Shelter From the Storm

by Peter Sexton

  “Why were you going through her things?”

  “I wasn’t going through her things,” Gillian snapped. “She left her backpack open next to the dining room table.”

  Gillian returned the weapon to the backpack and zipped it closed. She was turning to leave, when Lawrence said, “What are you planning to do, Gill?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “With Randi’s backpack, what are you going to do?”

  Gillian threw her free hand up and shrugged. “I don’t know. All I know is that her carrying a loaded firearm frightens the hell out of me.” She paused for a long moment. “I guess finding the gun just made this all so much more real.” Another pause. “So much more urgent.”

  Lawrence nodded heavily. “Somebody murdered her father, Gill. There’s obviously some real danger at play here, a serious threat to her life.” The calm in his own voice surprised Lawrence.

  Gillian shook her head. Tears began to form in her eyes. “That’s why she needs to let someone help her. I need to convince her to go to the police.”

  She started to sob.

  “Everything’s going to be all right, Gill. Just give her a little time. Don’t you think she’s already gone through enough? She’ll come around. You just need to trust her. She’ll realize that going to the police is the right thing to do.”

  Gillian lifted the backpack and stared at it, as if trying to understand it or will it to disappear. “I feel like I should take this from her...for her own good.”

  Lawrence knew she was referring to the pistol within.

  “Leave it where it is for now,” he said. “We’ll talk to her about it together.”

  Gillian started to say something but stopped. Tried and stopped again. Then she finally got her emotions under control. “Nothing good can come from her carrying a loaded gun around.” Gillian stared at her husband for a long time before her gaze fell to the backpack once again. Her face softened, became gentler. Her voice relaxed, as well. She took a moment for a slow breath. “Until the other night at the gallery, I hadn’t realized how much I truly missed her. I’ve been lying to myself all these years. And I’ve just gotten her back in my life, Larry. I need to do everything in my power to keep her there.”

  “I understand,” Lawrence conceded. “And right now I think the best thing you can do is to be there for her in every way that you can. Unconditionally.”

  Lawrence was staring at his wife, waiting for her to respond to what he had just suggested, when Miranda walked into the room.

  The young woman’s face tightened when she saw what her mother held in her hand. “What are you doing with my backpack?”

  “I’m frightened for you,” Gillian admitted, as she sat with Miranda several minutes later, once again at the dining room table. “I’m seeing what’s going on, hear- ing everything you’ve been telling Lawrence and me, and I understand you believe these people are after you now.” She hesitated. “Do you have any idea who they are?”

  “Some,” Miranda said. “Two of them are security people for Earth’s Own. I’m not sure about the others.”

  “Assuming you’re right, and these people—this corporation—is actually trying to track you down and kill you....”

  Miranda waited through a long silence before prodding her mother to continue.

  “What is it they think you have that would be worth killing over?”

  “Information.”

  “Information? What sort of information?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Something that must directly connect them to the deaths of those children.”

  “Do you actually have this information?”

  “Some of it. But not enough. Not yet.”

  “Is that what you were doing on Larry’s com- puter, figuring out what you know, what you have?”

  “Trying to, yeah.”

  “Didn’t your father have a laptop? I would think he’d keep all his work and notes on that.”

  Miranda nodded. “He did. He always kept it with him.” She paused, recalling their narrow escape from danger. “It was destroyed while we were being shot at, when they were chasing us in the middle of the night. Several bullets went into the trunk of Dad’s car; one of them hit his computer.”

  Gillian sighed.

  “What?”

  “I just don’t understand, Miranda. Obviously you’re in real danger. These people murdered your father! Now it seems like they’re trying to kill you. Why do you refuse to go to the police for help?”

  “I told you that’s not an option.”

  Gillian threw up her hands. “But they’ll listen to you. If you tell them everything, just like you’ve told us, they’ll listen. They’ll help you.”

