by Peter Sexton
“I don’t know.” Meyers returned his attention to the two-way radio and called up to the eighth floor. “What’s going on up there?”
But there was no response. Another shot rang out, and then another. Meyers heard Anderson’s voice screaming from the telephone handset he realized he was still holding. “What?” Meyers said into it.
“I said I just wanted you to hold her until I got there,” Anderson yelled. There was a brief pause. “Get your ass back up there and find out what the hell’s going on. No one comes or goes until I get there, you understand? No one!”
“Got it.”
The PBX switchboard lit up with several calls from within the building, as he ended the call with Anderson. He didn’t bother to answer any of them. He rushed to the service elevator and back up to the eighth floor.
He drew his weapon before the elevator doors opened, then froze in mid-stride as he made his way out into the corridor. There was a body lying in the doorway of Anderson’s office.
“Max,” Meyers said to himself. He hurried over and crouched next to his friend. Max’s eyes, open and wide, appeared glassy and vacant. There were at least two gunshot wounds in his chest, though there wasn’t much blood. Meyers didn’t understand why there wasn’t a lot more. Maybe one of the bullets went into his heart, he thought. Maybe that stopped it instantly. Why else wouldn’t there be more blood? “Max?” he said again. No reaction, no recognition on his face. “Can you hear me?” Meyers had grabbed the man’s wrist to feel for a pulse before he realized that he didn’t know what he was doing, didn’t know what a pulse would feel like even if Max had one.
“Help’s on the way,” Meyers said, not because he knew this to be true but because it’s what he wanted to be true. Still no response from Max. He left his friend and stood next to the open door of Anderson’s office.
Meyers thought about his baby daughter, and hoped he would be going home to her tonight, that he would have another chance to read her favorite bed- time story to her. He pushed the thought from his mind and burst into the office with his gun thrust out in front of him. He stopped cold when he felt the muzzle of a handgun immediately pressed into his temple.
“Drop your gun,” Miranda ordered him.
The guard closed his eyes and let out a whimper.
“Please.” Miranda said. “Drop the gun.” She was shaking, struggling to hold her weapon still.
The guard complied with her request, then immediately pushed his hands into the air. “Please don’t shoot me. I don’t wanna die.”
Miranda kicked his weapon across the floor, then nudged the guard back toward the door he had just come through. Miranda tried not to look at the dead guard as they stepped around his body. She cupped a hand over her mouth, fought back the strong urge to be sick.
“I didn’t want any of this to happen.” She risked a quick downward glance at the dead guard. “Please believe me. I just want to get out of here alive. I didn’t come here to kill anybody. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.” She took a slow breath. “No one else needs to die. Just help me get out of here.”
“Anything you want.” Tears moistened his eyes. “Please. I have a family. I have a little girl. Her name’s Chloë.”
Miranda thought about Maren. She was never going to see her daughter again. The realization almost crippled her, immobilized her completely. She wiped her eyes, as if wiping the thought from her mind. She said, “We’re both gonna get out of here. You’re gonna see your little girl again.” Miranda moved them down the corridor toward the fire escape. “You have a key to that door?”
The guard nodded, reached for the ring of jangling keys clipped to his black utility belt.
“Good. Just unlock it for me and then you can go.”
He shuffled through the keys for several moments before locating the one he needed. His hands were shaking so bad that he dropped the large ring to the ground. He bent down, fumbled to take them once again into his grasp, then rose to his feet.
“Come on, come on,” Miranda urged, “hurry up.”
The guard slid the key firmly into the tumbler. He hesitated, as though certain his next action would be his last. Then he closed his eyes, turned the key, and pushed the door open.
Eighteen
The loud ring of the home phone startled Lawrence up from the living room couch. He had dozed off while trying to watch the television, hoping for some news about Miranda. After the reports of the shoot- ing in Arizona had finally tapered off, Lawrence continued to watch for any report that Miranda had been located and was safe and unharmed. He an- swered the call on the second ring.
“Hello?” In his mind he heard Miranda’s voice, scratchy and a little tentative. She started to speak but he cut her off in his eagerness for information. “Are you all right?” he asked in a rush of words. He was about to ask her where she was, when he remembered the individuals who had searched his home. Could they have managed to place a bugging device without him noticing? He wasn’t sure. “Don’t tell me where you are,” Lawrence uttered quickly.
But there was no response from the caller, and the subsequent silence spoke volumes to Lawrence. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything more.
Finally the voice on the phone said, “Excuse me? Hello?”
And then Lawrence’s sudden breath of hope died as quickly as it had taken life, as he realized it wasn’t Miranda after all. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Who is this, please?”
The voice came back as scratchy as before. “Audrey Miller Brown with the Los Angeles Times. I’d like to talk with you about Miranda August.”
Suddenly brimming with irritation and anger, Lawrence fought back the urge to throw the phone across the room. “Absolutely not,” he said. “How did you get this number?”
The reporter simply ignored his question. “What I need—”
“You can stop wasting your time. I have nothing to say to you. Don’t call here again.”
