Bell Hath No Fury

by Jeremy Waldron

  King’s chest thumped as his heart kept drumming.

  The hairs on the back of his neck stood, feeling that eyes were on him.

  When King rolled his neck and glanced to his side, the world slowed to a colorful blur and time ceased to exist. A web of emotion spun around him as he suddenly found himself locked in a stare with Markus Schneider.

  Markus dove his hand inside his jacket pocket—King thought he was reaching for a gun. A split second later, Markus ducked his head and took off sprinting toward the lieutenant.

  King followed but kept hitting barriers of people no matter how hard he waved his arms through the air out in front of him.

  “Alvarez!” King screamed but his words were drowned out by the crowd.

  King kept fighting his way forward.

  Markus had once again disappeared.

  Waving his hands over his head, King kept screaming to gain attention. Nearing the police line, an officer caught sight of King. He jumped into a defensive stance and put his hand on his holstered gun just as King caught sight of Markus flanking the officer from the side.

  King dove past the officer and wrapped his arms around Markus. They crashed to the pavement, tumbling hard.

  “I know what you’re up to, asshole.” King wrestled with a shocked Markus and soon King had him on his stomach, his hands cuffed behind his back. Frisking his suspect, King’s jaw dangled when he couldn’t find a gun. “Where is your weapon?”

  “Weapon?” Markus screeched. “I don’t have a gun.”

  “King!” Alvarez ran toward King.

  Jamming his knee between Markus’s shoulder blades, King flicked his gaze to his partner. “He doesn’t have a gun.”

  Alvarez calmed the uniformed officer who nearly pulled his handgun on King. Then Alvarez pulled Markus to his feet and tossed him up against a patrol car. Patting him down, Alvarez also found no signs of danger.

  “This isn’t any way to be treating an old friend.” Markus sneered.

  King fisted Markus’s coat and violently shook him. “You think this is funny, scumbag?”

  Markus grinned.

  “King. Relax.” Alvarez peeled King’s hands off of Markus. “Not here. Not when cameras are around. You’ll get your chance; trust me, buddy. Just don’t do it now.”

  King stared into Markus’s eyes and grinded his teeth before shoving him away. King moved to the side and glared at the officer who’d nearly pulled a gun on him. He moved further away, fire scurrying up his spine.

  “What are you doing here, Markus?” Alvarez asked his suspect.

  “I think you know why I’m here.” King watched Markus flick his gaze in the lieutenant’s direction. “I came to speak with Baker. To tell you boys that you’re not safe here.”

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Allison was locked in on her computer while Erin was on another, busy scrolling through Tim’s accounts, and I still couldn’t get it out of my head that maybe Chandler Turner was actually Douglas Davis’s son.

  “Here, I got something.” Erin flicked her gaze to me.

  I rolled my chair over the floor and tipped forward. Erin played it from the beginning. The video did a quick buffer and, as soon as it started up, I couldn’t believe what it was I was seeing.

  “Shit. That’s him,” I murmured as I listened to Timothy Morris and Chandler Turner speak into the camera.

  “And they sound like Croft.” Erin stared.

  I held my hand over my mouth, unable to take my eyes off the boys. “He had us fooled. Made us believe he didn’t get political.”

  “That’s him, Sam.” Erin nodded. “No question about it. That is Chandler Turner.”

  I knew it was but didn’t want to believe it. He’d convinced me he was only in Croft’s class for the credit—and maybe he was—but while he was there, he and Tim had obviously taken their politics to the extreme.

  Allison rolled her chair to Erin’s computer. “Which one is Chandler Turner?”

  Erin pointed him out.

  Allison was close to biting through her cheek when I said, “He was one of the first people we interviewed after the school shooting.” Allison was awfully quiet and I wondered what she had dug up when working her magic this last half-hour of our day. “He’s a student in Professor Dean Croft’s Political Science class.”

  Allison rolled her eyes to me and I knew she had found something.