  “You don’t understand. If I turn over the infor- mation I have now, it’ll look like Dad was behind it all. And even if I did go to the police, I still don’t know how it all fits together. Plus, after seeing that news report and hearing all that stuff about Dad committing suicide, it’s obvious that someone in- volved has the power to manipulate the police.” She paused as she worked something out in her head. “I need to find a solid link. I need to have everything worked out, then go straight to the newspapers, the ‘Dateline’ people, someone like that.”

  In a move that surprised Miranda, Gillian said, “So tell me what I can do to help.”

  It was a long moment before Miranda managed to shake her head. “You’ve already done more than enough by letting me stay here for a couple of days. You and Larry. I don’t want to get you any more involved than you already are.”

  “You’re my daughter, Miranda. I can’t be any more involved than that.”

  The sincerity of Gillian’s words surprised Miranda still further. They sounded out of character coming from her mother, based on what little she knew of the woman. She wanted to accept her mother’s offer, but she was afraid. She had already lost so much.

  “I really wish there was something you could do to help,” Miranda said. “But I think I need to deal with these people on my own. It’ll be safer for every- one that way.”

  “Safer?” Gillian looked suddenly like she was about to cry. “Assuming everything you’ve told me is true, Miranda, they’ll murder you like they murdered your father.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to keep from happening.” Miranda tried to sound strong and confident. “But they’re not going to stop coming after me. I have to do something. I don’t have a choice. I can’t just sit around and wait for them to find me. I owe it to Dad. I owe it to Maren.”

  The women sat in silence for a long time. Miranda felt herself growing drowsy and was about to get up and go to bed, when Gillian said, “So what’s your next move?”

  Miranda thought about the question. The truth was she hadn’t given it much thought; she was still treading water in the deep-end of survival mode. All she knew was that she didn’t know much of anything. She knew just enough to be certain Earth’s Own Flavors was up to no good, and that her father had been murdered because he was close to exposing their true agenda. But she still didn’t know exactly what that agenda might be, or how everything fit together.

  Her immediate plan was centered on keeping her- self alive. Beyond that, there was still so much she needed to learn.

  “I need to get into the Earth’s Own building and dig around, see what I can find out.”

  “What? You can’t be serious, Miranda. Going there sounds like a big mistake. Don’t you think they’ll be watching to see if you show up? You might be walking right into a trap.”

  “Maybe.” A beat. “Probably. But I can’t just sit around and wait for them to hunt me down and kill me.” Miranda let another beat of silence pass between them. “Someone needs to clear Dad’s name. Someone needs to avenge Maren’s death.” She hesitated for a moment as a thought entered her head. “There has to be something there that will help me link them to the tainted baby food, help me figure out what they’re really up to. I need to find the key to what little information I already
have. I won’t ever be safe again until the truth comes out.”

  “There has to be another way. I can’t just sit here and let you march in there. That sounds like a suicide mission.”

  Miranda said nothing.

  “There might be another option,” Gillian said, hopefulness in her voice.

  Miranda stared at her mother, waiting, wishing she hadn’t been so forthcoming about the truth regarding her intentions.

  “Larry has some friends in the police department, people he’s met while doing research for his novels. We can take you to talk with them first thing in the morning.”

  “No,” Miranda insisted. “I told you, I can’t let either of you get any deeper into this. As of this mo- ment, no one even knows you two exist. There’s no way to connect you to me.” Miranda shook her head for emphasis. “I can’t go to the police. Not yet.”

  “You don’t have a choice, Miranda. I won’t even entertain an argument.”

  Miranda continued to refuse.

  “It’s non-negotiable,” Gillian insisted.

  The young woman sighed. “The police won’t be able to help.”

  “We’ve got to at least give them a chance. We’ll take you to the station first thing in the morning.”

  “I don’t like this,” Miranda admitted, as she rose to her feet and headed toward the stairs. She stopped at the banister and turned. “It feels like a really bad idea.”

  Ten

  Sunday.

