A wide-eyed and slightly open-mouthed Deputy Carver duly delivered the goodies except for the booze as Hanson remained at the bench. But before these deliveries (it had taken Carver three trips in and out of the courtroom) Hanson had ordered Brady to move from counsel table to the witness box just to the right of the bench. Carver deposited the food and beverages on counsel tables, and well away from the captive Brady. When Hanson demanded to know where the bourbon was, Carver revealed they were working on getting the bottles.
“How fucking hard can it be!?” he thundered. “The damn distillery is just a few miles up the road! You can buy Garnet everywhere in this town!”
Carver offered apologies but no explanations for the reasons that the ubiquitously-found hometown bourbon was not amongst the items he had delivered.
Sitting in the witness box was a perspective Brady had never experienced. While he’d been at counsel table plenty of time and had spent a number of hours up on that bench, he’d never been a witness in any proceeding.
Brady was happier to be closer to Hanson because it meant he was closer to the gun. He had decided that he wasn’t going to let Hanson just shoot him without trying to get the weapon away from him. He was going to fight. He wanted to get out of there. He wanted to see Rachel.
“OK, judge,” Hanson said, pointing to the food and drink. “Fix me a plate.”
It was a wacky smorgasbord of food and drink that would cause any mildly health-conscious person to flee screaming into the streets in terror, but Brady did as instructed and piled a paper plate full of pizza for Hanson. After delivering the food to the bench, he then returned to the table and got Hanson a cup of cola.
“And don’t forget the donuts and bourbon balls,” Hanson said, sending Brady back for a third trip.
After Brady finished acting as Hanson’s waiter, he returned to his seat in the witness box, waiting to see if Hanson would make him go back to his seat at counsel table. Hanson didn’t make Brady move. He was too interested in his food to care where Brady sat. But he did notice that Brady wasn’t eating.
“Get some for yourself,” Hanson said.
“Not really hungry,” Brady said.
“Suit yourself,” Hanson said, and shrugged.
Brady watched Hanson eat, and stole glances at the gun, which was on the far side of the bench and well out of Brady’s reach.
“Are you going to let me go?” Brady asked.
“Not until you do something for me,” Hanson said.
“And what would that be?”
“I want you to tell me more about this Rachel that’s so important to you.”
Brady knew he had already made a confession worthy of inclusion in any chick-flick. He hadn’t minded telling Hanson how he felt about Rachel, but he was reluctant to talk about her in detail.
“I thought I already did,” Brady said.
“Think she’s in the courthouse right now? Is she watching all this?” Hanson taunted him. Brady’s silence answered the question, and Hanson laughed.
A knock came at the door and Hanson’s left hand reached for the gun as his right dropped a greasy slice of onion pizza on his paper plate. Carver entered with two bottles of Old Garnet, one in each hand.
“Put 'em on the table next to the pizzas,” Hanson ordered. Carver did so and left.
Hanson then held his cup out to Brady and directed him to spike it with the bourbon.
“Wait a sec,” said Hanson as Brady was about to pick up one of the two bottles. “Bring those bottles here. I wanna see 'em.”
Brady toted the bottles across the courtroom and up to the bench. Now this was something he’d never done in court: presenting liquor for inspection to someone sitting at the bench.
Hanson examined the seals on both bottles. “Looks like they’re sealed to me, don’t you think?”
“Worried the cops would put something in there to knock you out?” Brady asked. He looked at the bottles; there was no evidence that the bottles had been opened or otherwise tampered with. The foil cap and seal over the wood and cork plug, crafted to resemble a garnet-colored grosgrain ribbon with the image of an oval-cut garnet on top, was pristine. “They look fine. And the bourbon itself is enough to knock you out unless you know how to drink it.”
Brady took the bottles back to the table, opened one, and generously spiked Hanson’s drink. He then delivered the beverage and took his seat again in the witness box. He watched Hanson and hoped that soon he might see signs of drowsiness, and that maybe a little window of inattention would open and he could get that gun.