  “You got sucked down one of your rabbit holes, didn’t you?” Allison was still staring like a doe caught in headlights when she nodded. “What did you find?”

  She swallowed like she was choking when she rolled her way back to her computer. “I was able to tap my way into the video surveillance of the prison,” Allison was speaking a million miles per minute, “and am pretty sure that this is Chandler Davis.”

  Erin stopped working. We both sprang to our feet and leaned in as close as possible to stare at the face Allison had displayed on her computer screen. She zoomed in, enhanced the image, and did all her little tricks to make it as clear an image as possible. It didn’t matter. I knew who I was looking at. Exactly what I was afraid of. Chandler Turner was Chandler Davis.

  “But how is that possible?” Erin asked the room.

  Allison’s fingers tapped fast and hard. I didn’t ask what she was doing—didn’t want to interrupt her focus.

  I went back to Erin’s computer, scrolling through more old posts before stopping on a video made nearly six months ago. “Did you play this one?”

  Erin stood over my shoulder, shaking her head no.

  “Look here,” I said, scrolling down, then back up. “They changed. Their outfits. The confidence in their face. Something happened where these boys were initiated into men.”

  “Play it.” Erin jutted her chin.

  Truth was, I was afraid to. My palms sweated as I rolled my neck and stared at the paused image of our little-known terrorists. Finally, I punched the mouse with a single tap from my index finger.

  The boys were in complete camouflage and had an arsenal of weapons on display. “We are the Patriots of God,” Chandler declared fiercely for the camera. “When Douglas Davis was murdered in cold blood, the system put his son into foster care in an attempt to scrub the boy’s memory free. They tried to erase the family heritage, rid it from this green earth.” Chandler laughed. “But what they failed to realize is that an ideology is something that you can’t take away, not even in death. It lives. Grows. And just like water, will find its way into the roots of those ready and willing to accept the truth. We,” Chandler flung his arm around the shoulders of Tim and pulled him closer to the camera, “are here to bring justice to those who did my daddy wrong.”

  When I gasped for air, a small whimper passed over my lips. Alarm bells were going off inside my head. It wasn’t Markus. It was him—Chandler Davis. King had the wrong guy.

  “I got something.” Allison broke my trance. “Chandler Turner was born Chandler Davis. It’s here on his birth certificate.” She shared a quick glance and kept reading. “His mother died during his birth. After his father’s death, his foster parents officially adopted him four years later and that’s when he changed his name to Turner.”

  I reached in my pocket, gripped my cellphone, and called King.

  The line rang.

  My heart pounded so hard it felt like my ribs would bruise.

  It went to his voicemail.

  “Shit!” I swung my hand through the air and hit redial. I heard the line click over. “King?”

  “Sam…” the line rustled.

  “It’s not Markus,” I yelled. “You have the wrong guy. The shooter is Chandler Turner.”

  “Chandler who?”

  “Chandler Turner. Markus isn’t the shooter.”

  Suddenly King’s voice got clearer. “I know.”

  I craned my neck like a giraffe. “You know?”

  “We have Markus in custody. Who is Chandler Turner?”

  “He’s the guy we’re looking for.” I rolled my eyes,
frustrated by the cell reception. Not wanting to waste another second, I spilled everything we’d just learned about Chandler Turner. “He’s nineteen-years-old and was the one to radicalize Timothy Morris.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  I glanced to Allison. “Best I don’t say over the phone.”

  A loud uproar erupted through my earpiece. I pulled my phone away and felt my belly tie itself in a dozen different knots.

  “Where is Lieutenant Baker?” I spit into the mic before my phone was back on my ear.

  “He’s fine. I’m looking at him now.”

  There was more screaming and it did little to settle the pit in my stomach. My mind spun around a debris-filled orbit and my eyes popped. “If the lieutenant is there, then who has eyes on the pastor?”

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  “You should really stay inside,” one of the two uniformed officers said to Pastor Michaels.

  “Yet you won’t give me the specifics of why you’re parked in front of my church.” Pastor Michaels grinned and backed away from the open car window.

