Ransom River

by Meg Gardiner

  “You’ve got Nixon’s phone—you can find out who he was contacting.”

  Zelinski’s mouth stretched into cold and toothy approximation of a smile. Rory thought, Burn phone. Prepaid, used only during the courthouse attack, and then dumped. And whoever he was texting probably did the same.

  Zelinski leaned forward. “Outside agenda. I agree. But I can’t help wondering whether you’re part of it.”

  The room seemed obscenely bright. The hum from the lights and ventilation system sounded electric.

  “No,” she said. “What are you talking about?”

  “Outside forces. Sounds completely plausible. The gunmen had confederates outside. But they also had one inside.”

  “Not me.” She heard the shock in her voice, and the note of panic.

  Xavier said, “Show her the rest of the video.”

  Zelinski pressed Play again. The silent gray video showed Judge Wieland lying shot on the floor, gripping his robe in agony. On-screen Rory turned to Reagan, her face stricken. Her words didn’t need a lip reader.

  “We’ve got to get him help. You—”

  Zelinski paused the video. “‘We’ve got to get him help.’”

  She said nothing.

  “Not you,” Zelinski said. “We. If I remember my grammar, we means the first person plural. We means ‘our group.’ It means us. And it means you’re done.”

  This wasn’t bad. This was crazy bad.

  She said, “We meant all of us in the courtroom. Judge Wieland needed help. I didn’t think about grammar; I just spoke.”

  Zelinski was leaning forward like a dog at the end of its chain. “You were speaking to somebody on your team. You were under pressure. You let it slip.”

  “No.” And she finally got a grip on herself. She put her hands on the table. “I’m done talking until I speak with a lawyer.”

  Xavier looked gravely disappointed. Slowly, with what seemed immense frustration, she shut her notebook. Zelinski, however, looked pleased. He looked like he had just won a jackpot on the slots.

  “What was the agenda?” Zelinski said.

  Xavier put her pen away. “Never mind, Gary.”

  She meant: no more questions. Rory had just invoked her right to counsel. But Zelinski didn’t stop talking—he simply changed his questions into statements.

  “Save yourself a long and agonizing process, Ms. Mackenzie. Tell us what the gunmen wanted.”

  She shook her head.

  “Maybe you were bought off to throw the trial.”

  “Gary,” Xavier said.

  “I’m just speculating,” he said. “Maybe you were getting paid to ensure that the defendants were convicted unjustly.”

  “Am I under arrest?” Rory said.

  Neither detective answered, which was an answer. But Zelinski turned to the computer and pressed Play one last time. He fast-forwarded to the end, to the moment when Rory turned from the courtroom window and refused Nixon’s order to go with him.

  “What did he say to you?” Zelinski asked. “Because to me, it looks like a cozy conversation. It looks…intimate.”

  Rory sat like a stone.

  Xavier stood. “You’re free to go. But think hard about your next steps, Ms. Mackenzie.”

  “She’s an attorney,” Zelinski said. “She knows the score. That’s why she lawyered up.”

  Rory bore their stares and the weight of their accusation. She refused to look away from Xavier. Finally the detective waved her toward the door.

  “Go on,” Xavier said.

  She held still. “One thing,” she said. “What time are the jurors expected in court tomorrow morning?”

  Zelinski actually sat back in his seat.

  “Excuse me, but I need to find out.” She stood up and left.

  13

  The station was in overdrive. Phones rang. People looked harried. Xavier and Zelinski flanked Rory as she walked out, as though she might indiscriminately steal staplers or the WANTED posters from the walls.

  At the main entrance Zelinski stopped. “Good luck not talking, Ms. Mackenzie. Have fun out there.”

  With the heat of his words on her back, she pushed through the doors into the cool night.

  Into the center ring of a circus.

  White lights overpowered the black sky. Headlights, spotlights, camera flashes, beams from shoulder-mounted television cameras. Overhead a news helicopter trained a spotlight on the front steps of the police station, pinning her. The shadows of palm trees cut across the scene like scimitars.

