“Tell you what, Edwards, I’ll let him go. We don’t need him anyway. Hey!” The phone muffled, as if Wicksell pulled it aside. “You done typin’ over there?” A pause. “Get with it — we ain’t got all day!” Kent’s voice grew clearer. “Okay, I’m back.”
“Well, I appreciate the thought about Wilbur, but I’m still asking you for the girls.”
Wicksell swore. “Why they such a big thing to you?”
“Kent, look. T.J.’s just eighteen, right?”
“You know it.”
“I know how bad you feel because such a terrible thing has happened to T.J. at his young age. You said he’s scared in prison. Kent, those girls are just a year or two younger than your own son. Now they’re in a very frightening situation. Do you really want to draw that out for them? These are girls who could have gone to school with T.J., had they lived in the same town. Maybe Ali’s even met him at some school ball game.”
Larry hustled into the office carrying two sets of building plans and two long pieces of curled brown newsprint paper. He headed for Jack, and they spoke quietly, Larry giving him one set of plans and one curled newsprint. Larry dropped the second set of plans to the floor and uncurled his own newsprint sheet to reveal photos and names of all the hostages taped to it in neat rows. He thumbtacked the large sheet to the wall. Vince’s eyes honed in on Brittany’s and Ali’s pictures, next to each other on the top row.
“Don’t tell me you know how I feel.” Wicksell’s tone crackled with the heat of a slow burn. “You don’t know nothin’. Nobody can know.”
Know. Had he used that word? He shouldn’t have. Even though it happened to be true.
“I agree with you — nobody can know exactly what you’ve been through. I feel the same way a lot of times — nobody can know what I’ve been through. I’ve lost a son too, Kent. And he was only three years older than T.J.”
Wicksell was silent for a moment. “What happened?”
Larry tacked up a set of building plans beside the hostage photos.
“He died in Iraq in 2005. Killed by a terrorist’s bomb. I’m his father — but I couldn’t stop that from happening. I couldn’t save him. It was a total injustice. And Kent, thing is — you have hope with T.J. He’s still got a life ahead of him. But Tim’s gone forever. So when I say know, that’s what I mean.”
Wicksell grunted. “That’s tough.”
“Yeah.”
A pause. “You get him back here for the funeral?”
The flag-draped coffin flashed in Vince’s head. “We did.” What was left of him.
Justin looked up, and their eyes locked. He and his wife had attended the funeral. Along with the rest of the town. Vince did not look at Jack and Larry, but he could feel their empathy.
“So, Edwards” — Wicksell’s voice hardened — “you of all people ought to understand what I’m fighting for. How determined I am.”
“I understand you’re determined. And I’m determined to help.”
Wicksell inhaled a long breath. Blew it out. Vince could almost hear the wheels turning in his mind. “So. You want them two girls.” It wasn’t a question.
“I do.”
“That all?”
Hope raised its head. “You want to send out more?”
“Not on your life. It was a test. I don’t like when people start dealing one thing, then add on another, know what I mean? Makes me not trust ’em.”
“I hear you.”
“You got a decent-size TV? We got three people need to watch it, and we’re kind of scattered out in here.”
Scattered out. Vince jotted the information, followed by a question mark.
“How about at least a twenty-four-inch? That should do it, as long as the three of you are watching from somewhere in the front part of the café.”
“Yeah, we’re all up front.”
Up front. Vince wrote it down. He was beginning to picture the scene. The hostages in one part of the main room. The Wick-sells at three different stations, guarding them.
Larry and Jack stood with backs to the board, their full attention on Vince. Larry’s hands hung waist-high, lacing and unlacing. Jack’s legs were spread a foot apart, one hand trailing the newsprint and building plans.
“All right, Kent. Sounds like a plan. If you’ll agree to release the girls, I’ll hunt down a TV fast as I can. Meanwhile, we’ll have to agree on logistics regarding the exchange. But I’m sure we can work those details out.”
“Depends on what kinda details you’re talking about.”
