“Put your hands in the air,” he called out. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Evans raise her weapon too.
The men turned. Roger Norquist and his brother Derrick faced him, both looking startled.
What the hell was Derrick doing here? It took every ounce of control Jackson possessed to keep from crying out his brother’s name. “Hands up,” he yelled again.
Derrick raised his arms. “Wade, I’m glad you’re here.”
Norquist was silent, unmoving. From his position twenty feet away, Jackson didn’t see a weapon.
An engine roared to life in the hangar next to them. Momentarily startled, Jackson glanced over and back. In that instant, Norquist grabbed Derrick and yanked him in front of his body. Norquist locked one arm around Derrick’s throat and the other held a gun to his head. A weapon Jackson hadn’t seen.
“Back off or I’ll kill him.”
Nobody moved.
“It’s over, Norquist,” Jackson said, just loudly enough to be heard. “We have your DNA at both crime scenes. Put your weapon down and your hands in the air.”
“I’m getting out of here and if I have to take a hostage, I will.” Norquist’s voice sounded oddly familiar. “Put your guns down and back off.”
Jackson had never been in a hostage situation before and he refused to let his brother’s presence influence him. Norquist would not kill his hostage. If he did, he no longer had protection. Jackson kept his Sig Sauer aimed at the suspect.
Yet his big brother was in the way. If he lowered his weapon, would Norquist shoot him? Would he shoot Evans too? How else could this play out?
Jackson said to Evans in a low voice, “Keep your weapon on Norquist, no matter what.”
She nodded.
Jackson raised his voice. “I’m going to put down my gun and you’re going to let the hostage go. My partner will keep her weapon to make sure you don’t kill us. After you’ve released the hostage, I suggest you surrender. If you want to make a run for it, that’s your call.”
Jackson slowly squatted to the ground. He set his Sig Saur on the oily concrete and said a silent prayer. He stood and stepped forward. Evans followed, weapon still held straight out like she’d been trained. They’d been in a similar situation that spring and she’d handled it great for a rookie.
Norquist stepped toward the door of the plane, dragging Derrick with him. Jackson watched, empty-handed and feeling helpless.
Without taking his eyes off Evans’ weapon, Norquist brought his gun down on the back of Derrick’s head. Letting go of his hostage, Norquist leaped into the plane’s interior. Derrick fell toward the plane, his body half inside the door. Norquist shouted an obscenity and climbed into the pilot’s chair.
Jackson recovered his weapon and instinctively ran toward Derrick. The plane lurched forward and his brother fell to the cement. Blood ran from a gash in his head. As Jackson reached Derrick and kneeled next to him, the plane rolled out the opening of the hangar.
Chapter 33
Evans saw the hostage fall and Jackson run toward him. After a split second of indecision, she bolted after the plane. As she ran, it cleared the hangar and rolled across the tarmac toward the runway. In the open, she fired at the plane’s small wheels but it kept gaining momentum.
Evans pumped her arms and sprinted as if her life depended on it. The plane slowly picked up speed. Lungs burning, sensible shoes pounding, Evans gained ground. Norquist had heard her shots and kept looking over his shoulder. She knew he still had his weapon, but he couldn’t shoot at her and pilot the plane at the same time.
Sucking wind yet bursting with adrenaline, Evans was soon parallel with the open door. She tried to form a plan but couldn’t think and sprint at the same time. Without making a conscious decision, Evans threw herself through the open door, landing on her hands and knees in the cargo space. She recovered her bearings, crawled forward, and aimed her weapon at Norquist.
“Stop the plane! Don’t make me shoot you.”
Norquist jerked to face her. “Get out, goddamnit.”
He eased the plane to the left and onto the runway. He gunned the engine and the Cessna picked up more speed.
Evans’ heart pounded in her ears and the roar of the wind through the open door was deafening. “Stop this plane, you motherfucker, or I will shoot you.” Where was his weapon?
They continued to pick up speed and Evans started to panic. Would the fucker lift off with her in the back? Would he pull a crazy stunt and dump her out from five thousand feet? Her heart missed a beat thinking about it. She decided to shoot him in the leg.
Just as she pulled the trigger, Norquist jerked the steering column and the plane lurched to the left. Evans fell sideways as her weapon fired. Ears ringing from the blast, she struggled into a squatting position and took in the scenario. The plane had shot off the runway and was heading straight into an open field. Norquist slumped against the wall of the cockpit, blood running from his neck
Oh fuck! Evans duck-walked forward toward the controls. She needed to shut down the engine before they crashed into a farmhouse. Did the damn thing have an ignition? A kill switch? Evans scanned the dashboard, panic rising in her throat. Finally she grabbed the throttle and pulled it toward her. The engine sputtered and a few moments later died.
The plane slowed, but was still bumping wildly over an uneven field. A large farmhouse loomed ahead. Did planes have brakes? She couldn’t climb into the pilot’s seat because Norquist’s body was in the way, so Evans crawled forward and pressed the brake with one hand, her weapon still in the other.
