King's Ransom

by Sharon Sala

“Let the men do their job, Miss LeBeau,” he urged. “You stay here with me. I’m here by invitation only. This is out of my jurisdiction. But I like to see the end of a case for myself.”

  She couldn’t think past the horrible fear that poured into her brain. All she could remember was that man, and his knife, and the pain. Now King was in danger. She leaned limply against the hot fender of the unmarked police car and began to shake.

  Twice King almost had a hand on him, and then Lynch would pivot and dart down another path between the holding pens. A black rage kept him going, unswerving in his determination that this man would not escape again. Not this time. He could feel Lynch’s fear. He heard the choking gasps for breath, and knew Lynch was tiring. But he still managed to stay just out of King’s reach. Lynch was running for his life.

  The wind and heat, the stench of manure, the cattle’s uneasy lowing as the race among them heightened brought a growing certainty to Wiley Lynch that he’d reached a point of no return. He wasn’t going to escape this big, angry man. His lungs burned. His legs ached. Then he saw it! A slim chance, but a chance. He gathered all of his remaining strength, and made one long leap toward a big semi pulling an empty cattle trailer out of the loading chute. If he could just get a handhold on the slat-sided truck, maybe, just maybe…

  King realized Lynch’s intention and dived for his feet just as he jumped. He felt the dust on Lynch’s shoes come away in his hands, but he missed and fell face down in the dust, inches away from his goal. He looked up in dismay, certain that he was going to see Lynch’s escape. Instead, he watched in horror as Lynch misjudged his vault and fell under the rolling eighteen-wheeler.

  Suddenly hands were all over King, pulling him to his feet. Dozens of people kept asking him if he was all right.

  “What the hell?” he muttered. He was tired, winded and sick at heart at the growing suspicion inside him.

  “OSBI, Mr. McCandless,” one of them answered. “We have Miss LeBeau. She’s fine.”

  “Well, you can’t say the same for that bastard,” King said, and pointed to what was left of Wiley Lynch.

  He pushed roughly past the gathering group of bystanders, who looked on in horror at what they judged to be a terrible accident. King headed back to his car with a wild, fierce glint in his eyes. This wasn’t over yet.

  CHAPTER 12

  As word spread of the accident, gathering crowds obscured Jesse’s view. She struggled within Shockey’s grasp, unwilling to wait quietly while her world might be coming to an end. She could hear the rising volume of voices as more people became aware of the events that had just taken place. Many were not aware that a chase had been in progress, or that the police were already on the scene. Most of the police were in plain clothes and driving unmarked vehicles.

  “Please,” Jesse pleaded. “I just need to go find him.” But she could tell by the determined look on Shockey’s face that her plea was useless.

  Suddenly King emerged from the pushing crowd of onlookers, and Jesse caught back a sob of relief. She pulled away from Shockey’s restraint and began to run. Yet the closer she came to King, the more a different kind of panic set in. King didn’t even see her, wasn’t aware that she was anywhere close, until Jesse grabbed him by the arm as he started to pass by her.

  “King!” she cried. “What happened? Did they catch Lynch? Are you all right?”

  King looked blindly down at her hand, then up at the worried expression on her face. A black hole was opening in his mind. He knew he should answer, but he couldn’t focus on anything but the growing certainty that he knew who Lynch’s “Boss” was.

  He shrugged away from Jesse’s grasp, and continued toward his car in single-minded determination. Then he remembered, and turned back to Jesse, as she stood watching his actions in stunned silence.

  “Give me the keys,” he whispered, and swallowed an urge to let his rage take hold.

  Jesse began to shake. She clutched the keys tightly in her hands and refused to acknowledge King’s command. He wasn’t going to shut her out like this. She wouldn’t allow it.

  “What’s wrong with you, King? What happened? Please, sweetheart,” she pleaded, as an overwhelming fear began to replace her reason. Something was still very wrong.

  “Jesse,” he shouted, “give me the damn keys.”

  Shockey walked up just in time to hear their heated exchange, and knew trouble wasn’t over after all. This man was out of control.

  “Not until you tell me what happened,” Jesse screamed back at him. “This concerns me as much as it does you.” Huge tears gathered and began spilling down her cheeks as she clutched the car keys tighter against her breast.

  King wouldn’t allow himself to think about Jesse. He had a growing horror within him that replaced everything but a need to hear for himself that what he feared was wrong. It had to be.

  “Lynch is dead,” he finally muttered. Then his voice rose in angry volume as he shouted, “But he recognized me.” King spun around wildly, his boots kicking up dust as he pounded his fist on the hood of his car. “He thought he knew me!”