  The media was massed on the sidewalk. Behind them, kept back by barricades, were the crowds she’d seen outside the courthouse. They’d followed the sideshow here like rock groupies. All this scene needed was a souvenir stand, selling ball caps and commemorative shotgun shells. I was taken hostage and all I got was this lousy balaclava.

  The cops hadn’t even given her the T-shirt.

  The reporters saw her. Almost as one they turned—faces, microphones, lenses. Behind her the station doors clicked shut.

  “It’s one of the hostages,” a man shouted.

  “Over here!” a woman cried. “Miss, Action News!”

  Rory faced the wall of lights. It seemed as if two hundred watts of white water was pouring down on her.

  “Fox News Los Angeles. Miss, can we have a word?”

  “What happened in the courtroom?”

  Her breath frosted the air. Her car was two miles away, parked at the courthouse. To get to it she would have to swim through the reporters and the crowd.

  “You! You were up against the window. Tell us what you saw.”

  “Did you witness the gunmen being shot?”

  A shout of “Hey—” cut through the din. Beyond the spotlights, across the street at the edge of a park, a woman with strawberry blonde hair had climbed on a bus-stop bench. She waved her arms overhead. Rory felt a rush of relief and gratitude. It was her friend and housemate, Petra Whistler.

  Rory squared her shoulders, aimed toward her, and waded into the press mob. Cameras swiveled to track her. Mikes jutted at her face.

  “Why did the gunmen attack the courtroom?” a man said. “To kill the defendants?”

  She raised a hand. “Not now. Sorry.”

  Directly in front of her a TV camera appeared. Its light burned a hot white spot in her eyes. She turned her head. From behind the cameraman a woman reached toward her.

  “Rory.”

  She shaded her eyes. “Petra?”

  The woman stepped forward, an apparition solidifying. Alabaster arms, feline eyes, coke black hair. A face so like her own.

  “Rory, sweet pea, oh God,” she said.

  Nerissa swept her into an embrace. She cradled Rory’s head against her shoulder and rocked back and forth, her voice breaking. “You’re alive, you’re alive, you’re alive.”

  Rory felt like she’d been caught in a net. She felt the urge to scratch her cousin’s eyes out and flee.

  “Riss,” she said.

  “It’s okay, baby doll. You’re safe. You’re free.” She leaned back, cupped Rory’s face in both hands, and laughed her cool, breezy laugh. “Free.”

  The crowd cheered. Riss shot both arms into the air and tilted her head back and yelled, “Yes.”

  The crowd began to clap in unison. Riss mussed Rory’s hair and laughed again, silvery. The camera caught every instant of it.

  “Miss Mackenzie,” the reporter said.

  Simultaneously Rory and Riss said, “Yes?”

  More laughter. The light burned the night. It looked like the tunnel to bright death. Rory tented a hand over her eyes. Riss swept a stray hair from her forehead and lowered her chin, Princess Diana–like, and faced the camera.

  The reporter said, “What was it like in there?”

  “Hellish,” Rory said.

  Riss put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed and leaned her head against Rory’s. Jesus Christ.

  The reporter stuck the microphone in Rory’s face. “Did you
fear for your life?”

  “It was a nightmare.” She put up a hand. “Please, no more questions.”

  Riss said, “Give my cousin a break. She’s had a tough day.”

  Rory ducked around the reporter. The cameras and lights tried to follow, but she swerved into the crowd.

  Riss clung to the sleeve of her sweater. “Hang on.”

  Rory kept going, trying to shake loose. Riss called to the reporter, “She’ll feel better tomorrow. Call me.”

  Rory broke from the crowd. Riss pulled her to a stop. “Wait.”

  The laughter had abated. Her eyes looked dark. “Sounds like you had a wild ride in there.”

  “And I’m completely rode into the ground. If I talk anymore, I’m going to lose it. Bad.”

  Riss gave her a cool once-over. “I came down here to see if you were okay. Guess I didn’t need to. You’ve locked it down as tight as ever.”

  Two years since Rory had seen her. Two long, peaceful years. No drama, no subterfuge, no fear.

  She nodded tersely. “Thanks for coming, Riss.”

