The TV screen flicked back to the infomercial on local real estate.
Judge Hadkin sucked air through his nose. He lifted both hands. “That’s no new evidence — that’s a story. A poor one at that.”
Wiley grunted his assent.
“No. T.J. saw someone running away — a key piece of information that the police ignored.” Tranning’s voice sounded even more nasally when he was complaining. “They zeroed in on my client and never looked back.”
“Maybe because there was no other place to look.” Wiley shook his head. “I didn’t see you coming up with anything to support that claim.”
Vince stepped to the TV. “We should listen to the one on Channel 4 too.”
He flipped the station. Soon Teresa Wright appeared and read the document. Her statements before and after were similar to Cole’s. Nothing, Vince thought, that should set Wicksell off.
Please, Lord.
Vince snapped off the TV. “Okay. Would you three sit down and start discussing what we can do? I need to give Wicksell something. Right now he doesn’t even know you’re here. Just telling him that ought to placate him a little. But I’m hoping you can come up with something that’ll help me talk him out of there.” He looked from Wiley to Tranning with a silent message: Put your differences aside.
Vince focused on the judge. “Marcus, I’d appreciate it if you lead the discussion and take notes. I’ll get back to you all as soon as I can.”
“Just like the courtroom. Somebody’s got to keep these two in line.” Judge Hadkin sparked with energy. “Go on and talk to that lunatic, Vince. I’ll take care of this. Too bad I didn’t bring a gavel.” He scratched his nose and surveyed the area for chairs. “All right, gentlemen, let’s pull those over and get to it.”
Vince flashed him a tight smile.
“Roger, would you continue debriefing the girls?” he asked. “I’ve got to get back to Wicksell. Have Larry take notes. I want to know the dynamics between the three men, and between them and the hostages. And make sure Brittany draws the diagram of where everyone is in the room.”
“Okay.”
As Vince headed for his office, his private line rang. He hurried to his desk and picked up the phone. “Kent. You hear the newscasts?”
Justin stepped through the door, and Vince motioned for him to close it. No need to be distracted by the drone of voices from the lobby.
“Yeah, I heard ’em.” Wicksell sounded mad as a wet hen.
Whoa. Vince lowered into his chair. “You sound upset. What’s wrong?”
“We got trouble, that’s what.”
SIXTY-FOUR
Angie Brendt felt the first strange flutter in her heart as the despicable Kent Wicksell switched the TV to Channel 4. They’d already heard the reading of T.J. Wicksell’s story once; now they were going to hear it again. Wonderful.
Her heart fluttered a second time. Worse.
She stiffened. What was that?
Bev leaned toward her with a questioning expression. Angie shook her head — It’s nothing — even as she felt her cheeks go hot. Bev eyed her askance, clearly not believing her. Well, too bad. Bev had been through enough today. That monster had stuck a gun at her head. Far be it from her best friend Angie to make her worry any more.
Angie’s heart fluttered a third time.
Then — pain. Deep under her rib cage, radiating out to her left arm.
Angie held her breath. Forced herself to count to ten. I don’t feel it, I don’t feel it.
She felt it, all right.
Help me, Lord. Was this what she thought it was? These horrible killers with their guns and meanness and vile language, and seeing Frank shot, and now worrying about Jared. Had this nightmare of a day worked her right into her first heart attack?
Angie clamped her fingers around her upper left arm and massaged. It didn’t help. Oh, it hurt.
She tried to focus on the TV to distract her mind. Kent Wicksell cursed half under his breath as the second reporter started reading that silly story written by his son. As if anyone would believe it. Angie had watched the news about that trial every night. That boy was guilty. Stabbing a mother in front of her own baby girl and leaving the child to walk through her blood.
Even if Angie hadn’t believed in T.J.’s guilt before, she would now — after seeing his family in action.
The pain pulsed. Under her ribs and down her arm. She was having a heart attack.
No, Lord, not here, not now! These men will kill me!
Her breathing came in shallow gulps. Moans escaped her lips, though she tried to stop them. Bev looked at her, eyes round, her gaze taking in the massaging fingers, the quick rising of Angie’s chest. Alarm creased her face.
