“Gun!”
Jenna’s voice. One second. That’s how long it took the word to register. Gun. Someone inside had a gun. And it wasn’t Jenna. Cover. He shoved Camille sideways, drew his weapon and spun away from the door. Breathing deep, he zeroed in on a tree branch smacking around. Inside, Jenna’s yelling mixed with another female voice, the words muddling together. Don’t shoot. Back up. It’s Brent. What in hell was going on?
Drowning in a blood rush, he glanced at the gun in his trembling hands. Dammit. Between practice and even discharging it while on duty, he’d held this gun countless times. Never once had his hands shook.
“Shut up!”
Jamie.
“Brent,” Jenna yelled, “Jamie has my gun.”
A shot, loud and booming went off. No, no, no. Who the hell was Jamie shooting at? The front window shattered and glass flew, sprinkling down on Camille, who was still stretched on the worn porch floor. Please, don’t let her be hit.
Camille covered her head with her hands. She’s moving. “Are you hit?”
His sister looked up at him, her normally big eyes even wider and...spooked. Shock. “Camille,” he snapped, “are you okay?”
“Yes.”
Another burst of adrenaline, relief this time, flooded his system. “Get off this porch. Run.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Brent?” Jamie’s voice came from inside.
He rested his head against the house, his blood still barreling, scrambling his thoughts. What the hell was going on? Disarm her. No. Hold perimeter.
How?
He couldn’t deal with it alone. He’d need backup. Wait for the sheriff. No chances. Not with Jenna and apparently his father inside.
Being held at gunpoint.
By his cousin.
Couldn’t be.
“Jamie, please. Tell me what’s happening.”
“I’m sorry, Brent. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for it to go this way.”
Three seconds ago, he’d doubted his cousin could be holding that gun. Three seconds ago, he wouldn’t have believed that his sweet, caring cousin, who’d helped him through countless jams in his lifetime, could fire a weapon. Three seconds ago, he’d thought he knew all there was to know about Jamie.
In three short seconds, his illusions had disintegrated and this thing launched to another level.
He dialed into his law enforcement training and blocked out his emotions. There was no room for them. Now, he was a stranger, a US marshal doing his job and addressing this situation.
To his right, Camille had moved to all fours. “Get off the porch. I need backup. Go call 9-1-1. Do it. Now.”
Her gaze ping-ponged between him and the door. “Go,” he said.
Finally, she crawled to the porch steps, staying clear of the open doorway. “I’ll get help and come back.”
Not in his lifetime. “No. Stay clear. See if Aunt Sylvie and Uncle Herb are home.”
All he needed was his aunt and uncle barging in on the middle of this thing, wanting answers. Hell, he wanted answers. “If they’re home, make sure they don’t come here. Now go. Stay low in front of the house.”
Brent watched her, his heart banging, slamming against him as his baby sister, who he’d protected from childhood, duck-walked across the lawn and out of a bullet’s path. Stay low, please stay low. She cleared the lawn and Brent let out a small breath. Little farther. Driveway clear. Check. She made it to his aunt’s house and he rested his head back. The blood rush turned to a trickle and he cut his gaze left and right.
“Jamie?” he yelled.
“Come inside, Brent.”
Instinct pushed him forward. Nothing odd there, given his protective tendencies. Jamie knew this about him. She expected it. Law enforcement training and all those hard-fought lessons about never entering a situation like this alone kept him still.
The sheriff would show up in minutes. Before that, Brent needed to keep everyone calm. And get Jenna’s .38 out of Jamie’s extremely unskilled hands. He breathed in and focused on the banging tree branch. Go time.
“James, put that gun down.” Using his cousin’s childhood nickname couldn’t hurt. “I’m not coming inside until you put the gun down. Or you come out here and let me see you.”
“No.”
Another wind gust blew the tree branches sideways, smacking them against the house—crack—and making him flinch. Then came another round of thunder, closer this time and booming. Brent glanced at the sky where thick black clouds rolled in. Anytime now the sky would open up and soak the place. If it kept Camille and his aunt and uncle next door, he’d deal with it.