Hanson took a long sip from his cup and smacked his lips appreciatively. He put his cup back down on the bench and reached for a piece of pizza, but thought the better of it and picked up his cup again.
“Damn, that’s good bourbon,” he said. Brady wondered how often Hanson treated himself to a bourbon as fine as Garnet, which was a top-shelf brand.
“The best,” Brady said, and nodded.
Hanson turned toward Brady slightly, smiled, and raised his cup in a salute to his captive’s pronouncement. “Get yourself some, judge,” Hanson said, the man’s speech a little slurred.
Brady watched in surprise, then hope, as the cup slipped from Hanson’s hand and his arm dropped. The cup tumbled to the ground, spilling all of its contents on the lower part of Hanson’s pants and his shoes. Hanson fell back and slid down until he tumbled from the chair and onto the floor into a heap.
Brady took his chance.
He bolted from the witness box and leapt over Hanson’s body to snatch the gun off the bench. Seconds later, the sheriff, several of his deputies (but no Carver), and an army of state police troopers flooded into the courtroom. Brady hopped away from Hanson with the gun in-hand, but there was no danger. His former captor was out cold.
Kyle helped Brady down from the bench and toward the center of the courtroom as a few EMTs entered to attend to the unconscious Hanson.
“What just happened?” Brady said, handing the gun over to Kyle.
“We spiked the bourbon, of course,” he said, grinning like a kid.
Brady’s eyebrows lowered and he frowned. “But the bottles were sealed. We both checked them. The red ribbon seals were perfect and—”
At that moment, the door to chambers flew open and from it flew Rachel. Brady turned and caught her in his arms, holding her and kissing her on the head as she buried her face in his chest and cried.
“It’s OK, it’s over,” he assured her.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said through her tears. “I want to go home.”
“Let me check with the sheriff first,” he said.
Kyle overheard and told Brady to go. “We saw it all on the video and we know where you are in case we have any other questions. Get out of here.”
Brady and Rachel put their arms around each other and were about to go back into chambers together when Kyle stopped them.
“If you want to know how we spiked the bourbon, ask CiCi.”
“CiCi? Why can’t you tell us?” Rachel asked.
“I got a million things to do right now and she’s a hell of a better storyteller,” Kyle said.
When Brady looked incredulous, Kyle just laughed and walked away.
Ten minutes later, Brady and Rachel entered the large lobby of the Craig County Courthouse hand-in-hand and were immediately greeted by a cry of they’re here! as they stepped off the elevator. They were surrounded by a group of sheriff’s deputies and other law enforcement personnel, all of whom were clapping, many with tears in their eyes.
“What the hell is going on?” Brady said to an equally bewildered Rachel. The judges had stopped in their tracks in the middle of the lobby once the applause began.
“Oh!” CiCi exclaimed, running from the crowd to greet the judges and coax them further into the group. She hugged them both and then stood back and stared at them. “We watched all of it at the sheriff’s station,” she said, looking at Brady. “I got my clerks down here just as you st
arted talking about Rachel, and we all immediately stopped to watch and listen. Kyle and his guys couldn’t get the clerks out of here until they’d heard every last word!” CiCi looked to Rachel and put her clasped hands against her chest. “You’re soooo lucky!”
“I know,” Rachel said, looking up at Brady.
“The sheriff said we needed to ask you how the bourbon got spiked,” Brady said. “And that is a mystery I would like solved. I checked those bottles myself. They were perfect. No tampering. So what gives?”
CiCi laughed. “You will not believe this.”
“After the day I’ve had? Try me,” said Brady.
“Well, Hannah was in the clerk’s office filing something when we got the evacuation notice, and she walked downstairs with us. And, just like the rest of us, she stopped and watched on the monitors at the sheriff’s station once Brady started talking about you,” CiCi said, and nudged Rachel.
Brady grimaced. “She watched all that?”