“It’s best if there are no surprises. So I’d want to work out how the TV is brought to your door. Who opens the door. At what point the girls come outside. That kind of thing. That part shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Maybe. Don’t go gettin’ too cocky.”
“I don’t feel cocky. I’m just telling you we’ve agreed on the hardest part.”
“Yeah. Well. It’s a pleasure doin’ business with ya, Edwards.”
Justin made a fist against the desk in victory.
Let it be so. Vince’s gaze wandered to Brittany’s and Ali’s photos on the wall. They smiled back at him. “Glad it’s working out, Kent.”
Wicksell cleared his throat. “Oh yeah. Forgot to ask one question.”
“Okay.”
“About them girls?”
“I’m listening.”
“You want ’em dead or alive?”
FORTY
“Maybe I’ll send the old codger out…”
The words echoed in Carla Radling’s head. No, not Wilbur! she wanted to scream. Let the girls go!
The air in Java Joint had grown nearly suffocating. Stale and dark. Heavy with sweat and fear and dread. Perspiration itched the back of Carla’s neck. Kent slumped at a table shoved toward the front of the café, thick legs spread, the phone pressed to his ear. His massive gun lay on the table within a split second’s reach. Mitch jerked and paced before the hostages, his nervous energy crackling. Brad sat like a king on Wilbur’s stool, one foot on the circular rest and the other on the floor. Both he and Mitch kept their weapons on the hostages.
I still can’t believe this.
Funny, how the mind handled shock. You’d think the body would fold in on itself from sheer terror. That the world would just stop. Yet here Carla and her friends sat, still breathing. Wilbur soundlessly thumped his thumb against the table he shared with Pastor Hank. S-Man and Leslie clutched hands even in the heat. Bev’s hard gaze stabbed Mitch, as if he were a recalcitrant student in one of her English classes. Paige’s back was to Carla — but she had hardly moved.
Poor Paige. Poor Frank.
Bailey continued to type.
Carla tried to pray. Ever since her life had turned upside down last September, she’d been learning how to talk to God. How to ask for forgiveness, let him wash away the guilt of her past. It had worked too. She’d begun to forge a relationship with the daughter she’d thought was long dead, had felt God’s strength uphold her when she possessed none of her own. And Scott Cambry — her estranged teenage love and Brittany’s birth father — even he had forgiven her. Now divorced with two kids of his own, Scott had traveled from his Washington home a number of times to visit Carla. He had his own hurts to deal with, but as soon as they first saw each other after all the years, something sparked. The love they had felt sixteen years ago had not vanished but lay buried beneath pain and lies and shamed confession. With time, maybe, just maybe, they could dig it out.
Time. Had it now run out for them? Had God brought Carla this far to have her die at the hands of these crazed men?
It’s okay, God. Take me. Just please, please, get my girls out safely.
Carla glanced at Brittany. Her dark eyes looked back, reflecting shock and… something else. Defeat? The thought pierced Carla. She squeezed Brittany’s hand, their eyes still locked, the message flowing from mother to daughter — I will get you out of here. Amazing, the bond they had. Forged from the womb, unbroken by almost sixteen years of separation.
Carla knew Brittany received her words.
Tears sprang to the girl’s eyes. Carla’s heart cracked. She knew Brittany’s tears weren’t for her. They were for fear of losing her. She shook her head in small but fierce movements. No, Brittany, we won’t lose each other. Not now. Not when we’ve just begun.
Ali pulled in a ragged breath. Carla saw the reddish-brown bangs hanging in her eyes, her cheeks pale and streaked. “It’s okay,” Carla mouthed. “It’s okay.”
“So you want them two girls?” Kent said into the phone.
Carla’s head jerked. What?
Brittany stiffened, and Ali’s breath caught. Carla reached for their hands.
Yes, God. Please!
Carla leaned forward, hanging on Kent’s every word. But now he talked about a TV size of all stupid, ridiculous things…
Kent drew the sides of his mouth down, shifted in his chair. A darkness etched his face.
“About them girls… you want them dead or alive?”
Carla went numb. For a moment she lifted outside her body, watched herself and the two precious girls turn white.