  “Just following orders.”

  The pastor chuckled. “And so am I.” He backpedaled and pointed to the heavens. “Enjoy the warm coffee. There is more inside waiting for you when you’re finished with that.”

  The officer raised his cup and thanked the pastor once again.

  Turning on a heel, the pastor smiled. He enjoyed the short conversation he’d had with the police, particularly adored seeing them accept his offer of coffee. He thought they could use something warm to drink on a cold blustery day like today. It made him feel good. After so much time inside devoting his attention to those who were suffering, he could use the fresh air, too.

  His heart was at peace. He waved and greeted a couple members of his congregation leaving his church when suddenly a hot searing pain cut through his heart.

  The sound of air popping followed a second behind the initial surprise of being shot.

  Hot blood splattered into his hands, pouring down his chest.

  His lungs deflated and his knees gave as the pastor fell to the ground, lying on his back. Staring up into the heavens, the pastor stared into the bright sunlight feeling no pain at all, only peace as he whispered, “Forgive me Father for I have sinned, and now I’m coming home.”

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Susan sat behind her work desk with her eyes closed. The taste of a completely chewed plastic pen cap filled her mouth and all she could hear was her employees’ fingers tapping away on their computers with the occasional soft murmurs sparking up every few minutes. She tried to focus on the task at hand but couldn’t. Her nerves were still raw and jittery and she was anxious for the attorney to arrive.

  The doorbell chimed and crashed through the stagnant air.

  Her eyelids flickered wide open.

  The blood left her cheeks and her heart skipped a beat when all she could think of was how it better be the attorney and not another visit from Rick Morris.

  Rolling her gaze to the front of the office, she curled her throbbing fingertips into the palm of her hand. They were still clammy from the events that had unfolded this morning. After her threatening visit with Rick and talking with Sam, she’d locked the front doors and given her staff specific instructions to not let any visitors into the building unless first approved by herself.

  The doorbell chimed again.

  Carly popped her head into Susan’s office. “Want me to get that?”

  Susan stood, moved to Carly, and ironed a friendly hand down her shoulder. “It’s all right. Better if I answer it.”

  She sailed confidently toward the front, her heels making her appear taller than she was. One look through the glass and she could safely see the visitor wasn’t Rick. She turned the lock and twisted the deadbolt free. Opening the door, a tall man with a full head of dark hair and wearing an expensive suit said, “Ms. Young?”

  Susan angled her head sideways.

  “Attorney Gregory Kilmartin.” He extended his right hand, offering it to Susan. “Philip Price’s recommendation.”

  Susan cast her gaze to his opened hand. “I’m sorry to have to ask, but do you have any identification?”

  Mr. Kilmartin paused, stared, and flashed Susan a quick questioning look. “Certainly.” He dove his hand into the inside of his cashmere topcoat and produced a business card.

  Susan took it and scanned his credentials. “I do apologize,” she said, handing the card back. “We have been victims of threats and you can never be too sure people are who they say they are.”

  “You keep it.” Mr. Kilmartin nodded to his business card. “I’ve been following the events and I apologize, myself, for not arriving sooner.”

  Susan nodded. “Please, come inside.”

  As soon as Mr. Kilmartin entered the office, Susan closed the door behind him and once again locked it. “We have the conference room waiting.”

  “Perfect.”

  “I’ll be completely honest with you, Mr. Kilmartin, my staff and I are in over our heads with this immense undertaking.”

  “My understanding is that you weren’t given time to prepare.”

  Together they meandered their way into the conference room and Susan watched Mr. Kilmartin set his leather briefcase on top of the center table and remove his coat. “That’s right. We were nominated without warning.”

  “I’ve handled dozens of situations like this before, Ms. Young, and I can assure you that we’ll get through this one as well.”

  “It’s good to have someone with experience finally able to assist us.”