“Almost all of it. Right after Brady mentioned getting a bottle of Garnet, she started raising holy hell to know where the sheriff was. Naturally, no one was really anxious to tell her, but she said she knew how to help Brady. Peanuts finally challenged her to spill her idea before he’d call the sheriff.”
“And what was her idea?” Brady asked.
“She said that they could easily lace a bottle of Garnet by putting something into it out at the distillery on the bottling line. We thought it was brilliant and Peanuts called the sheriff. When Kyle saw he’d been called down to the first floor because of her, he about lost it, and that made her mad. They actually argued before I told Hannah to tell him the idea. She did, and they left at once. Apparently went out to the distillery right then and there with some kind of drug—I think they got it from the state cops—spiked two bottles, sealed them and brought them back. So Hanson got his own special, secret blend of Old Garnet. Those bottles looked factory-sealed because they were.”
Rachel and Brady stood stunned with open mouths.
“Where’s Hannah now?” Rachel asked after finally coming to her senses.
“Not sure,” CiCi said and looked around the crowd for any information. But no one knew.
Rachel pulled out her phone and dialed the number for her former friend; she hadn’t had the heart to remove it from her phone. Rachel let it ring several times, but got no answer.
So Rachel texted Hannah and showed it to Brady, who got tears in his eyes from the simple message.
YOU were the true water of life tonight
Thank you
“I’m sorry you had to be there, CiCi,” Brady said.
“Oh, don’t worry about me, I’m fine,” she said, waving him off. “But I do need to get back up there and get some files and see if the recorder was working. I wasn’t really sure but then that screwball pulled out his gun and I never did figure it out before I left. I hope we have a recording of everything,” CiCi said, her brows knitting together as she said the last few words.
After calling her parents to report what had happened and that all was well, Rachel and Brady went directly to her house. After a quick bite to eat, they fell on the couch together, happy to be held by the other for a while. But then the primal need of survival or release or celebration took over and they migrated to the bedroom. Rachel didn’t care if he had a cold—she wanted him. They stripped in less than a minute and fell into bed together.
“I thought I might never be with you like this again,” Brady said as he kissed Rachel’s neck and brought a hand to her breast, making her sigh.
“Don’t say it, don’t even think it,” she said, and clutched Brady’s head as his lips found a nipple.
There was little foreplay; they needed each other. After a few lingering touches to her folds to check her wetness, he entered her easily. Her hips moved to take his full length and she sighed contentedly, hoping she wasn’t dreaming. Brady went slowly, drawing out their lovemaking, and Rachel savored the complete experience of being with him physically and emotionally. Her climax surprised her, and she cried out in surprise as much as ecstasy. Brady shortly followed her after a few more short but powerful strokes.
After dozing off on his chest, Rachel awakened with a start. The light was dim outside, and she estimated that it was late afternoon or early evening. They still had the rest of the evening to be together, and she hoped they would enjoy at least one more lovemaking session that night. She rolled off his chest and propped herself up on her elbow and looked at Brady, who had been awakened by her movements.
“I should’ve listened to you and gone home,” he said, making her laugh.
She put her hand on his chest, splaying her fingers wide. “The things you said, Brady—they were beautiful.”
“And they’re true, Rachel,” he said, putting his hand atop hers. “I don’t regret a thing. I love you.”
“And I love you,” she said, and kissed him. “And given the chance, I’d say the same things in such a public way.”
“That’s sweet, but I hope you don’t have that chance, considering that I was being held captive by some nutjob,” Brady said, only half-jokingly. She laughed and hit him playfully. “Never heard from Hannah?” he asked.
“No,” she said, and shook her head. “I think the most I can hope for in that department is that we can get to the point where we can even talk to each other again.”
“I wonder—what about Bo?” Brady asked.
“You mean get a message to Hannah through him?” Rachel asked.
“Well, he must have been involved with the bottle spiking, right? Maybe you could call him and thank him, and tell him you’ve tried to thank Hannah. Maybe that could stir the pot a little.”