“Brent?” Jamie hollered.
“Let Jenna and my dad come out. They come out and I come in.”
“No.”
“James, come on.”
“No.”
“Who’s in there with you?”
“Just the beauty queen and your useless father.”
How the hell had things gotten so out of control that it had come to this? The woman he loved was trapped inside. Trapped with his father, a man Brent hadn’t yet reconciled his feelings about and now they could both die.
Brent leaned his head against the house. Diversion. If he could distract Jamie, he’d get a chance to disarm her and figure out what happened.
“Okay,” he hollered. “We don’t want your folks in the middle of this, right?”
“Brent! You keep them out of here.”
“I will, James. I will. Give me five minutes, okay?”
“Five minutes!”
“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”
Anything else stupid.
“I won’t. As long as the beauty queen and your father stay put. Do not call the sheriff, Brent. I’ll kill them both if you do.”
Kill them. What? Jamie? He squeezed his eyes shut, felt the pressure in his forehead. Work the problem and fix this. He gripped the gun again—too tight—then loosened his hold. “Nobody will come in there that you don’t want. I promise.”
Brent tore off down the porch steps, keeping low as he crossed the lawn. Camille came from the front of Aunt Sylvie’s, met him by the driveway, and he steered her around the side of the house. “They home?”
“No. I called the sheriff. He’s over by Johnson’s farm dealing with a wreck. He and a deputy are on the way, but it’ll be fifteen minutes before they get here. Where are we going?”
“Basement.”
“Why?”
“We’re creating a diversion.”
Chapter Fifteen
On the list of things to be thankful for, an outside basement entrance just flew to the top. Brent holstered his gun and hustled down the concrete steps where, using slow, silent movements, he turned the knob on the door.
“What—” Camille whispered.
“Shh.”
She closed her mouth and Brent held his fingers against his lips. Above them, thunder boomed again. Using the noise as cover, he pushed open the door. The musty smell hit him full force.
On one side, his father’s old tools still littered the top of the workbench. Next to the bench was the rolling tool chest. He’d need that. The furnace, with its newly installed gas line, was in the right corner. Beside it was his target. The hot-water heater.
He spun back to Camille. “Get me the wire cutters from the tool chest. And a hammer. If there’s no hammer, give me something I can bang on this safety valve with. Do it quietly.”
The floors were thin and any odd noise would echo right into the upper floor. He glanced around looking for a rag, a garden bag, anything that would muffle the sound when he jammed the safety valve. Nothing. He started unbuttoning his shirt, stripping down to his undershirt.
Camille gave him a look. “Uh, what are you doing?”
“I’m about to crush the safety valve so it won’t work and I need to muffle the bang.”
“What?”
“Shh.”
He balled his shirt, set it on
top of the valve and felt through the fabric to make sure his aim was square. She handed him a hammer. Whack. He blasted it. One good muffled shot. Excellent. He set the hammer down and shut the cold-water valve.
“Brent?”
“Give me a sec. I helped Dad replace a hot-water heater once. He told me all the things I shouldn’t do. I’m doing them.”
He squatted, gave the water-release valve a spin and water sloshed out, pouring over his shoes and the floor. Soaked. Dammit.
Camille still held the wire cutters and he waggled his fingers. Better than any surgical nurse, she slapped them into his hand. He grasped the red wire linking the temperature control knob to the sensor. Snip. That’s gone. Quickly, he whipped the temp-control knob to its highest setting and the burner flamed all the way open.
He checked the water still pouring out of the tank. Not enough. But he had to get back upstairs. Camille.
He jumped up and faced his sister. “I need your help.”
“Anything.”
“Wait another five minutes, then shut the water valve. We need this thing half full. It usually takes ten minutes. If you wait another four or five, it should be good enough. Then you need to get the hell out of here because the top of this water heater will blow straight off. Hopefully, it’ll scare the hell out of Jamie and I can disarm her.”