The voice returned quickly. “Just a couple of—”
But Lawrence hung up before she could finish.
He was staring at the muted television, phone still in hand. He eventually placed the handset back onto the cradle, then clicked off the television and went upstairs to bed. He tossed and turned for a couple hours, and had just fallen asleep when the phone rang again.
Nineteen
Miranda drove hard until she was certain she wasn’t being followed. After an hour, she found a fast-food restaurant and pulled into the parking lot. Following the events at Earth’s Own, she doubted she would even be able to eat, though she knew she had to at least try. If nothing else, she knew she desperately needed to use the restroom.
The girl at the counter didn’t give Miranda a second glance as she handed over a chicken sandwich and medium Coke. And Miranda hadn’t expected her to. Miranda’s new appearance was altered such that she hardly recognized herself. She paid the girl and returned to the car and got back on the road. She used the pre-paid cell phone and punched in a number she knew from heart. The call was answered on the second ring. Miranda identified herself and the female voice on the other end came back sounding eager and frantic.
“Randi! Holy shit. Where are you? Are you all right? Your picture’s all over the news.”
After swallowing a bite of the sandwich, Miranda answered her best friend. “Hey, slow down. Slow down. I’m okay.”
Sarah Gustafson said, “I’m not convinced. You don’t sound okay. You need to tell me what’s really going on.”
Miranda tried to take a sip of Coke. “Maren’s dead.” It still sounded wrong when she said these words aloud.
“What?” A beat. “She can’t be.” Another beat. “How? When? Why didn’t you call me?”
I wanted to, Miranda thought. I wanted to do more than just call. I wanted to bury myself in your arms and cry until I couldn’t shed another tear. But— “I’m sorry,” she admitted. It was a weak response, but it was all she could muster. The truth was that calling Sarah to tell her of Maren’s death had be
en more than she could manage, more than she had had strength for. “I wanted to. I should have.”
A silence floated between them.
Then Sarah said, “How’d it happen, Randi?”
Miranda answered before she had a chance to think about what she was saying. “It was the food.” She couldn’t bring herself to say anything more.
Not quite twenty years Miranda’s senior, Sarah Gustafson had become the young woman’s best friend when she had needed one most. Despite the difference in age, the two women shared a close bond. Each trusted the other absolutely and without exception.
“They killed my dad, too.”
“I heard about your dad,” Sarah said. “I figured it didn’t go down like they’re playing it out on the news. No way! Your dad would never have killed himself.”
“He didn’t, Sarah. It’s all bullshit.” Miranda had to take a breath, slow down. “Earth’s Own is trying to frame him for what they’re doing with the baby food.”
“What are they doing? The more I hear about what’s going on the more none of it makes any sense. And I don’t trust anything being reported by the media.”
Miranda didn’t know how to answer. All she knew was that she was afraid for her life. She began to sob.
“Oh my God I’m in real trouble, Sarah.”
“Okay, where are you? Tell me how to get to you and I’ll leave right now.”
Miranda was crying hard now, not trying to hold it back any longer, gripping the steering wheel hard for support. She realized she had needed this release since Maren had died in her arms six days earlier. Her subsequent shock had rendered her unable to fully accept or release the torrent of emotions overwhelm- ing her.
“I can help you, Randi. Just tell me where you are.”
Miranda released a big sigh, relieved that she could count on Sarah to be there for her. That was exactly why she had grown to love this woman who had, in some ways, become the mother she had always wanted. Always needed.
“I don’t know what to do, Sarah. I’m so scared.”
“Just tell me where you are,” Sarah said again. “I’ll come get you.”
Miranda took another deep breath, tried again to calm herself. “No,” she said. “But I need your help with something. I’m about four hours from your place right now. Can I come see you?”
Twenty
Robert Anderson watched as a second Maricopa County Medical Examiner’s vehicle came to a stop behind the first. The tall, slim technician stepped out and went around to the rear of the white Ford cargo van, opened the door, and removed a large stainless steel suitcase. He then retrieved a pair of bright-yellow coveralls and stepped into them. He took the steel case with him as he disappeared into the building.
The parking lot of the Earth’s Own Flavors corporate headquarters was a sea of patrol cars, detective sedans, and various emergency response vehicles, in addition to the two ME vehicles. Major network news vans had begun arriving, adding to the vehicular chaos.
Brian Meyers was standing with what Anderson took to be a pair of police detectives. Meyers looked anxious and frightened. Anderson couldn’t hear what they were saying.
A second technician from the Medical Examiner’s office exited the building and hurriedly approached the detectives. They conferred briefly, then the detec- tives followed the man back inside, leaving Meyers alone for the moment. Anderson saw his opportunity and took it. He hurried over to his chief security guard.
“Meyers.”
“Mr. Anderson.” The young man looked nervous, as though afraid his employer would be angry with him.
“Were those police detectives?” Anderson asked.
“Uh...yeah.”
“Where’d they go? What’s going on?”
“One of the coroner guys wanted to show them something back inside. They told me to wait here till they got back.”
“What were they asking you? What did you tell them?”