Someone moaned. Leslie? Brad threw his father a half-amused look. Bailey’s typing stopped.
Kent gave a low chuckle. “Just a joke, Edwards. Seein’ if I can rattle your cage.”
Carla’s shoulders sagged with relief, only to tense once more. Rattle your cage? Like this was a joke?
Oh, for just one of those men to let their guard down. Look the other way for a mere second. In fast forward, Carla pictured herself snatching away a gun, cutting Kent Wicksell in half with bullets…
He paused, listening, head cocked to one side. So sure of himself. Carla fixed him with a withering stare.
“Yeah, yeah.” He flexed his back. “So how we gonna do this?” He whipped his head toward Bailey. “Hey! Type!”
Bailey jumped. The clacking resumed.
For the next half hour Kent argued with Vince Edwards about “the exchange.” Carla’s nerves pinged with each passing second. Somewhere during that time Bailey finished typing. The hostages barely moved. Now and then Brad barked some suggestion. Kent ignored him.
First Kent returned to insisting that John Truitt bring the TV. Apparently Chief Edwards wouldn’t budge on that point.
Kent grew more agitated. Carla trembled. What if Vince pushed too far and the whole deal fell through? Rage and helplessness and sodden, clinging hope tornadoed through her. She pictured the girls outside, running to safety, pictured them with Ali’s parents. Brittany returning to the parents who’d raised her. The hugging, the crying, the leg-weakening, nauseating relief. Now that the possibility hovered before them, they couldn’t let it go. Losing it would crush her and the girls.
God, please!
Brittany’s head lowered until her chin nearly touched her chest. She shut her eyes, as if closing herself off from the scene, unable to take any more. Ali hugged herself, slightly rocking, gaze fixed upon the table. Carla glanced over to Leslie. Saw her mouth, “I’m praying.”
Carla tried to nod, but her head wouldn’t move.
“Edwards, you listen to me, or this whole deal’s off!” Kent pushed to his feet, paced three steps. He faced the wall, beefy shoulders bent forward, fingers gripping the phone. “I ain’t lettin’ anybody else in here, period!”
His barrel chest rose and fell as he listened.
“You mean leave it outside the door?”
Brad snorted.
Kent ran the back of a hand across his forehead. “Don’t think any of the three of us is opening the door to get it. We’re likely to get shot. Tell you what, somebody takes out one of us, the other two shoot every hostage in this place, got that?”
Fresh tears rolled down Brittany’s cheeks. Carla squeezed her hand, wishing she could take her daughter in both arms and hold her tight. It was so unfair, what these men were doing to her daughter. Forget cutting them in half with bullets; she’d rip all three of them apart with her bare hands, one limb at a time.
“Yeah,” Kent said, “so he knocks.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then we send ’em out.”
“No, I choose who comes out and gets it.”
Wilbur moved his stiff torso around and gave Carla a look over his shoulder. He firmed his mouth and nodded as if to say, It’ll happen.
But what if it did — at the expense of John Truitt? Carla looked at Bailey, who sat unmoving at the computer. Her face looked as frightened as Carla felt. She was scared to death for her husband.
Kent kept arguing. Logical one minute, yelling the next. Two things Carla realized. He wanted what he wanted. But he would not appear weak to get it.
Sweat ran under Carla’s clothes. Brittany’s and Ali’s faces glistened with perspiration. It was so hot in the room, with everything closed up. The black sheets over the windows only absorbed more sunshine. What she would give for some fresh air, a drink of water. The Wicksells had taken off their jackets long ago. With the coat pockets bulging full of ammunition, Brad and Mitch placed theirs underneath the counter, far from any hostage’s reach. Kent thunked his down on the table where he sat.
“Wait, hang on.” Kent looked to Bailey. “Why you just sitting there?”
She licked her lips. “I’m done.”
“How long ago?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice trembled. “A few minutes.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
She swallowed. “You were busy.”
He cursed under his breath. “Edwards, what’s your email address?” He listened, then repeated it to Bailey. “Send the thing. Now.”