“Are you insane?”
He had to be because he was leaving his baby sister down here to practically set off his homemade bomb. God help him if something happened to her. He’d never live with it.
He stepped back. “Forget it. You can’t do this. Too dangerous. I’ll think of something else.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
Camille glanced at the hot water heater.
“Forget it, Camille.”
But she waggled her head. “It’s the only option. Besides, you’ve done most of the work. If we do it this way, in a few minutes, this will all be over. I can do it.”
“Camille—”
She spun on him and pointed. “Stop. I can do this. It’s the only way everyone gets out safely. Just tell me what to do.”
Dug in. When his sister got like this, it took a bulldozer to move her. And short on options, they’d have to go with it.
“Get your phone out,” he said. “Watch the time. No longer than five minutes. I don’t want you in here when this thing blows. I’d do it myself, but I gotta get back up there.”
She shooed him away. “Leave. I’ll find you.”
“When you leave here, go next door. If Sylvie and Herb come home, make sure they stay there. That’s what I need from you. Got it?”
His sister hesitated. Nuh-uh. “Camille?”
Finally she nodded. “I’ve got it. We can do this.”
* * *
KEEPING HER GAZE pinned to Jamie—and the .38—Jenna leaned her head against the arm of the sofa. I need to do something. Clearly Brent’s father was content to do nothing. Total gene-pool malfunction. And thank God for that because if she knew Brent even a little bit, he had a plan.
Only problem with that was Jamie knew Brent better than Jenna and had probably come to the same conclusion.
“James?” Brent shouted from the porch.
Jamie swung her head to the still-open door and immediately came back to Jenna.
“Hey,” Jenna said. “Stop swinging that gun around before it accidentally goes off and hits one of us. Then your problems get a whole lot worse.”
“Shut up!”
“Jamie,” Brent hollered, “I’m coming in.”
Jenna sat up, half relieved, half terrified. Growing up with a houseful of cops she knew an officer should never—ever—enter a situation like this without backup. Which meant either Brent had backup or he’d chosen to wing it.
Then he was in the doorway, feet spread, arms up, gun aimed at Jamie. This family. Tragic from the get-go.
The back of Jenna’s neck itched and her arms tingled. Add that to the pounding headache and her body went more than a little berserk. Jamie stood faced off with Brent. If he could keep her occupied, Jenna might be able to lunge and draw her attention. Between the two of them, they’d get that gun. Hopefully before someone wound up with a hole in them.
Jamie looked back. “Don’t move.”
Jenna held her hands up. “Sorry. Sorry.”
“Sit still, Jenna,” Brent said.
Mason was beside her, his long legs stretched in front of him, arms at his sides. Brent glanced in his direction but quickly averted his eyes. “Anyone hurt?”
“We’re okay,” Jenna said.
There were hundreds—thousands—of ways this situation could end. Another shot being fired was only one of them. Get the gun.
Brent took a step into the room.
“Stay there,” Jamie said.
“Talk to me. Whatever this is, we can fix. No one is hurt. James, please, we can fix this.”
“I didn’t want it.”
“I know,” he said. “Whatever happened, we’ll fix it. Put the gun down.”
“Brent!” a woman shouted from outside, her voice edged with crackling panic.
Camille.
Footsteps pounded against the porch—thunk, thunk, thunk—and in stormed Brent’s aunt and uncle.
Included in those thousand ways the situation could go bad would be Brent’s aunt and uncle rushing in.
“Get out!” Jamie shrieked, the high-pitched wail tearing through the tense air like a buzz saw against cardboard.
Gun still on Jamie, Brent jerked his head. “All of you, out.”
Herb stepped forward. These people. Insanity.
“What in the hell are you doing?” he asked his daughter.
“Leave, Dad.”
“I will not. Put that thing down.”