“What are you feeling?”
Bev spurted the question — loudly. Not caring about the gunmen. But that was Bev. She was brave. Unlike Angie.
Brad’s head snapped toward her. “Stop talking!”
“But she’s —”
“Shut up!” Kent swatted the air in Bev’s direction. His gaze never left the TV.
Shut up — his favorite phrase. That and the cusswords. Had he grown up in a barn? These weren’t men; they were animals.
Oh, her arm hurt. Angie rubbed it hard, but it didn’t help. She groaned.
Jared Moore reached over and held on to her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
Angie shook her head. That was all she could do. Just shake her head while random wild thoughts started rattling around inside it. Thoughts about the Wicksell men, and what would happen now, and the pain — and David Clanton. David, her longtime friend, who had finally become her boyfriend over a year ago. He, a widower, she, having lost her dear husband years before. They’d started dating slowly, taking it easy, making sure. They’d both loved their spouses so deeply…
As she clutched her arm, afraid she might pass out and terrified her life would end with a bullet in her brain, Angie wondered what on earth she and David had been waiting for. Why hadn’t they married when they had the chance? She loved him, didn’t she? Well, didn’t she? Now their chance would never come.
And Frank Jr., her son. In his thirties and still not married, despite all her tries at matchmaking. If she died in this café today, she’d never live to see him with a family.
The pain chewed at her. God, please help me!
Angie closed her eyes and groaned louder.
“She’s having a heart attack!” Bev cried.
Angie heard jumbles of sound — Jared’s voice, Brad’s curse, her other friends’ calls for help on her behalf, the brrr of chair legs against linoleum. No, be quiet, I’m all right. They’ll shoot me. She struggled to say the words, but only moans rose from her throat.
She slumped to her right — and felt Jared catch her.
Blood whooshed in her ears. Through the pounding she heard Kent Wicksell cursing.
“You two — put her on the floor! The rest, stay back!”
Bev and Jared whispered soothing words as they edged her out of the chair, lowered her down. Angie couldn’t open her eyes. They nudged her on her back, told her to lie still. She had no energy to resist.
“You’ve got to call for help,” a man said.
Angie’s thoughts swirled around the pain. That was Wilbur’s voice. He should know. He’s had a heart attack. Triple bypass…
“She needs an ambulance!” That’s Leslie.
Then Brad and Kent and Mitch were all shouting, telling everybody, “Shut up, or I’ll shoot and put her out of her misery!” and “Throw her outside and let her die!” and “I can’t hear the TV!”
The pain roiled. The floor felt so hard and uncomfortable. Angie’s head rolled back and forth, her legs drawing up.
She was going to die.
David, I’m so sorry.
“Everybody, move over there. Now!”
The café exploded with noise. Footfalls around her. Yelling. Crying. Chairs scraping. What was happening?
Suddenly it all fell silent, except f
or the TV reporter’s voice.
“Hey!” A gun barrel poked in her ribs.
Angie forced her eyes open. She looked up to see Kent Wick-sell towering over her, his expression cold as ice. She could see no one else.
Sounds from her right. Angie rolled her head and saw her friends clustered near the computer table where Bailey sat, Mitch and Brad guarding with guns. They all watched her with alarm and righ teous anger. Bev glared at Brad like she was about to blow a gasket.
Angie’s bleary gaze wandered back to Kent.
He sneered down at her. “See all the trouble you caused? And don’t pretend you can’t hear me. You’d better pull yourself together, ‘cause I ain’t callin’ no ambulance for you. That cop ain’t sendin’ nobody near this place again. Got it?”
Angie’s eyes slipped shut.
He dug a foot into her ribs. “If you’re pretending just so you can get out of here, it ain’t gonna work.”
“I’m… I’m not…”
Angie tried to push out the words, but they wouldn’t come. She could only lie there and hope to God he wouldn’t shoot her.
SIXTY-FIVE
Paige saw Angie groaning on the hard floor — and something snapped within her soul.
