Amber Morn

by Brandilyn Collins

  “Oh yeah. They’re big.” Brittany held her hands apart in measurement.

  Three MP5s. Maybe more in the bag.

  “The windows are all blacked out, right?”

  “With sheets.”

  “Any spot left open where someone could see through them?” “No. There’s tape around every sheet, all sides. And they’ve turned off all the lights.”

  The tape made sense. Wicksell hadn’t given any clues that he could see a thing through those windows as the TV was being delivered. As for the lights… Maybe they were worried about throwing shadows against the sheets.

  “What about the back door?”

  Brittany shook her head. “It’s locked. And there’s a desk turned on its side and pushed in front of it.”

  Vince absorbed that piece of information. “Are the three men up front all the time?”

  “Yeah. Except to go to the bathroom.”

  “What about the hostages — where are they?”

  Pain flicked across Brittany’s face. “They’re all sitting at tables along the back wall.”

  “How many tables?”

  “There’s…” Her gaze wandered to the ceiling as she thought. “Four. No, five, counting the computer table where Bailey’s sitting by herself.”

  “So the rest are maybe three to a table?”

  Brittany bit the inside of her bottom lip. “Three at the first table nearest the counter and the hallway. Then Mom.” Her eyes teared up. “She’s alone there now.” Vince waited while she wiped her face. “The next table has two — Wilbur and Pastor Hank. The fourth one has three people. That’s where Leslie is. And S-Man and Paige. Then Bailey at the computer table.”

  “Wow.” Vince spoke gently. “I’m impressed at your memory.”

  She tightened her mouth. “Pretty hard to forget.”

  “I’ll bet.” He paused. “I’d like you to draw a diagram of those tables for me before you leave, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Where in the room are the three Wicksell men?”

  Her face twisted. “Brad’s sitting on a stool at the counter most of the time. Making a big deal of it ‘cause it’s Wilbur’s stool — that’s how childish he is. Mitch is mostly right in front of everybody, like in the middle of the room. Kent moves around, but when he’s talking on the phone, he’s at a table near the front window.”

  “Which window?”

  “The one farthest to the right. If you’re inside looking toward the street.”

  “So — in that corner of the room.”

  She tilted her head. “Not really in the corner. But not far from it.”

  “All right. Put that in your diagram too, okay?”

  She nodded.

  Vince could stoop no longer. He pushed to his feet, feeling tingles in both legs. “Thanks, Brittany. Everything you’ve told me is very helpful. I’ll need to ask you some more questions, but for now just sit tight, and the doctor will be with you in a minute.”

  “Okay.” She looked up at him, her expression morphing into forlorn exhaustion. “Can I use a phone to call my parents? I lost my cell phone ‘cause they took everybody’s away and threw them in a bag.”

  “Absolutely, you can call your parents. We just need to get you a free line.” He looked to Roger, who was still on the phone — the second call he’d answered since arriving. “Officer Waitman will help you with that. Can you wait a sec?”

  She leaned back in her chair and nodded.

  Vince reached for Brittany’s hand and squeezed. “I can’t tell you how glad we all are that you and Ali are safe.”

  “Thanks.”

  A simple response, but Vince could hear the blend of emotions behind it. Relief for herself, hatred of the men, fear for those left behind. Especially her mom.

  Roger waved a hand to get Vince’s attention, the phone pressed against his chest. Vince gave Brittany a little smile and stepped away, raising his eyebrows at Roger.

  “Jim has heard the judge and both attorneys have now arrived at their given location. Someone can bring them in whenever you’re ready.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  “What about media?”

  With parents being notified of the girls’ release, word would spread quickly. Better to keep reporters properly informed. “Call Al and give him the basics of the exchange to tell media.” Vince lowered his voice. “Let’s not go into shots being fired —”

  “Vince.” Larry stood in the doorway. “Justin says Kent’s on the line.”

  “Okay, coming.” He looked back to Roger. “Gotta go.”

  As Vince hurried into the hallway, Larry whispered, “Justin says the man’s in a rage.”