Boom! Something under them—not close, by the kitchen—exploded and Jenna glanced through the archway following the sound. A loud scream mixed with the explosion. Jenna’s ears whistled. Thirty feet away, an object blasted through the kitchen floor, sending the old linoleum flying, hunks of it showering down.
Jamie stood in front of her, mouth agape, her body angled toward the mess. Get the gun. Scrambling to her feet, Jenna lunged. Brent was faster. Her gaze cut to him and she leaped out of the way as his big body crashed down on top of Jamie. The gun hit the floor with a thwack. Brent swatted it, sending it in Jenna’s direction.
She scooped it up. “Got it.”
Under Brent, Jamie bucked and kicked and hollered.
I’m done.
Jenna trained the weapon on Jamie. “Stop. Right now.”
“Shoot me. Do it. Please.”
Oh, she’d like the chance. Yes, she would. And in that moment, in her state of mind, she’d do it. She’d let go of any inhibition because this woman had planned on killing her. And leaving her body for Brent to find. How she—someone who supposedly loved this man—could allow him to walk into this house and find more bodies, Jenna couldn’t grasp. The terror it would have inflicted upon his already shattered world would have driven him mad. And that, Jenna wouldn’t stand for.
“If you don’t stop moving I will. And don’t think I won’t. You were going to let him walk in here and find us. That makes you a monster. I hate monsters.”
“Everyone, shut up,” Brent said, his huge body still locking Jamie down. “Jamie, I will lay here all night if I have to.” He grabbed both her wrists and pinned them. “Stop.”
Under his substantial weight, she finally gave in, succumbed to the idea that she couldn’t fight him off. “Dad, help me.”
“Help you?” her father screamed, his eyes fixed and horrified. “I don’t know what you’re doing. How am I supposed to help you?”
“Uncle Herb,” Brent said, “take Aunt Sylvie outside. Check on Camille and stay with them. Please.”
Turning on his heel, Herb grabbed Sylvie by the elbow, ushering her out. Jamie’s eyes bulged as her cheeks hardened.
“You’re turning your back on
me?” she shrieked as her parents left the house. “After what you did to those women?”
What women? Something prickled at the base of Jenna’s neck.
“Dad, please.”
And then the tears came. Jamie dropped her head, laying her cheek against the wooden floor, shrieking as if a limb had been severed. “I did it for him. Whatever he did to those women, I did it for him.”
Jenna moved closer, keeping the gun on Jamie, but glancing at Brent. He met her gaze, but his eyes, the look there, all that nothingness—just lifeless—slammed her, made her ache for him. She set her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Baby, you need to get up. I’ve got this.”
Brent eased off his cousin, but kept one knee on her back.
“It’s okay,” Jenna said. “I have her. Take a breath. I have her.”
* * *
IN HIS LIFE, there had been moments of bewilderment, moments of disappointment, moments of life-shattering agony that cut so deep he knew he’d never recover.
This would be all of those moments combined.
Lifting his knee from Jamie, Brent backed away, his mind spinning, working, considering. All of it coming at him in a rush, making him dizzy and...confused.
“Brent?”
Jenna. She stood, gun in hand, making sure the situation stayed calm. She drove him crazy, but how many women could go through what she’d just experienced and still manage to stay in control.
“I’m okay,” he said.
A lie, but he’d lied about his emotional state before. His cousin continued to wail on the floor and his mind reeled back twenty-three years. The back door. No one but family ever used the back door. I did it for him. Jamie’s words lingered, but like a language he didn’t understand, a disconnect existed.
“Jamie, why are you crying? What did you do?”
“The clothes,” she shrieked, tears streaming down her face. “The clothes in the basement. I saw them. Your mom saw when he burned them.”
A frigid grip took hold and Brent shivered. He stepped back, steadying himself. Let her talk.
“I heard her ask about them. She wouldn’t let it go.”
“Oh, God,” Camille said.
Camille. Brent spun, saw his sister in the doorway. Whatever this was, she didn’t need to hear it. “Out!”
The Marshal Page 18