The plane rolled into a shallow drainage ditch and jerked to a stop. Evans’ head slammed into the steering wheel as it did. The farmhouse was a hundred yards away. Fighting her emotional instinct, which told her to get the hell out, Evans reached for Norquist’s wrist and held it for a moment. He still had a pulse.
She leaned over and examined his neck where the blood was coming from. The bullet had missed his main artery and had torn through his trachea. His blood loss was minor for a gunshot wound, yet his face was turning blue and he struggled to breathe. Evans recalled her paramedic training. His damaged windpipe wasn’t letting enough air into his lungs. She needed to clear his airway. She reached two fingers down his trachea and felt a chunk of tissue. With a tentative grip on the blood-slick tissue, she tried to pull it free, but it didn’t budge.
The sound of a car engine made her look up. Jackson was barreling toward them across the field, his cruiser bouncing with every dip in the grass. He was such a good man. Evans looked back at Norquist. Why should she even try to save the bastard? He’d killed Jackson’s parents and his own daughter. He was a repeat rapist as well. The world was a better place without him.
Evans froze, undecided.
Jackson called out, “Are you okay?”
She turned as he climbed into the plane. “I’m fine. I accidentally shot Norquist in the neck. He’s not bleeding much but I think he needs a tracheotomy.”
Jackson looked at her for a long moment but didn’t say anything.
* * *
Norquist deserved to die, Jackson thought. It was for the best. No trial. No lifelong prison expense for taxpayers. It would just be over and he wouldn’t have to think about him again. He surprised himself by saying, “Can you do a tracheotomy?”
“I think so.” Evans met his eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Death is too good for him. Life in prison is a far worse punishment.”
“You’re right.” Evans grabbed a rag from the floor of the plane and held it to Norquist’s neck to stem the blood flow. “I’ve got a utility knife and a pen in my bag. It’s in your car. Go grab them.”
Jackson ran to the vehicle, grabbed Evans’ carryall, and hustled back inside the plane. With Evans’ direction, he located the little sliding blade in the pocket, then dug for a pen.
“Pull the guts out and hand me the hollow tube.”
As Jackson dismantled the cheap, department-issue pen, Evans
said, “Here goes.”
She stuck the tip of the blade into the hollow of Norquist’s throat and made a twisting motion. Blood oozed from the puncture. Evans turned to Jackson and held out her hand, like a doctor asking for the next instrument.
Jackson passed her the skeleton of the ink pen, and Evans pressed the make-shift straw into the small bloody hole. Norquist made a sucking sound as air entered his lungs. His chest began to move in a rhythmic pattern and colored flowed into his face.
“You called for backup, right?” Evans asked.
“I think I hear the sirens.”
“Will you watch this guy? I need to get out of this plane for a second.”
Evans crawled past him and out the door. She let out a little squeal as she stood on the ground. Jackson took her place near Norquist and pressed his hand on the wound above his tracheotomy.
“You should let me die.” Norquist’s voice was whispery and weird because of the pen in his esophagus.
Jackson stared at the man who had destroyed his family. He had so many things he wanted to ask. First, he grabbed cuffs from his jacket pocket and secured his suspect’s hands. “Why did you kill my parents?”
“You’re Wade Jackson?”
“Yes. I need to know what happened.” Jackson worried Norquist might not live. He needed to hear an admission of guilt.
“It was an accident. I went there to talk to Evelyn, to offer her money to keep quiet about our affair and our child.”
Jackson wanted to hit him for calling the rape an affair. But he’d learned to let suspects talk and reveal their crimes from their own perspective. “What went wrong?”
“She got upset and came at me. Then your fool of a father charged in with his gun. I didn’t even know he was home.” Norquist’s every word was a laborious effort. “I tried to take the gun away and calm him down. I accidentally shot him instead.”
“What about my mother?”
“She wouldn’t stop screaming.”
“So you shot her in the head?”
“It just happened.” Norquist closed his eyes. “I loved her, you know.”
Jackson burned with hatred. “You raped her, you sick bastard. Don’t call it love.”
“It wasn’t rape. She only felt that way because she was mad at me for a while. She was my lover.”
“Don’t say that, you pervert.” A siren wailed near the airport and Jackson breathed a sigh of relief. “What was Derrick doing in the hangar? How do you know him?” Jackson had left his brother cuffed and semiconscious on the floor, not understanding his involvement with Norquist.
“He came to confront me,” Norquist said. “He had just figured out who I was.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m Derrick’s father.”
Chapter 34
Saturday, September 11, 2:20 p.m.
Jackson and Derrick attended Gina’s memorial service together. Both Katie and Kera had offered to come with him for support but he’d declined. Sitting next to his brother at a funeral service kept pulling Jackson back to the days following their parents’ deaths. His grief for his half sister, whom he’d never known, mingled with grief for his parents and felt more intense than he’d anticipated. Gina’s adoptive parents cried openly during the service and Jackson struggled not to absorb their pain.
Afterward, he drove Derrick back to his house, riding in silence for the first part of the trip. Jackson had so much he wanted to ask and so much more he wanted to say. Knowing Derrick’s biological father was a substandard human being had given Jackson a new patience with his brother.