Mitch sniffed. “Better make sure she don’t say nothin’ else.”
“I’ll watch her.” Brad pushed off the stool.
“Yeah, yeah, go ahead.” Kent turned away, talked into the phone. “T.J.’s story is coming. We’re finally getting somewhere.”
Gripping his gun, Brad walked to Bailey and stood behind her, frowning at the monitor. “Send a blank email with the attachment. Put ‘T.J.’ in the subject line.”
Bailey hit some keys. Brad looked to Kent. “It’s done.” He motioned to Bailey to slide her chair away from the computer. “Don’t touch it again unless you’re told.”
She obeyed. Brad sauntered back to the counter. He smirked at Wilbur as he settled on the stool.
“The email’s coming to ya,” Kent told Vince.
Carla felt lightheaded. Please, please. They were so close… Kent stalked back to his table. “Shut up — just get the TV! Don’t call back till you do.” He smacked a button to end the call.
Brad made a popping sound with his lips. “John’s not bringing the TV?”
“No, somebody else.” Kent waved a hand. “He’ll be unarmed, and he ain’t coming inside. And ain’t none of us three going out there.”
Brad worked his jaw. “You letting some cop come —”
“I’m handling it, Brad!” Kent shoved to his feet. “Now let it be!” He eyed his son, fuming. “What matters is, not long from now, everybody’ll hear T.J.’s story. Once those reporters read the document, others will pick it up. It’ll be across the nation in an hour.”
Brad smirked. “That’s a start. How about getting T.J. out of prison? Look how long we’ve been here.”
Kent’s face turned to stone. “You’d better find yourself some patience, boy. Sometimes things take longer than expected.”
He eyed Carla and the girls, his lip curling. “Looks like we’ll be breaking up your little party.”
Carla closed her eyes. Thank You, God!
“No, we’re not,” Brittany blurted.
Carla gawked at her daughter. They were teetering on a cliff here. One wrong move and the whole thing could give way. “What?”
Brittany shot her a look, then fixed defiant eyes on Kent. Her mouth trembled. But she pulled her shoulders back and raised her chin.
“I’m not leaving without my mother.”
FORTY-ONE
Vince pr
essed back in his chair and puffed out a long breath.
Awareness of his body flicked on. The back of his shirt was damp. His muscles felt drained, and his left hand cramped from holding the phone. He flexed his fingers.
“Good job.” Justin took off his earphones.
Vince nodded and rose to greet the CRT commander. “Jack. Glad you’re here.”
“You’re going to need help with that exchange. Sounds like we got here just in time.”
Jack’s tone remained factual, but Vince saw the anxiety in his eyes. The CRT commander had four daughters at home, two of them teenagers. He was a tough guy on the job, but those girls had their daddy wrapped around their fingers.
“Yeah, you did.” A to-do list rapid-fired in Vince’s brain. “Right now I need to look at that email and send it on. In the meantime, can you get the ISP helicopter in the air?” He turned to Justin. “Call Al to locate a TV. Remind him I want this exchange kept from the media until it’s over.”
“Right.” Justin reached for the station phone. Jack headed for the lobby, tac radio in hand.
Vince sat down in front of the computer. Clicked over to his inbox. There sat the email with attachment. Subject: T.J.
He opened the document and printed it. The hard copy would soon be tacked near the situation board. As the printer whirred, the words from Wicksell’s letter filtered through Vince’s mind. “There is evidence that should have come out in court…”
Vince leaned forward. Evidence? Okay, Wicksell. Show me.
Arms folded, he began to read.
FORTY-TWO
My Story
My name’s T.J. Wicksell. I didn’t kill Marya Whitbey. I couldn’t do that to anybody.
I’d never put this down on paper if I didn’t have to, because some of it’s embarrassing. But it ain’t half as bad as what they’re saying I did. So I just want to set the record straight for when my trial comes up.
I still can’t believe I have to go to trial! I can’t believe this is happening. Sometimes I wake up at night and think it’s all a nightmare. Any minute now I’ll wake up for REAL.
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