  Riss let a silence grow. “Sure. Right. Go home, bolt the door. But tomorrow you should talk to that reporter. It’s never a good idea to turn your back on people who set the agenda.”

  Petra came jogging through scattered onlookers. When she saw Riss, she slowed.

  Riss raised her chin in greeting. “Petra. It’s like gym class all over again. I’ll let you two get on with it.”

  She walked away. Petra watched her go, horrified.

  An onlooker raised a cell phone to snap a picture. Rory grabbed Petra’s hand and beelined away from the police station before the guy could post the photo as a status update or run to Vegas to hock it on Pawn Stars. She meant to keep her face blank and disappear from the scene without a further word. But Petra said, “Hey,” and tugged her to a stop, and the next thing Rory knew, she was hugging her friend, hard.

  “You don’t know how glad I am to see you,” she managed.

  “Jesus, girl.” Petra squeezed her tight. “You had me scared.”

  Rory clutched her, overwhelmed, embarrassed at her neediness, unable to let go. “Thank you so much. For being here.”

  “Hush.” Petra leaned back and put a hand to Rory’s cheek. The bangles on her wrists flicked with reflected light. She seemed cool and completely in control, but her palm felt hot.

  “I thought I might never see you again. Goddamn it, Aurora. You make people do the strangest things. I actually prayed today. On my fucking knees.”

  Rory was shaking but nearly laughed. “I hope you got video. I’d pay hard cash to see that.”

  Petra knew how to say the right thing at any moment. She had a gift Rory lacked: She could talk effortlessly to any human being on the planet. Even when it was talk of near death. Petra could be outré and absentminded to the point of dreaminess. She had a huge laugh that always seemed startled and delighted. She was a third-grade teacher at West River Elementary School. And she had opened her home when Rory got laid off and landed back on U.S. soil, broke, exhausted, and lost. She welcomed her with tequila and a banner that read, WHERE’S THE MONEY YOU OWE ME?

  And right then, she was trembling. “You okay?”

  “Nowhere close to it. But I’m not hurt. I just need to get out of here.”

  “Let’s scoot. Couple of people waiting to see you.” Holding Rory’s elbow, she headed along the sidewalk. Her boot heels clacked on the concrete. “What the hell was Riss doing here?”

  “Arranging for our close-up.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  Petra shot a hand in the air, whistled through her teeth, and waved.

  Across the street, Rory’s parents were huddled at the edge of the park, facing the police station. At Petra’s whistle, they turned. A knot the size of a golf ball lodged in Rory’s throat. She ran across the street.

  Samantha Mackenzie’s hand went to her mouth. Will Mackenzie grabbed her arm, and together they strode toward Rory.

  For once Sam didn’t smile. Didn’t offer her slow, sweet grin. She swept Rory into her arms. “Thank God. Sweetheart, thank God.”

  “I’m fine,” Rory said. “Absolutely fine.”

  Will wrapped his arms around the both of them. “Of course you are,” he said. “It’s that tough Mackenzie Highland blood.”

  She struggled to keep her voice even. “Thank God you guys didn’t come to the courthouse this morning to watch the trial.”

  Samantha was small and tanned and hardy in the way of women who dug gardens and hiked the hills. Her face, creased with smile lines, looked drawn.

  “All those times we worried about you overseas, who would have thought—”

  “Sam,” Will said.

  Overhead the news helicopter droned with the subtlety of a chainsaw. Its spotlight drew a meandering circle across the ground.

  “Let’s go,” Rory said, and nodded at the media. “Before the chopper picks us out as targets for the walking dead.”

  Her dad clamped an arm around her shoulder and led the group away from the police station. Sam slid one arm around Rory’s waist and the other around Petra’s.

  “I can’t believe the cops kept you so long,” Will said.

  “You must be starved,” Samantha said. “You girls come over. I’ll cook up a big mess of chili.” Her drawl, as always when she was under pressure, intensified.

  “I want to go home and take a shower,” Rory said.

  Her mom glanced up, concerned. Sam was always quick to look concerned. “Darlin’, you need to eat.”