  William Puckett and his recovery team were picked up in front of the Southwest Airlines terminal at LAX just after midnight. They climbed into a black, official-looking Crown Victoria sedan, and without a word the driver put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb.

  Puckett, who had let himself into the front pas- senger seat, removed a small vial from his pocket, produced a micro-spoon from the same pocket, dipped it into the open vial and proceeded to take a quick snort of cocaine into each nostril before he spoke. “You have the IDs?”

  “In the other car,” the driver said.

  “And the weapons?”

  “Yes.”

  Nothing more was said until they pulled into the rear parking lot of an all-nude strip club on Century Boulevard, not far from the airport. The driver parked in an empty space next to a second Crown Victoria. Theirs were the only two cars in the back lot. It was apparently a slow night for the club. Everyone got out of the car and stood by the trunk of the second vehicle while the driver distributed the IDs.

  Puckett studied his. The identification card read William Moorehead; it said he was a Special Agent with the FBI. It was an excellent fabrication. The other team members also received counterfeit FBI credentials.

  “All right,” Puckett said. “Trammel and I are in the first car. Lee, you’re in the second car with Johnson.”

  Lee’s head jerked up from studying the identifi- cation card in her hand. Her face tightened as she looked from Puckett to the driver.

  “What?” Puckett asked.

  “I don’t know this guy,” Lee said. “I haven’t had time to check him out.”

  Puckett nodded from one to the other. “Toni Lee, David Johnson. Now you know him.” He almost smiled to himself, before he paused and glared at Lee. “Anything else?” The cocaine was giving him some confidence.

  Lee, arms crossed and body stiff as if at attention, held eye contact for several moments before shaking her head. David Johnson, wearing a navy-blue suit and short brown hair, reached into the trunk and retrieved a metal briefcase and handed it to her.

  Johnson said, “You’ll find everything you re- quested in here.”

  Lee carried the briefcase back to the first vehicle, set it down flat on the trunk, opened it, and pro- ceeded to inspect its contents. Puckett watched as she removed a .40 caliber Beretta with laser sighting, loaded a magazine and cocked the first round into the chamber. The pistol came with a silencer that she dropped into her coat pocket. Then she slid the weapon into her custom-made shoulder holster, and the gun virtually disappeared under her charcoal-gray suit jacket. Next, she removed the second handgun—a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum—loaded it and slid it into her hip holster. She placed several extra magazines and speed-loaders into her coat pockets before closing the case and putting it back into the trunk of the second car.

  The others had already armed themselves and were waiting to depart. Puckett gave them a hurried briefing.

  “Our instructions are clear,” he said. “We appre- hend Miranda August and bring her in without incident.” He focused his stare on Lee. “Without incident.”

  “Unless she leaves us no choice,” Lee countered.

  Trammel frowned, obviously disturbed by Lee’s comment.

  Puckett repeated, “Without incident. Unless she gives us absolutely no choice, we’re only authorized to bring her in. Anderson doesn’t want her taken out until he’s sure she hasn’t stashed the tape some- where.”

  “Fine,” Lee snapped. “But I’m not—”

  “You’re authorized only to return fire,” Puckett interrupted. “This is a recovery mission, Lee, that’s all.”

  By 5 A.M. the recovery team was in place. Lee and Johnson were positioned at the bottom of the hill from the Santa Barbara home of Lawrence and Gillian Blackwell. Puckett and Trammel were parked at the top of the cul-de-sac, in front of the Blackwell home on the dark and quiet street. This was ob- viously an expensive neighborhood. The Blackwells were doing well for themselves. Very well. Puckett felt a twinge of envy. This was the sort of life he envisioned for himself: beautiful multi-million-dollar home in a quiet, expensive neighborhood.

  He used a two-way radio to call Johnson.

  “Yeah?”

  “How’s it look down there?”

  “Quiet.”