  Carly entered the room, introduced herself to Mr. Kilmartin, and dropped a stack of folders in front of Susan. “So, where would you like to begin?” Susan asked Mr. Kilmartin.

  “From the beginning.”

  Susan knew this would take a while when she turned her attention to Carly. “Carly, please make a fresh pot of coffee. If I need anything else, I’ll give you a call.”

  As soon as it was just the two of them again, Mr. Kilmartin asked Susan, “Tell me what has been donated.”

  Over the next several minutes, Susan broke down the numbers and how her team created a list of the victims they believed should be compensated.

  From behind his reading glasses Mr. Kilmartin studied the data. “Have you released a statement to the media?”

  “Planning on doing it today.” Susan twisted the ring around her finger.

  “Let’s hold off on that until we have a solid grasp on how this money will be distributed. Better to keep families in the dark for a day longer than overpromising something we can’t deliver on.”

  Susan bit her cheek and felt a wave of heat bloom across his chest.

  “Something wrong?” He stared.

  “We received a call from a reporter at 9News this morning.”

  Mr. Kilmartin removed his glasses and cocked his head to the side. “I need to know everything you said, and don’t hide anything because I’ll find out about it if you did soon enough. Trust me. Transparency is the best method going forward. I can’t help you if I don’t have a clear picture of everything you’ve done up until the moment I arrived.”

  Susan shifted in her chair. Then she reached over the table, opened up a folder, and handed the attorney the check written for $10,000. “That’s generous,” Mr. Kilmartin said after looking at it.

  “It came with specific instructions.”

  Mr. Kilmartin arched a single eyebrow.

  “To be given to Timothy Morris’s family.”

  “The school shooter?”

  Susan nodded.

  Mr. Kilmartin’s eyes went back to the check he was still holding with both hands. “Well, this is certainly a point of tension.”

  “It was delivered in person.”

  The attorney leaned back in his chair. “Did you know them?”

  Susan shook her head no. “It was given anonymously.”

  Mr. Kilmartin took a moment to stare at the ba
nk check. “Any idea who might be behind this?”

  “No.” Susan furrowed her brow. “Does it matter?”

  The attorney sighed. “No.” He locked his gaze on Susan. “But it is an unusual request considering all that has transpired since the school shooting.”

  Carly knocked and said, “Susan, sorry to interrupt, but the afternoon news cycle is beginning.”

  “Thank you.” Susan stood, reached for the remote, and flicked on the flat screen on the conference room wall. “I just want to see if they’re reporting on our call from this morning.”

  Mr. Kilmartin kept busy with the papers as Susan kept one ear on the television. Nothing was said about the victims’ fund for a full fifteen minutes, then they both lifted their heads when they heard the news anchor mention Susan’s business’s debt and that some in the community worried that she would use the money for personal gain.

  “This is insane.” Susan pointed at the TV and shook her head. “It’s not true.”

  Mr. Kilmartin rolled his eyes to the screen.

  “I swear,” Susan reiterated. “They’re twisting my words.”

  “Call your accountant.” Mr. Kilmartin’s tone sharpened. “Let’s just be sure that all your numbers are in order and a reporter hasn’t uncovered something that you are unaware of.”

  Susan nodded and left the conference room for her office as she heard news breaking. Feeling lightheaded, she didn’t bother to stop. Instead, she dropped into her chair and pinched the bridge of her nose, wondering how she’d found herself living this nightmare. She couldn’t believe this was happening. No way was she committing anything close to fraud. They had it all wrong.

  Suddenly, her cellphone rang. Susan snapped out of her depression and answered Benjamin’s call. “Hey handsome.” She tried her best to sound uplifting but it came out sounding flat.

  “Hey beautiful.”

  His voice was the relief she needed. Without him prompting her, she told him how her day quickly unraveled soon after he dropped her off. Benjamin heard the fear in her voice when she spoke about Rick and could feel her pain at the accusation being thrown at her for supposedly stealing from the victims. Benjamin was sorry, sympathetic throughout it all, but added, “Did you hear?”