  Rory felt like she’d been in the path of a tornado. Somehow she was still standing, but a blunt and roaring force had stripped bark off the trees and reduced the landscape to splinters.

  “Thanks. Really. But I need to wash this day off of me.”

  Her mom forced a smile. “Okay, sugar. You get home and see your new baby.”

  Rory glanced at Petra. Her friend didn’t look up, didn’t even react.

  Her dad squeezed Rory’s shoulder. “You want to talk about it?”

  “Yes, but not now.” She squeezed him back. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

  He stared straight ahead. Gathering his thoughts, she knew. Will Mackenzie rarely spoke off the cuff. He considered his words before speaking. The habit came, she thought, from years spent as a forest ranger. All that time among silent giants, trees that had centuries to live—what was the hurry? She sometimes thought that if he didn’t have to, he wouldn’t say anything at all. If you don’t talk, nobody can pin your words to you later on.

  Finally he shook his head. “If you think you were the one causing us worry today, you need to study up on logic.”

  She leaned against him. He kissed the top of her head. Then he looked over his shoulder.

  “They after us?” she said.

  “You never know.”

  They were a block from the police station. The street had quieted to near desertion. Rory felt a compulsion to pick up her pace.

  The stars were out and the moon was up. Everybody’s breath frosted the night air. She felt watched from all angles, from the dark beyond the streetlights, from the recesses beyond corners and in the depths beyond trees in the park. A truck was parked on a cross street, lights off. In the cab, backlit by a streetlight, she saw a man’s silhouette.

  The wind brushed over her thin sweater and her skin shrank. She needed to get home, needed to get under hot water, needed to take off these clothes and burn them.

  Detective Zelinski’s voice whispered in her head. What did the gunmen want?

  They wanted something from her. They hadn’t gotten it.

  And if they were working with outside forces, it meant somebody else was still out there. Still wanting whatever it was.

  “I’m okay, I swear,” she said. “I love you guys. But I need to get home.”

  And lock the door.

  As the police station spit out hostages one at a time to cheers and paparazzi flashes, half a block away, pro
tected by shadows, the truck sat idling at the curb. It was a heavy Mack truck with a winch on the back and RANSOM RIVER AUTO SALVAGE painted on the doors. It had an engine big enough to pull a crashed DC-7 out of a gully. And it had a police scanner under the dash. Boone Mackenzie hung his arms over the steering wheel and watched through a cloud of cigarette smoke.

  Rory and her little buddy Petra and Uncle Will and Aunt Samantha. Walking down the middle of the street in the dark like they were four bowling pins, primed for a strike.

  And his stepsister, walking away, but pausing to turn and stare. Like Rory was the Holy Grail. Like she was the living model for the voodoo doll Riss kept on the shelf back home.

  Three weeks Rory had been back in Ransom River, and already it was starting again.

  Cousin Aurora, with the sweet bod and the twisted heart. Who looked at him like he was transparent. Who thought she was too good for this town, swore she was gone for good, but here she was. She didn’t look so smart now, did she?

  Seven hours she’d been in the police station, talking to the cops. What did she know that took seven hours to tell?

  The police scanner had caught stray chatter from the cops during the siege. Five million bucks in gold bullion. That’s what the gunmen had demanded. Five damned million in shiny gold bricks. It didn’t add up. Five million and a helicopter ride to Mexico? It sounded like a joke.

  He figured he hadn’t heard everything on the scanner. This thing—the siege and then the shootout in the courtroom—it was big. Riss had started to tell him on the phone, before the TV crew interrupted her: Things had gone to hell in the courtroom, gotten crazy, a nightmare.

  No, the gunmen had asked for plenty more than he’d heard about. And Rory had heard every word. She’d heard enough to talk about for seven hours. He took a drag from his Winston. Smoke lazed through the cab of the wrecker.

  In the distance, in the trees apart from the crowd, a man moved. Casual and confident. From the shadows the man watched Riss walk away.

  “Fuck me,” Boone said. “No way.”

  Not the guy he ever thought he’d see here, and nobody he needed to talk to. He put the wrecker in reverse. Lights off, he drove away.