Amber Morn

by Brandilyn Collins

  I met Marya at Mr. Kranck’s store sometime last summer. Every now and then I’d see her, and we’d talk. She was sweet and pretty. Treated her little girl, Keisha, real good. I got to liking Marya. I wanted to ask her out but figured she might say no until she got to know me a little better. I could tell Marya wasn’t the kind to just go out with anybody. I was going to have to earn her trust.

  Every time I went into the store I hoped she was there.

  That day in October I drove to the store to pick up some pasta and tomato sauce for my mom — she was making lasagna that night. Marya was there. I teased with Keisha, got her to giggling. It was cold outside, and Marya had a heavy bag to carry. I offered to take her home. She said okay.

  I told myself while we drove I was going to ask her to go out. Maybe a movie or something. But she only lived about three blocks away, and we got there in no time. I did a U-turn and pulled up to the curb out front. Marya thanked me. I offered to take her bag inside for her, but she said no, she could manage. “What apartment’s yours?” I said, and she pointed to the second one on the left from the building’s front door.

  I sat in my car and watched until I saw the light come on in that apartment.

  My mom needed her groceries to make supper, and I knew she’d be mad if I hung around any longer. I drove away about a block, but then I got so ticked at myself for not asking Marya for a date. And how long would it be before I ran into her in the store again? I hadn’t even gotten her phone number.

  I turned around to go back to her apartment. As I got to the building I noticed a driveway going around back. I turned left onto it. It led to a parking area. There were some cars there, but still a lot of empty spaces. I parked and went in the building through a back door.

  On the right was a staircase. I went straight ahead and hit the front hallway. Then turned right.

  Way down the end of the hall, I saw something really quick. Like someone’s foot as they disappeared around the corner. Then I heard fast footsteps, like somebody running up a staircase. I figured there must be another set of stairs down there, but didn’t think any more about it.

  I headed toward the second apartment on my left. And then I started to get nervous, which isn’t natural for me. But I got to thinking what if Marya got mad at me for coming back? What if she told me never to come around her again? Then even if I saw her in the store, I wouldn’t be able to talk to her.

  My head was thinking all these things while I stood about five feet away from the door. And suddenly I realized it didn’t look all the way closed. I walked over a little and looked at it. Yup. Open about an inch.

  I heard Keisha crying.

  I stood there, waiting to hear Marya’s voice, soothing Keisha like I’d heard her do in the store. But the little girl just kept on crying.

  What should I do? I looked up and down the hall. Didn’t see anybody.

  So I walked forward until I could touch the door. Keisha was still crying.

  I knocked on the door. No answer.

  Right then I got really scared, like something… I don’t know, I just knew something. I almost turned and ran. But I was worried about Marya. So I knocked again and called her name. Still no answer.

  Next thing I knew I had the door pushed open. I stuck my head inside. “Marya?”

  Nothing but Keisha crying.

  I saw the living room and the kitchen past it. The bag of groceries sat on the counter. To my right was a little hallway and a room — probably the bedroom. Keisha’s crying was coming from there.

  Something felt real bad. Inside I knew something had happened. My heart started beating hard, but I couldn’t just leave. I went down the hall and looked around the corner into the bedroom.

  There was Keisha. She had red on her all over. Wet red.

  Marya was on the floor on her side. Not moving. She was bleeding. I saw cuts all over her body.

  She looked dead.

  I remembered that foot I saw in the hallway, and somebody running up the staircase.

  I went crazy scared. I know I should have called the police. And should have gotten Keisha out of there. It’s easy to think that now, but I’m telling you when something that scary happens, your brain forgets to think. You just act. I started to turn and run, but then I saw the knife on the floor. My brain cleared for just a second, and I thought — what if Keisha cuts herself with it?

  I jumped into the room, picked up the knife by the handle, and threw it on the bed, where Keisha couldn’t reach it. Then I tore out of the apartment and headed for the nearest door of the building. I ran out the front, my legs just pumping, still not thinking straight. Then I realized my car was in the back. I ran around the building. I must have wiped my hand on my shirt around then, but I don’t remember. I jumped in my car and drove out of there as fast as I could. I didn’t stop until I got home.

  When I drove up to our house I noticed the blood on my shirt. I ripped it off so Mom wouldn’t see the blood. I balled it up and took it inside the house. I stuck it under my bed and threw on another shirt. Mom was already calling me from the kitchen, mad that I’d taken so long. I told her I was sorry and that I’d had to go to a second store because Mr. Kranck didn’t have the sauce she wanted.

  I couldn’t eat the lasagna that night.

  Two days later the paper came out with a drawn picture of somebody seen running to a car in the parking lot of Marya’s building. The picture looked like me. The cops came the next day. They wanted to talk to me. That really scared me because I realized how stupid it was not to call them in the first place. Now I’d look guilty just because I’d kept quiet. I told them I didn’t know who killed Marya. Which was true. They came back with a search warrant. They found my shirt under the bed. It had Marya’s blood on it.

  I told them this story after they arrested me, but nobody listened. I told my lawyer too. I hope they’ll listen in my trial.

  FORTY-THREE

  Mother. The word felt weird to Brittany. First time she’d ever called Carla that, even though it was true. It was hard, after sixteen years of thinking of one woman as Mom to suddenly call someone else Mother.

  Brittany’s legs shook. Her breathing sounded more like panting, and that made her mad. She didn’t want to look weak in front of hateful, disgusting Kent.

  He pushed to his feet and headed for her like some stalking lion.

  “Kid, you better watch yourself,” Brad said.

  Brittany clamped her jaw, pressed her feet to the floor — and somehow managed to look Kent in the eye.

  He’d left his gun on the table where he’d been sitting, near the front of the café. Purposely, for sure. Just to remind them all how out of reach it was for them. Meanwhile, Mitch and Brad pointed their weapons at the group. Cowards.

  Sweat shone on Kent’s ugly face. And she could smell him. All ratty and thick like a horse barn.

  He stopped three feet away. His face twisted. “What is this ‘I won’t leave without my mother’?” His eyes drove daggers at her. “You’ll leave when I tell you to leave.”

  “She will,” Carla blurted. “She will.”

  “No, I won’t.” Brittany stared at Kent. “Not without her.”

  “Hey, girl.” Mitch shifted his weapon in Brittany’s direction. “Better get out while the gettin’s good.”

  Kent swung his head around to give Mitch a black look — I’ll handle this. He sniffed and turned back to Brittany. “I don’t have time for your games. You’ll do what I say, case closed. Now I’m going down to the bathroom — do you mind?”

  Mitch sniggered.

  Off Kent stomped, cursing under his breath like the cultured man he was.

  Down the hall, the bathroom door opened and closed.

  Ali gawked at Brittany like she’d gone crazy.

  Come on, Ali, what would you do if your mother was in here?

  “I got an idea.” Brad’s voice sounded singsong. Taunting. Brittany couldn’t see his face without looking halfway over her shoulder — and sh
e 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.