Watched the
send
icon until it stopped moving.

He sat back, staring across the room at Kent Wicksell’s photo.

As far as he knew, the jury had never heard T.J.’s story. Shouldn’t Lester Tranning have presented it in court?

Not if there was nothing to back it up. And evidently there wasn’t. No witness had ever come forward regarding another person running from the scene.

Still, Lester didn’t have much of a defense. T.J.’s prints were on the knife. Marya’s blood was on his shirt. He was the last person to see her alive. With such a strong case for the prosecution, why didn’t Lester put T.J. on the stand and let him tell his story?

But then T.J. would have had to endure Mick Wiley’s heavy cross-examination.
Let me get this straight, Mr. Wicksell. You lied to the police. You lied to your mother. Why should we believe you now?
Mick would have torn T.J. apart. And knowing how Tranning didn’t trust the prosecutor to begin with…

Vince had to wonder. If the old feud between Tranning and Wiley didn’t exist, would Tranning have handled the case differently?

He pushed the thoughts away and stood. Time was ticking, and he needed to brief Jack Little.

Soon he and Jack stood before the situation board, figuring details of the TV exchange, what each of Jack’s men would do. They would all be needed at various posts. Someone else would have to take the TV to the café’s door. Jack was fired up, missing no details, his words in staccato. Vince knew when all of this was over, each of Jack’s daughters would get an extra hug.

“Looks like those building plans for Java Joint are your copy.” Vince pointed to the set Jack had laid on the floor by the board.

“Yeah. Let’s just hope we don’t need them.”

“Agreed.” If negotiations failed and they had to go tactical, those plans would provide critical information for the CRT. “You have a monitor you can bring in here for me? I’m going to want the helicopter to film the exchange.”

“We have one. I’ll have a tech set it up. You want connection to one of our frontal cameras afterwards?”

“Absolutely.” Vince glanced at his watch. He needed to wrap this up so Jack could get back to his post. “Anything else?”

“Think we’re set. I’ll get down and brief my men.”

“Good. Let’s get those girls
out
of there.” Vince held out his hand, and Jack gripped it hard.

FORTY-FIVE

John Truitt swallowed his last midday pill and stared at the kitchen sink. The faint scent of vegetable soup rose from his empty bowl. Somehow he’d managed to eat in order to take the medication. Now the smell threatened to turn his stomach.

He rinsed the bowl and spoon and put them in the dishwasher.

Not knowing what to do next, he leaned both hands on the tile and fixed his gaze out the window.

Everywhere he looked in the backyard, he saw Bailey’s touch. In the multicolored flowers along the white fence, planted and tended by her hands. In the perfect arrangement of outdoor furniture on the patio. Even the grass reminded him of her. On summer evenings she loved to walk through it barefoot. She’d toss back her hair and smile at the sky, reveling in the joy of just
living
…

John’s throat squeezed.

I can’t stay here anymore
.

The thought surged within him like a rogue wave. He swung away from the sink, one hand thrust in his hair. With food in his stomach he felt better. Now he needed to
do something
. At least while Vince had talked to Kent Wicksell on the blog, John knew what was going on. Now he’d been cut off. Abandoned. Couldn’t even deliver the TV to Java Joint’s door — and maybe catch a glimpse of his wife’s face.

TV.

News.

He strode from the kitchen into the living room. Turned on the television and flipped to a local channel. A golf tournament. He changed to Channel 2.

A sagging front porch and run-down house filled the screen. The picture had the feel of live coverage. A reporter stood in the scruffy front yard.

“This is Tony Brewer at the house owned by Kent Wicksell, who, along with his sons Brad and Mitch, has taken a dozen people hostage in the Java Joint Coffee Shop in Kanner Lake. Lenora Wicksell, Kent’s wife, and the mother of the two sons, is at home. We have knocked on her door repeatedly, but she refuses to answer.”

Fisting his hands, John stared at the scene. Through a window — a shadow of movement. Lenora Wicksell was home all right.

John swiveled back to the kitchen. Pulled open the drawer that held the phone book and yanked it out.
Wicksell… Wicksell…
There it was! Listed under Kent and Lenora. Address included.

Lenora Wicksell. John tried to imagine her face. What was she thinking right now? Had she known what her husband and sons were going to do?

Could she talk them
out
of Java Joint?

Gripping the phone book, he practically ran for the office.

On the computer, he searched Yahoo! Maps for the address. It was a little road off Highway 95, north of Hayden. John pictured the drive from Kanner Lake. Over to Highway 41 and south. East on Hayden Avenue over to Highway 95.

He could be there in twenty-five minutes.

Energized with new purpose, he printed out the map.

FORTY-SIX

Brittany sat frozen, eyes fixed on a small dent in the table. Carla clung to her arm like she’d never let go.

“What d’ya say, Brittany?” Brad hovered nearby, his gun barrel feet from her head.

“She says no,” Carla hissed.

Mitch had moved toward the other end of the café, where Bailey sat. He laughed in his throat. “I’ll take second round.”