  Vince strode toward his office, the back of his neck prickling.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  John stared at Lenora, his brain scrambling for words. The woman was tall and thin. Straggly brown hair, a worn, weary face. She eyed him with a mixture of expectation and dread. But now that he’d gotten in the door — a miracle in itself — what could he say? Your husband is holding my wife hostage… The strangeness of their connection tied his tongue.

  She folded her arms. “Who are you?”

  “John Truitt. My wife, Bailey, owns Java Joint. She’s in there with your husband.”

  Lenora’s eyes widened, then a veil fell over her face. Her jaw hardened. “What do you want?”

  Anger welled within him. What did he want?

  He opened his mouth. Shut it. No, no, he couldn’t lose his temper with this woman. He had to reach her.

  Dear God, show me how.

  Motion caught John’s eye. He focused over Lenora’s shoulder into a cluttered den. The TV was on but muted. Its screen showed a reporter standing on Lakeshore.

  Briefly, Lenora’s gaze followed his to the television.

  “You want your innocent son freed,” John blurted. “T.J.” Lenora’s expression flickered. “Yes.”

  “I want my innocent wife freed.”

  She pulled in her shoulders. “I can’t help you.”

  “Are you… talking to your husband?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have a computer? Did you see the comments on the blog?”

  She frowned and shook her head.

  Some of the tension slid from John’s muscles. Suddenly he pictured the world through Lenora Wicksell’s eyes — a desperate world of perceived injustice. A husband and two sons putting their lives on the line for the youngest in the family. And she, left alone.

  “I read the first communications between your husband and Vince Edwards, Kanner Lake Chief of Police. I can tell you what I know.”

  She studied him with suspicion, then motioned him into the den. They perched on opposite ends of a saggy blue couch.

  John told her about the blog comments, the plans to air T.J.’s document. Hope stirred across Lenora’s face as she drank in his words. She looked to the silent-mouthing female reporter on the TV. “Maybe she’s reading T.J.’s story now.”

  Story. Apropos choice of words.

  She reached for the remote and turned up the volume. “… repeat, we are trying to substantiate reports that Brittany Hanley and Ali Frederick, the two youngest hostages, are being freed…”

  Lenora sucked in a breath. John leaned forward.

  Time seemed to stop as they listened. The reporter spoke of an exchange — a TV set for two hostages. Showed film of Stan Seybert and another man from Kanner Lake, Bud Halloway, loading a TV onto a truck. Skimming below his concentration, John considered the irony of his and Lenora’s entwined anxiety in this room. He on one side of the battle, she on the other.

  He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “Want me to find out if it’s true?”

  She nodded. The creases in her forehead belied her need to know something, anything. Knowledge connected her to her husband.

  John knew the feeling.

  He dialed the Kanner Lake Police Station. An unknown voice answered. That small surprise threw him. What if they told h
im nothing? He could lose what ground he’d gained with Lenora. “Hi. It’s John Truitt.”

  “Yes, I saw your ID come up. This is Larry Emmet. I’m helping answer phones.”

  “Oh. Is it true — about the girls?”

  A pause. “I’m not supposed to say anything.”

  “Then put Roger on the phone.”

  “He’s really busy right now.”

  “Listen to me, Larry, my wife is in there. Now tell me what’s going on.”

  Larry cleared his throat. “You’ll be hearing on the news soon anyway. Yes, it’s true. The girls are here. Safe.” He related details.

  Emotion swept through John. Relief for the girls and their families, hope for Bailey and all who remained. He exhaled, tilted his head back. “Thank you.” He closed the cell phone.

  Lenora watched him, hands tightly clasped beneath her chin. He told her all he’d heard.

  She soaked in the news, then blinked her gaze away to stare at the floor. John saw something steal over her body. Her mouth tightened, eyes narrowing. She straightened her back.

  “Get out.”

  “But —”

  “Now.” She stood up.