“You must have been shocked to learn Norquist was your father,” Jackson said finally. “How did you deduce that?”
“I wanted to help you solve the murders, so I was trying to figure out who Gina’s biological father was. Then I remembered Mom had worked for Norquist’s bakery when she was young. I googled Norquist, and when I stared at his picture and realized we had the same cobalt blue eyes, I just knew.” Derrick glanced at Jackson and shifted in his seat. “I’d always suspected Clark wasn’t my father. I was so different from the two of you. I never measured up.”
Jackson turned on Emerald Street. “I wish you had called me instead of tailing him and confronting him. You almost got killed.”
“I’m sorry. I wanted to look him in the eyes and demand the truth. I was afraid I’d never get the chance again.”
“Are you okay with knowing what he is?” Jackson knew he wouldn’t be.
His brother let out a soft laugh. “Nobody wants to be related to a killer, but in some ways, it takes the pressure off. If you know what I mean.”
“I think I do.” Jackson struggled for the right words. “You’re a good man, Derrick. Don’t ever think otherwise.”
“I’m going to try harder. I want your respect.” Derrick was quiet for a moment. “What do you think will happen to Norquist?”
“He’s already recanted everything he said to me, but we’ll get a conviction. His DNA is connected to both crime scenes and they spotted him on the security video at Gina’s old apartment.”
“Will he get the death penalty?”
“It’s hard to say. Do you plan to go see him once he’s transferred to jail?”
“Hell, no. I hate the son of a bitch. The genetics mean nothing to me.”
Jackson didn’t tell Derrick what Norquist had said about their mother being a lover rather than a rape victim. It was possible she had been both, but he preferred not to think about the complexities of it.
He pulled into the driveway and they sat looking at the childhood home they’d shared. “We had a lot of good times here.”
“We did.” Derrick turned in his seat to face him. “I’m sorry I never paid you for your half of the equity. If you want to sell the house we can, but I have another idea.”
“I’m listening.”
“I got a job as a long-haul truck driver. I’ll be on the road for weeks at a time and won’t need this place for a while. You and Katie can move in here when your house sells. The mortgage is paid and it’s your turn to get some benefit.”
Too surprised to respond, Jackson pondered the possible ramifications. Kera would be disappointed, but he suspected she already knew he wasn’t ready to move in with her and Danette and the baby. This situation would likely be temporary, but it would buy him some time. “Thanks for the offer. It sure is tempting. I’ll discuss it with Kera and Katie.”
“I’ll move Mom and Dad’s boxes back out to the garage, but you can’t throw them away.”
Jackson patted his shoulder. “Never, brother.”
* * *
Monday, September 13, 10:15 a.m.
The door to Lammers’ office was open so Evans walked in, feeling nervous. The boss had called her earlier and requested a meeting. Evans speculated about all the things she could be in trouble for—visiting Bekker at the jail, giving a reporter too much information, jumping into a taxiing airplane to apprehend a suspect, or maybe all of the above.
“Close the door and have a seat, Evans.” Lammers didn’t even look up from her paperwork.
Evans did as requested and braced herself. She bit her tongue to keep from blurting out apologies and making the situation worse.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“I may have made some mistakes on Gina Stahl’s case, but I did my best.”
“I wasn’t aware you’d made mistakes.” Lammers sounded amused. “Jackson tells me you ran an excellent investigation, and in reading your report, I’d have to add that you showed remarkable persistence and ingenuity.”
“Thank you.” Evans suppressed a yelp of joy. “I appreciate the opportunity you gave me.”
Lammers held up the paperwork she’d been reading. “This is a recommendation that you be made a permanent member of the violent crimes unit when your training is over.”
Evans wanted to jump up and shout Hot damn! Instead, she said, “Thank you, Sergeant. You won’t regret it.”
Things were looking up all over. Ben Stricklyn, the gorgeous IA detective, had called her the night before and asked her out, and she’d accepted. Why not? If she was destined to have the hots for a man who carried a gun, it might as well be someone available.
As she left the office, Evans jumped in the air and gave a little kick.
* * *
Wednesday, September 15, 10: 45 p.m.
Jackson was in bed at Kera’s when his cell phone rang. He fumbled in the dark and found it on the floor. “Jackson here.”
“This is Sergeant Lammers. We’ve had a homicide and I need you at the scene.”
He sat up and swung his legs to the floor. “What’s the situation and where am I heading?” Kera woke and laid a gentle hand on his back.
“The Courtyard Apartments, 623 West 4th, apartment five. A man has been stabbed and his assailant claims it was self-defense. She called 911 and she’s still in the apartment.”
“Anything else I need to know?” Jackson stood and reached for his pants.
“A patrol officer is on the scene and he says the victim is wearing a monitoring ankle bracelet. I think it’s Gary Bekker.”
About the Author
L.J. Sellers is an award-winning journalist and the author of the bestselling Detective Jackson mystery/suspense series:
Secrets to Die For
Thrilled to Death
Passions of the Dead
Dying for Justice
Liars, Cheaters & Thieves
She also has four standalone thrillers:
Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 05 - Dying for Justice Page 26