“Leave her alone.” Wilbur’s shoulders reared back. “You two are a couple a big men, ain’t ya. Twice her size, with guns —”

“Nobody asked you, old man.” Brad’s tone could have melted steel. He swung his weapon at Wilbur. “You know what’s good for you, you’ll shut up right
now
.”

No, no.
Brittany’s eyes burned. This was her fault. She never should have said anything.

Okay, just get me and Ali out of here!

She pictured running out the door. The feel of freedom. The fresh air. Just on the other side of that door was
life
.

But what about Carla? What if they
killed
her? What if they dumped her out in the street like Frank? Brittany would never forgive herself.

Down the hall, the bathroom door opened. Kent’s heavy footsteps approached. He stopped somewhere behind Brittany, near the first table. “Hey. What’s going on?”

Brad drew a long breath. “Just having a little conversation with the girl.”

“He’s threatening her.” Pastor Hank’s voice sounded thick with disgust.

Brad swore. “I’m not threatening anybody.”

“Yes, you are,” Wilbur retorted.

Brad lurched toward him. “I told you, old man —”

Ali screamed. Pastor Hank and Wilbur shouted, and Carla half rose from her chair.

“Shut up, shut
up
, everybody!” Kent stalked to Brad and shoved him back. “Get over to that stool and
stay
there.” He pointed at Carla. “
You
, sit down!” He stomped across the room toward his gun. “Can’t I leave you two in charge for
one minute
?”

“Don’t yell at
me
, I was just standing here!” Mitch’s skinny face reddened.

“Don’t yell at me either!” Brad hurled. “You couldn’t have
done
this without me today.”

Kent snatched his weapon from the table and marched over to Brad, getting in his face. “Then why we got everybody shouting, huh? Things was
just fine
when I left the room.”

“Just fine, really? You had a
girl
telling you what to do!”

Kent’s face went purple. He pushed Brad backward, his words low and shaking. “I said get over and sit down! Or you can leave
right now
.”

Brad’s mouth twisted. He shot Brittany a look to kill and stormed over to the counter.

“And you!” Kent glared at Mitch. “Get over here in the middle where you belong.”

Mitch’s eyes narrowed, but he moved.

Kent whirled on the hostages. Brought up his gun. “Any one of you says
one word
, you die. Got it?”

Nobody moved.

He strode over to Brittany. The smell of his sweat filled her nose. “Happy now?” He spat. “This is all your fault.”

She tried to say something, but her throat swelled shut. Ali had both fists pressed to her mouth.

Kent breathed out like some mad bull. Suddenly he grabbed Ali’s shoulder with one huge hand and yanked her out of her seat. She screamed. Carla and half the people in the room screamed. Kent stuck his nose in Ali’s white face. “You want to leave this place, or you want to
die
?”

Ali’s chin trembled. She opened her mouth but no sound came out.

Brittany’s muscles turned to lead.

Kent shook Ali. “
Answer
me!”

“I — I want… to go.”

He shoved her back down. She landed hard and burst into tears. Carla grabbed her arm.

“Then do yourself a favor.” Kent lashed a finger at Ali’s chest. “Tell your friend to keep her mouth shut.”

Ali just cried.

“You want to live, girl?” Kent grabbed a wad of her hair and pulled. “
Say
it.”

Oh, Ali, I’m so sorry. God, please…

Ali raised her eyes to Brittany. Her lips trembled so much she could hardly talk. “K-keep your m-mouth shut.”

Kent grunted and pushed her head away.

Ali bent over the table, sobbing.

Hatred for the Wicksells flamed up and branded Brittany’s soul.
I hope you all rot in jail
.

FORTY-SEVEN

Vince took a call from Al at the media site. Stan Seybert had volunteered his TV.

“His friend Bud Halloway drove him home to get it,” Al said. “They’ll be ready to deliver it to CRT in about ten minutes.”

“Great.” Adrenaline shivered Vince’s bones. He’d rest a whole lot easier when those two girls were safe.

Roger hustled into the office, followed by Larry, who headed to the situation board. “I got through to Judge Hadkin, and he’s on his way.” Roger held out a piece of paper to Vince. “Here’s his cell number. Larry’s putting it up.”

“Good. Tell Jim to have Lester and Mick wait until the judge arrives, then escort them all in together.”

“Okay.” Roger eyed him. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” He gestured with his head toward the other office.

“Sure.” Vince followed him out.

In the second office, Roger shut the door. “We still need an officer to take the TV to Java Joint’s door?”

“Yeah. I was just going to talk to Jim about that. He’ll have to find someone from ISP.”

“Let me do it.”

“Why? I need you here.”

Roger ran his tongue beneath his upper lip. “I got friends in there, Vince.”

“We all got friends in there.”

He dipped his head sideways —
Yeah, I hear you
. “Let me do it. I’m a skinny guy — don’t look like a threat. I’ll get those girls away from there.”

Vince studied him. “This about your stepdaughter?”

Roger scratched his jaw. “She is that age.”

“She hang around with Ali?”

Resignation flickered across Roger’s face, as if he knew how Vince would respond to his answer. “Yeah. Good friends.”