  “I don’t understand,” Jesse whispered, clutching the keys as an anchor against the suspicion that suddenly started the world spinning around her. “He doesn’t know you…does he?”

  “No…he doesn’t know me.” King muttered, his throat tight and aching as he continued. “But, Jesse…he knows someone who looks like me.” He watched comprehension hit Jesse in the face with a resounding slap. “And,” he continued, “he called him ‘Boss.”’

  Jesse staggered, struck dumb by the implication of King’s accusation. She let the keys fall from her hands as her knees gave way.

  Shockey reached out and caught her as King snagged the car keys just before they hit the dirt.

  “Take care of her,” King ordered, and started to stalk away.

  “You wait a minute,” Captain Shockey ordered. “I want to know what’s going on here.” But his words were useless as King backed the car away from the stunned pair and drove off in a cloud of dust.

  “Oh, God!” Jesse moaned, and buried her face in her hands. She had to do something. She couldn’t let King get to Duncan. If he did, one of them would die. Either King would kill Duncan, or he’d die trying. Anyway she looked at it, she was going to lose King.

  “Miss LeBeau,” Shockey ordered, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her gently. “Get hold of yourself and tell me what in hell all that was about.”

  “Duncan,” she mumbled, and started pulling Shockey toward the cars. “We’ve got to hurry,” she began to sob. “King has gone to find Duncan, and if he does, he’ll kill him.”

  “Who the hell is Duncan, and why would King want to kill him?” he asked, allowing Jesse to pull him along as they talked. It was obvious something more was involved. Maybe he was about to find the accomplice.

  “Duncan is King’s uncle,” Jesse muttered. “Please, we’ve got to hurry!”

  “Why would King want to kill his uncle, and what did he mean by Lynch recognizing him?”

  “Lynch recognized King, at least he thought he did,” Jesse answered, “because King and Duncan could pass for identical twins.”

  Shockey’s hesitance was driving her mad. She screamed aloud as Shockey stopped stubbornly in front of her. “Lynch called King ‘Boss.’ Don’t you see? He got them mixed up. Please, we have to hurry.”

  The implication was sinking into Shockey’s analytical mind as he yanked Jesse into the car seat beside him.

  “Yes, girl, I’m beginning to,” he answered. “Now give me an address fast. We’re going to need help to stop that man.”

  He wrote down the address Jesse gave him, and grabbed his radio mike. The Tulsa police were going to have to help. He’d never make it in time to stop King McCandless.

  * * *

  King never knew how he got to Duncan’s apartment. He didn’t even bother to park properly. He just stopped, left the keys in the ignition, and got out of the car in a trance-like state. He cou
ld hear sirens in the distance, warning all who got in the way of their impending progress, but King was past rational thinking. He had to see Duncan face to face; he had to hear him admit what he feared was true, or deny it. King couldn’t think past that. He couldn’t let himself think about retribution.

  His gut twisted in a knot of despair as he punched the twelfth-floor button in the elevator and swallowed the choking rage that rose bitterly in his throat. When the door opened at the twelfth floor, he had to tell himself to move. King knew now that each step he took would be bringing him close to the end of the world as he knew it.

  He heard the elevator door open down the hall as he arrived at Duncan’s apartment, but he ignored it. All his being was focused on the door in front of him. He took a deep breath, doubled up his fist, and hammered loudly.

  “Duncan!” he shouted. “Open the door!” No one responded.

  This time, when he pounded loudly on the door, he issued an ultimatum.

  “Duncan! Open the damn door, or I’ll kick it in.”

  There was an ominous silence before Duncan spoke sarcastically. “It’s not locked, nephew. Do the civilized thing, and use the doorknob, please.”

  King twisted the knob and slammed the door back against the wall as he entered. His heart jerked to a full stop at the sight before him. He realized then that his worst fears were probably true.

  Duncan was half standing, half sitting on a bar stool with a nearly empty bottle of bourbon in one hand, and a pistol in the other. He cocked an eyebrow at the big, angry man before him, the two policeman who followed him through the door, and waved the pistol in their general direction.

  “Come in, come in,” he called loudly. “I wasn’t expecting you.” Then he muttered to himself. “Or maybe I was. At any rate, you’re here. What can I do for you?”

  King looked around in surprise at the men behind him, and then back at Duncan, ignoring the officers’ advice to take cover.