She could almost hear the crack, like an ice-encased branch giving way. Until then, from the moment Frank had slumped, shot, at her feet, Paige had felt only the cold. Numbing, deadening cold. And she’d welcomed it. Sitting at her table hour after hour, Paige couldn’t have borne the knowledge that Frank was dead if she’d allowed herself to feel.
Paige knew fear. She knew helplessness. She’d grown up with both. Numbing out had been her defense against an abusive mother and her equally abusive “stepdads” since Paige was a little girl. It was better that way. When you felt the pain too much, you’d go under. You’d think you were going to die. You’d want to die.
“Get over there and don’t move!” Mitch yanked Paige to her feet and shoved her toward the wall. He pulled Leslie up next. Out the corner of her eye, Paige saw Ted reaching for Leslie, trying to push her behind him. Brad, Mitch, and Kent started shouting at once.
Paige hit the wall and whipped around, shrinking back against it. The pandemonium died away, her friends pressed together like panicked sheep, looking down the barrels of Mitch’s and Brad’s guns. They craned their necks to see Angie amid the tables and overturned chairs. Paige could see her face. White, twisted in pain. Her eyes rolled as if she was only half-conscious.
Paige clenched her hands. “You have to do something!”
“Shut up!” Brad’s blue eyes hardened into lasers.
Her friends yelled back. Wilbur, Ted, Bev, how many others Paige didn’t know. Their voices mixed and rose, taking strength from each other. Brad and Mitch shouted louder, waving their weapons.
Kent ran toward them, gun raised. “Next person who says a word dies!”
The noise cut off. Paige found herself cowering before Brad, her face half hidden in Pastor Hank’s shoulder.
She peeked up through strands of hair. Kent glared at them, a vein pulsing in his neck.
On the TV, the female reporter read T.J.’s story.
“Now.” Kent’s teeth gritted.” Nobody talks. Nobody moves.”
He turned and stalked to Angie. Sneered down at her about the trouble she’d caused.
He’s going to kill her.
Suddenly he straightened. Focused slitted eyes on Paige and the others around her. Started toward them, then veered as if hooked by an invisible hand to the phone on the front table. He threw down his gun, snatched up the receiver, and smacked it on.
Paige knew then. She’d seen enough of the signs as a child. The stone face, jaw moving from side to side, the stiff shoulders. Kent Wicksell’s rage had burned down to pulsing red coals, just waiting for one wrong word, one wrong action…
When that happened, someone was going to die.
SIXTY-SIX
“Kent, what’s going on?” Vince asked. Across from him, Justin started taking notes.
Wicksell growled in his throat. “I got a woman on the floor, claiming she’s having a heart attack. I don’t need this. She don’t get up, I just might get a little riled, get what I’m saying?”
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know, some —” The sound of a palm rubbing against the mouthpiece. “Who is she?” Wicksell’s voice was directed away from the phone. Vince heard numerous voices reply but couldn’t make out their answer.
“Angie,” Wicksell told him.
Angie Brendt. Vince’s eyes shifted to her photo on the wall. Angie was full of life and fun. Known for her laughter, her positive attitude. “What are her symptoms?”
“She’s lying on the floor, massaging her left arm and groaning.” Wicksell’s voice remained hard. “I told her no use faking it, I ain’t letting her out of here.”
“I don’t think she’s faking. She’s in her midsixties, and she has seen some stress today. You need to let her go right away so she can get to the hospital.”
“I told you I ain’t letting anybody else near this place!”
“If she’s —”
“If she’s sick, too bad! I’ll put her out of her misery!”
Vince’s options flashed through his head. If Angie was having a heart attack, every minute counted. But Wicksell’s attitude screamed he was nowhere close to letting her go.
“I don’t believe you really want to do that. And you’ve got enough to deal with in there. Do you want to worry about a woman who needs medical care?”
“I’m telling you, I’ll do it! I’m tired of these people. They went crazy on me two minutes ago. If I wasn’t such a patient man, they’d all be dead.”