  John pushed to his feet. “Look. You can help. The world is going to hear your son’s story now — isn’t that what you wanted? Maybe you can talk to your husband, ask him to let everyone —”

  “Do you see T.J. home and safe yet, huh?” She slashed a finger toward the floor. “Do you have any idea what we’ve gone through? Kent let those girls go to get something he wanted, but my son’s still in prison. Nobody else is coming out of there until he’s free!”

  “Please.”

  “Leave this house right now.”

  She stepped forward, pushed hard against his chest. Then drew up, back arched and fingers curved like claws. “Go this minute, or I will run outside and scream to those reporters you tried to hurt me.”

  John stared at her openmouthed.

  “Get out!”

  He turned on his heel and headed blindly for the door. Lenora scurried in front of him, unbolted the lock, and threw it open. He forced himself through.

  “And don’t come near me again!” she yelled. The door slammed behind him.

  He stood staring at the paint-peeling wood. Dear God, what should he do now? Where to go? He had blown this so badly.

  To the church. To pray.

  John’s vision blurred with tears. He turned and stumbled down the Wicksell porch steps — and only then noticed that two cameras were rolling.

  FIFTY-NINE

  “Hello, Kent, I’m here.” Vince leaned one hand on his desk, willing his voice steady.

  No response.

  “Kent? You there?”

  Silence.

  Vince aimed a questioning look at Justin.

  “He was on just a minute ago. Cussing a blue streak.”

  Vince worked his jaw. “Kent?”

  Noises filtered over the line. “Edwards!” The word was spit from Wicksell’s mouth.

  “I’m here.” Vince sat down on the edge of his chair. “I understand you’re upset at the way the exchange went. I want to assure you that you’re safe.”

  Wicksell spewed curses. “What do you call safe? We had a deal! You told me nobody would be armed! You said not armed!”

  “I told you the man delivering the TV would not be armed, and he wasn’t. The man you saw was only there to get the girls to safety. Apparently one of the girls fell, and he helped her get up. That was it. No one shot at you — even though you fired multiple times.”

  Wicksell breathed over the line like a fuming dragon. “So much for trust.” His voice was hard, cold. “I should have known I can’t trust any cop.”

  Fear trickled through Vince’s gut. He thought of all the negotiating scenarios he’d practiced. The vocal nuances he’d learned, that thin line between balancing at the edge of a cliff and falling over it. Wicksell was at that edge. If Vince couldn’t turn this around, things could get nasty very quickly.

  “You can trust me. We got you the TV —”

  “You had a SWAT member here. On my street! He could have gunned me down!”

  “He was not there for that purpose, Kent. He was only there to take the girls to safety, and that’s what he did.”

  “He’d have shot me if he could.”

  “He wasn’t there to shoot you. Remember, you’re the one who fired shots. No one returned fire.”

  “How do I know you didn’t have ten more men like him around?”

  “No one is anywhere near you on the street. We sent people in to take the girls away, and they are all gone now.”

  Wicksell’s breathing rattled.

  Larry entered the office and headed for the hostage photos tacked to the wall. He wrote “RELEASED” across the pictures of Brittany and Ali.

  Justin jotted a note for Vince and held it up: Change subject. TV.

  Vince nodded. “Kent, did you get the TV inside?”

  “What, you think I’m gonna bring it in while you got armed men on the street? No, it’s not inside!”

  “Nobody is out there. You said you were going to send someone else out to get it. Go ahead and do that. It’s safe.”

  “I’ll bet it is.”

  Vince wrapped his fingers around the arm of his chair. He wanted to bring Wicksell’s temper under control. On the other hand, if the man needed to vent, best let him do it. Maybe the anger would play itself out.

  “Okay, Kent, the television isn’t going anywhere. When you’re ready to bring it in, we can proceed.”

  For another five minutes Wicksell argued and cussed. Vince maintained a calm tone, but Wicksell ranted on. Twice Vince reminded him they couldn’t move forward until someone pulled the television into Java Joint. The reporters were standing by. T.J.’s story would air — but not until Wicksell gave the word that he was ready to watch the coverage, because that’s what the two of them had agreed upon, and Vince was holding up his side of the bargain.