  Puckett nodded to Trammel. Into the radio, he said, “We sit tight. Trammel and I will approach the house at exactly five-thirty. You and Lee stay put unless we call for back-up or the girl gets past us.” There was a pause. Then Puckett added, “And, Johnson? No one fires unless fired upon.”

  “Understood.”

  Puckett turned his full attention back to the Blackwell home. He felt uneasy. He wanted to talk to Johnson away from Trammel, tell him to do whatever it took to keep Lee from shooting Miranda August. Whatever it took, even pop a cap in Lee if he had to. He didn’t want to have to explain another fuck-up to Anderson. He was about to radio Johnson again when Trammel said, “We have a light in the garage.”

  Puckett glanced toward the house, saw the light through the three small windows in the garage door, then checked his watch. His plan had been to roust Miranda August out of bed and apprehend her before she was fully awake, fully alert. There would be less chance of things going wrong that way. He picked up his radio.

  “There’s movement in the garage. We’re going to the door. Stay alert down there. Her only way out is past you. Listen for my signal.”

  He moved the car and pulled it to a stop in front of the Blackwells’ driveway, blocking any potential escape. Trammel was already on his feet and hustling toward the house.

  “Let me talk to her,” Trammel said, when Puckett caught up to him on the front steps, “she trusts me. I’m sure she’s scared. I can get her to come in without any trouble.”

  Puckett nodded. He reached under his coat and released the snap securing his weapon. Trammel rang the doorbell. They heard movement from within, and the door opened almost at once. Both men were holding their new identifications up so they could easily be seen.

  Trammel: “Good morning. Mr. Blackwell?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Special Agent Trumbell with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is Special Agent Moorehead. We’re looking for Miranda August. We need to ask her a few questions.”

  Lawrence glanced past the agents toward their Crown Victoria, then back at the two men. “Can I see those identifications again, please?”

  Both men complied with the request, and Lawrence scrutinized the documents.
His wife ap- proached from the stairs.

  “What is it, Larry? What’s going on?”

  Gillian Blackwell was clad in gray sweat pants, a dark-blue T-shirt, and white socks. She was early forties, and very attractive, despite her current attire. Puckett could see a definite resemblance between mother and daughter.

  “It’s the FBI. They want to ask Miranda some questions.”

  Gillian started to say something to her husband, but he cut her off.

  “I’m afraid you’ve made the trip for nothing, gentlemen. Miranda’s not here.”

  “What?” Gillian asked. She appeared shocked by Lawrence’s words.

  “Excuse me?” Puckett said.

  “She’s gone,” Lawrence told them.

  Trammel asked, “How long ago did she leave?”

  “Early last night,” Lawrence said.

  “Do you know where she was going?”

  “We didn’t ask.”

  Puckett said, “We’re going to have to search the premises.”

  What first appeared as shock on Gillian’s face became concern, then anger. She said, “I’m going to need to see a warrant before you can search our home.”

  But then Lawrence Blackwell placed his hand on her shoulder, shook his head gently. “I’m sure they can get one if they need to, Gill. Let’s just allow them to get it over with so they can be on their way.”

  Eleven

  Miranda stared at herself in the mirror for a long time, amazed by the significant change in her appear- ance. She had almost forgotten the presence of the hair stylist standing behind her until the young woman broke the silence floating between them. “I think you were born to be a brunette, hon.”

  “You think it looks all right?”

  “Oh, yeah. If I were you, I’d never go back to blond. And I think I’d stay with the shorter length, too. You’ll have to beat the men away with a stick.”

  Miranda smiled. But not because of what the young woman had just told her, but because she thought that her crazy plan might just work. She thanked and paid the woman, then left the Fantastic Sam’s salon. As she was getting into Lawrence’s Lincoln, she noticed an optometrist’s office a few doors down. She hesitated for a moment, then stepped back out of the car and entered the estab- lishment. After a couple questions, a receptionist directed Miranda to a display case full of frames. And after only a few short minutes, she selected a pair of non-prescription glasses that accented her new look perfectly.