She smiled. “I have a better idea,” Rachel said. “I won’t call Bo. I’ll call Hannah’s mother.”
Chapter 31
Rachel and Brady took the following day off and spent it together at her house, away from the world and the reminders of their ordeal. Needing space and silence to heal and recover, they found what they required in the remote confines of Rachel’s home, and didn’t check email, turned off their phones, and kept the television silent. They spent a large part of the day in bed together, although they did take a walk around Rachel’s property late in the day to get out of the house and enjoy some fresh air. The fall day was crisp and clear, and the sweet smell of mash hung heavily across the countryside.
And it was that familiar, yeasty scent which reminded Rachel she needed to make a call to Emma Davenport to thank her.
Mrs. Davenport knew all about the bottle spiking effort.
“I was here when Hannah brought the sheriff and someone from the state police,” she said. “Have to say I was glad that a state policeman came along.”
Mrs. Davenport was obliquely referring to the bad blood between the Davenports and Kyle Sammons. The attitude surprised Rachel, since she had always thought that Rachel’s mother was above such pettiness. Hannah’s arrival at the distillery with Kyle Sammons was probably not the most welcome sight to Bo and his mother.
And Hannah must’ve expected that reaction when she took Kyle out there, but she had done it nonetheless.
“Hannah called Bo from the courthouse and told him about the hostage situation. He readily agreed to the bottle spiking when he found out what was going on,” Mrs. Davenport explained. “It was a relatively easy thing to do since the bottling operation isn’t that big. We were glad to help.”
“Please thank Hannah for me,” Rachel begged. “I understand things may never be the same, but I still want her to know how much it meant.”
“That girl!” Mrs. Davenport exclaimed. “I cannot figure her out. First she treats you like something she found on the bottom of her shoe, yelling at you that day and spreading those awful tales. But then she does something so smart and wonderful like thinking to spike the bourbon. I don’t know what I’m going to do with her.”
“I’m sorry that I kept the secret from her, Mrs. Davenport,” Rac
hel said.
“Well, hindsight’s perfect, isn’t it?” Emma asked.
Rachel discerned the disappointment in her voice. Rachel had known Hannah’s mother for years, and to be the object of her mild rebuke hurt, even though Rachel knew she deserved it.
“Please tell her thanks, and sorry.”
“I will, dear,” Emma assured her. “Like I said, I don’t know what’s wrong with her, but I wish she’d get herself straightened out.”
The next day they returned to work and it was blessedly routine, even dull. Rachel had a short civil motion hour which was boring except for the fact she noticed that Hanson’s spilled bourbon and cola had left a stain on the carpeted stairs on the bench. That little reminder of the intense fear of just a few days ago rattled her enough to push through her docket so she could get to lunch with Brady.
That day they decided to do something different and go to a restaurant at the other end of Main Street, The Rickhouse. It was a cleverly-designed space, and, reflecting the mood of Main Street in Bourbon Springs, the interior décor was done in nouveau-bourbonism. Like the bourbon bar at The Cooperage, nearly every surface except the padded seats of the booths and chairs were plain, unadorned wood, and obviously meant to invoke the aura of the bourbon barrel and a real rickhouse. Framed prints of photos of bourbon bottles adorned the walls. Above the diners and around the room where the ceiling met the wall were little handmade ricks with tiny barrels, a small-scale duplication of the storage method for aging bourbon.
Rachel rarely dined at The Rickhouse because she had always found it too expensive. Even though she had a much larger salary as a judge than when she had been a public defender, her more frugal nature still held sway over her purse. As for Brady, he said he’d never found it very convenient to go to The Rickhouse since it was not nearly as close as hopping over to Over a Barrel or home for a quick bite. And, he pointed out, The Rickhouse didn’t offer bourbon balls by the ounce (or, more commonly, by the pound), as did Over a Barrel.
Secret Blend (Bourbon Springs Book 1) Page 26