“They wanted to know what happened up there.”
“What did happen up there?”
“It was crazy,” Meyers said immediately. “Like a freakin’ action movie or something. Like Die Hard with Bruce Willis.”
“It’s all right,” Anderson assured him. “It’s all over now, you’re safe. Just tell me everything that you told the detectives.”
Meyers started his story from the moment the breach in Trammel’s office was detected. He took Anderson through it step-by-step until he was back up on the eighth floor and found his partner lying dead in the doorway of Anderson’s office.
“I really thought I was gonna di-ie,” Meyers said, his voice cracking. “When I felt the muzzle of the gun pressed against the side of my head I thought it was all over.”
Meyers stopped talking. Anderson wanted to prod him to continue but was afraid to interrupt his flow. Finally, the young man continued.
“She said she wasn’t going to kill me, and she didn’t. She kept her word.” He paused again. “But she said if I tried to follow her, or if she saw me even peek through the doorway, she’d shoot me. As soon as I let her out of the building I locked the door behind her and ran to the phone to call 911. I was so freaked out I forgot I had put the building into lock-down, so I had to go all the way down to the lobby and call from there.”
“Did she have anybody with her?”
The guard did not respond.
“Meyers?”
“Yeah?”
“Was the August girl alone?”
“Yeah,” Meyers said, “I’m pretty sure.”
“Did she have anything with her? Anything she might have taken from the building?”
Meyers brought his left hand to his forehead, stared at the ground as if trying to remember something. Then he shook his head.
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”
Twenty-One
Monday.
Miranda August pulled to the side of the road when she was near Surprise, Arizona, threw open the door, and held her head outside of the car fearing she was about to be sick. But after a few minutes, the nausea subsided and Miranda put the car back in gear and was once again on her way.
She could still hear the explosions of gunfire, smell the spent gunpowder. She couldn’t believe she had made it out of Earth’s Own headquarters alive.
Miranda had continued driving for nearly an hour before she realized she had blood-spatter on her clothes from the first guard who had been killed, the guard who had been accidentally shot by his friend and coworker. The two bullets intended for her had gone wide, off target, and hit the guard in the face and neck. The coppery scent of blood now seemed to overpower her senses. She was feeling sick again.
Had Miranda had time to think about what she had been doing, what she had been about to do, she probably would have froze, been unable to pull the trigger when she had. She would certainly be dead right now. Thankfully, survival instincts had kicked in and she simply reacted to the threat.
Even though she had been left with no choice, it still troubled her that she had been forced to shoot someone. Her father had warned her that it might come to this, that she might have to take a life in order to save her own. But she had refused to believe that it might actually happen.
As she passed Wickenburg, she realized she had not seen another car for several minutes. The stretch of highway she was on was dark and desolate. Through the side windows the brown sand blended with the passing hillside making the landscape ap- pear vast and empty in the soft moonlight. It made Miranda feel somehow more isolated, more alone. She fumbled with the controls and turned on the radio, wanting to hear something. Anything. Some kind of noise to drown out the expanding silence, the silence that was allowing her mind to continue replaying the recent events, the deadly exchange of gunfire.
Lots of static.
One radio station, which featured classic rock and oldies from the 50s and 60s, faded in-and-out. Since the signal out here wasn’t very strong, Miranda put the radio in SCAN mode. She listened while i
t played less than twenty seconds of each station before mov- ing to the next. There was so little time to register what was on each station that she almost missed the news report about the shootings. She took the radio out of SCAN mode and turned up the volume.
...tragedy in Phoenix. Two security guards at the Earth’s Own Flavors headquarters were gunned down earlier this evening. The alleged shooter has been iden- tified as twenty-two-year-old Miranda August. Eyewit- ness accounts suggest August showed no mercy as she gained illegal entry into the secure building and executed the two guards in cold blood. Local and state law en- forcement agencies have pooled their resources, and a massive manhunt is now underway. If you have any information regarding the whereabouts of Miranda August, please call the police hotline at—
Miranda turned off the radio with trembling hand. She picked up the prepaid rechargeable cell phone and called Sarah Gustafson. The call was an- swered on the first ring.
“Randi.”
Miranda heard the anxiety in her friend’s voice.
“Yeah.”
A big sigh of relief came across the phone line. “Oh, Jesus. Thank God! Where are you? Are you still coming?”
Miranda ignored the questions. Her voice was shaky when she said, “On the radio they’re saying I executed two guards in cold blood. That’s not what happened. They’re twisting it all around.” She took a moment to get her breath. “They actually used the word ‘executed’.”
“I know. It’s the same thing on all the major TV networks, too. They just finished talking to some guy named Anderson. He said you forced your way into the building and took the guards hostage. And when they didn’t comply with your demands, you opened fire.”
Miranda’s eyes filled with tears, and she felt her heart rate begin to race. She was gripping the steer- ing wheel so hard her hands were beginning to ache. She considered pulling off the road, but she was in the middle of nowhere on the 93 now. Outside of her headlight beams it was nearly pitch dark. She kept driving.