  “All right,” Wicksell finally seethed, “just get off me!”

  A crack shot through Vince’s ear. Wicksell had slammed the phone down.

  SIXTY

  “You!” Kent spun on his heel and pointed. “Get up!”

  S-Man felt Leslie’s hand tighten on his. He eased his fingers from her grasp. It’s okay, he told her with his eyes. To his left, Paige fixed him with a wide stare, her forehead crinkled. Her face said it all — Ted, don’t let them kill you too!

  S-Man pushed back from the table and stood up. Surprising, under the circumstances, how good it felt to stretch his legs.

  He was used to sitting for hours at a time to write, but that was different. Ensconced in his Saurian world, he wouldn’t register that his rear end was tired or his back muscles tight — until the lapse of concentration that tumbled him back into the real world. It was like a switch being thrown. Bam, all the aches and pains shouted at him.

  S-Man stole a glance at his contracts lying on the edge of the counter. The papers that promised his new life as a novelist. It seemed like days ago he’d been signing them.

  Kent plucked his gun off the table where the telephone lay. Pointed it at S-Man. “You’re gonna go outside and bring the TV in.” He threw a look at Mitch, who stood guard near Bailey. “Get hold of her.” He pointed to Leslie. His calculating eyes cut back to S-Man.

  Mitch stepped to Leslie and clenched scrawny fingers around her arm. Dragged her to her feet. She cried out and stumbled backward. He wrapped one arm around her neck.

  White-hot rage shot through S-Man. His muscles jerked, every nerve within him straining to let his fist fly at Mitch. In a split second he willed himself to hold back. Whatever he did would only be taken out on Leslie.

  “Good choice, Space Cowboy,” Kent sneered. “Yeah, I saw the look on your face.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Nice and slow now. I’ll be watching from inside the door. Get the TV and bring it in here. No fast moves, no running for it — and your little blonde
reporter will get to sit back down beside you, all nice and quiet.”

  S-Man’s eyes briefly met Leslie’s as he moved around the table. He limped across the café, unbolted the door. Opened it — to strong sun and fresh air. He blinked at the light, the heady sweetness of the air caressing his face. He breathed in hungrily.

  The barrel of Kent’s gun poked into his back.

  “Go.”

  Squinting, S-Man stepped over the threshold and onto the sidewalk. Warm sun poured down over him, reflecting against white pavement. His narrowed eyes took in the eerie, empty street, the shot-out buildings on the other side. The Simple Pleasures storefront lay in ruins, windows shattered. Glass everywhere.

  Not a person in sight. Like some abandoned war zone in Sauria.

  Before him at the curb sat the TV.

  S-Man walked toward it, taking in all he could through his peripheral vision. No SWAT man peeked around a corner, no sniper visible on the Simple Pleasures rooftop. For the first time since the gunmen had appeared, S-Man felt overwhelmed by the sheer aloneness of it all. Had the entire town abandoned all of the hostages to their fate?

  He crossed to the curb, hearing his own hollow footsteps and nothing more.

  Like walking into The Outer Limits.

  He reached the table, saw it was on wheels. Pulled it toward him, then got behind it. His back to the Main Street he once knew, S-Man pushed the table to Java Joint’s door and over the threshold. Its wooden wheels bumped across the metal strip.

  Brad and Kent were arguing again about things not moving fast enough. Kent threw cuss words over his shoulder as he kept a steely eye on S-Man. Mitch tossed in his own opinion. Kent shouted him and Brad down.

  “Get out of the way!” Kent screamed at S-Man.

  He moved aside, and Kent slammed and bolted the door. Java Joint’s claustrophobic, sweat-laden air clawed at S-Man. His eyes opened wide in the dimness.

  Lingering sensations from his seconds of freedom fled from his mind.

  He looked to Leslie. Mitch had her even tighter by the throat, anger at his father goading his moves. Her wide eyes spelled terror, but her clamped jaw screamed indignation. His independent, fighter Leslie.