Vince kept his voice level. “Kent, I understand this is upsetting for everyone. The others are certainly worried about Angie. It will be helpful to calm everyone down by assuring that Angie gets the medical atten —”
“And listen, don’t tell me ‘I did this and that for you,’ hear? I don’t care if those reporters read T.J.’s story, it’s not enough! I want to get my son out of prison. Now. You’re not doing anything to help me. We came in here at eight o’clock, now it’s after one. Five hours. Five!“
Dread rolled through Vince’s stomach like a ball of wax. The newscasts had been so important to Wicksell. They should have placated him for a while at least.
“Kent, I have been working on it. Right now the prosecutor, defense attorney, and Judge Hadkin are here, discussing T.J.’s case. They’ll figure out what to do legally to help —”
“So they’re talking. So what? They talked plenty in the courtroom — and look what happened.”
“Kent, a jury convicted T.J. Not the attorneys, not the judge. Hadkin has plenty of jurisdiction to reopen a case if he thinks it should be done. Of all people, he’s the one who matters most. And he’s here.“
“He won’t do nothin’.”
Wicksell had demanded that these men hear what he had to say. Now he didn’t even care that they were here? What did Vince have left?
“I don’t think that’s true, Kent. I think he’ll help.”
“Then get him on the phone with me, saying T.J.’s being freed right now. No, wait, I know. There’s cell phones in here. When I can call home and hear T.J. and his mom together — then we’ll come outta here.”
Vince needed to talk to Lenora Wicksell himself — one phone call he hadn’t yet had time to make. Now with Kent in such a state, perhaps a taped message from her could help calm him down.
“Tell you what, Kent, I’ll —”
“You’ll tell me nothing, Edwards! Just go get T.J. out of prison! Until the judge can tell me that’s happened, you and I ain’t talkin’ no more.”
The line clicked in Vince’s ear.
SIXTY-SEVEN
Bailey pressed against the wall, both hands to her mouth. Praying for Angie, praying that Kent would calm down and let an ambulance come. Mitch and Brad stayed close, guns up, expressions dark. Not caring i
n the least about Angie’s groans.
Kent broke off his call with Vince and smashed down the phone.
No one dared move. On TV, a series of ads flipped back to the female reporter who had read T.J.’s document. “We now have further news about the hostage situation in Kanner Lake…”
Bailey’s gaze pulled from Kent’s purple face to the television. The picture switched to a new scene. John! Her eyes widened. John was on the screen.
Beside her, Bev drew a sharp breath and nudged Bailey.
Brad turned to see what they were looking at. His chin came up. “Hey — our house!”
Our house?
Kent swiveled around.
“… A little over an hour ago,” the reporter continued, “this man visited the house of Kent Wicksell, wanting to talk to Kent’s wife, Lenora. We have since learned the identity of the man — John Truitt, husband of Bailey Truitt, owner of Java Joint and one of the hostages…”
Kent and Mitch threw furious glances at Bailey. Her veins iced over.
The footage showed John walking up a broken sidewalk toward a dingy white house with peeling paint. He mounted the steps onto the porch. Knocked on the door. It eventually opened, and he went inside.
The picture cut to John hurrying out of the house, a woman behind him. “And don’t come near me again!” she yelled. The door slammed.
Shocked silence stretched out in the café. They watched John head to his car and drive away.
The Wicksells went wild. Mitch whirled on Bailey. “What’d he do to my mother, huh, what’d he do?” Brad stormed toward her. Kent shouted a stream of curses and yanked his gun from the table.
Radt-a-tadt-a-tadt-a-tadt-a-tadt. The TV screen exploded.
The hostages screamed.
Mitch and Brad whipped toward their father. Kent hunched like an enraged grizzly, his feet planted wide and teeth bared. Radt-a-tadt-a-tadt. Bullets punched the counter and stools, shattered pastry cabinet glass, riddled the cash register and espresso machine and purses and S-Man’s contracts. Bailey’s ears sizzled. The gunfire and screams blasted and screeched and burst and shrilled until the whole world would surely cave in. Bailey bent low, cringing, hands over her head. The next bullet would be hers.
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