  The police looked at each other, uncertain how to defuse the situation without someone getting hurt. One of them called out forcefully to Duncan McCandless. “Drop your gun, mister! Whatever’s going on here can be settled without violence. Let me have your gun, then we’ll talk about this.”

  Duncan smiled, ignoring their presence, and turned his attention to his nephew.

  King spoke in short, clipped sentences, his husky voice so strained it wasn’t much more than a whisper.

  “Lynch is dead,” King said, watching Duncan’s face for something…anything…that would tell him he was wrong.

  “Well, now,” Duncan drawled. “That’s good news, isn’t it? That calls for a drink.” He tipped his head back, tilted the bourbon bottle, and let the fiery liquid run slowly down his throat.

  King never blinked. He never moved. But his hands clinched and unclinched at his side as he watched Duncan deteriorate before his eyes. It was a strange sensation. Almost like watching himself die.

  “He called me ‘Boss,”’ King said softly. “Now why would he do that, Duncan? Why did he think he knew me?”

  Duncan sat staring at the men before him. When the policemen started forward, he quietly aimed his pistol at King’s chest and muttered, “Because he’s a fool.”

  The police stopped instantly as the armed man took aim at King. But their guns remained pointed at the man by the bar. There was just no way they could disarm him without endangering the unarmed civilian, so they stood by, waiting anxiously for the armed man to make a mistake, or have a change of heart and put down his weapon.

  “Why?” King asked, fury and betrayal in his posture and voice.

  “Why?” Duncan repeated, and then his entire surface charm vanished. His face and posture changed. Suddenly he didn’t look like King at all. He looked old and beaten.

  “Because! Because you were born with what I wanted. What I deserved,” he snarled. “Andrew was my brother before he was your father. You were born with my face…and they named you the ‘King.’ It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair.”

  King was stunned. He had to force himself not to shout as he spoke. “You blamed me for being born?” he growled in disbelief. “You spent…no…wasted your life hating me for an accident of birth? You pitiful son-of-a-bitch. I knew you were weak. I just didn’t know you were stupid.”

  His taunt struck home as Duncan stood and glared furiously at the man he should have been. “Shut up,” he warned, and took steadier aim at the third button on King’s shirt.

  “Back off, mister,” the police said to King, but he ignored them as well as their order.

  “Go ahead,” King shouted, losing what was left of his control. “Shoot an unarmed man. I know you’re capable. Anyone who’d use an innocent woman just to get back at me would do anything.”

  Duncan’s face crumpled. For the first time, King saw genuine regret.

  “She wasn’t supposed to get hurt,” he muttered. “He wasn’t supposed to touch her.”

  “No?” King drawled sarcastically. “You were just going to kidnap her, scare her to death, cause her mental anguish for the rest of her life, but you weren’t going to hurt her? What the hell kind of a twisted plot is that?”

  “Well,” Duncan sneered, “it wasn’t smart. I’ll admit that. But after all, what did you expect? I’m not the ‘King.’ So,” he continued, “where does that leave us? I have no intention of going to jail and watching you walk away with everything, including Jesse.”

  King started forward, taking each step with controlled deliberation.

  “Now’s your chance,” he snarled back in Duncan’s face. “Pull the damn trigger, and get your misery over with.”

  “No!” a policeman shouted at King.

  “Drop your weapon,” the other ordered Duncan.

  But the big man didn’t stop advancing, and his mirror image remained, gun aimed, poised at the edge of making the last big mistake of his life.

  Duncan blinked, startled that King was no longer under his control. He felt a sick, sinking feeling start at the bottom of his boots and crawl steadily upwards toward the huge knot of horror stuck in his throat. Now he had to make a choice, and he knew he had none left.

  Duncan took unsteady aim, cocked the pistol, and called aloud in a jeering fashion, “The King is dead, long live the King.”

  A shot rang out. King stopped, his next step forgotten as the wide, spreading pain tightened around his chest. A denial of rage erupted from his mouth, but it was too late. He watched, horrified, as Duncan dropped limply to the floor, the life in his eyes disappearing as a pool of blood appeared beneath him.

  Duncan McCandless, as usual, had taken the easy way out of a bad situation. He’d taken his own life.

  “Aw, hell,” one of the policemen muttered as they pushed past King’s frozen figure. “Get an ambulance,” he ordered, and his partner quickly responded.

  Neither man had time to spend assuring King there was nothing that could have prevented this. When a crazy man has a loaded gun, someone’s bound to get hurt. He could have just as easily turned it on them.

  King turned and walked blindly toward the open door into the hall as the pain in his chest expanded into his mind. He felt helpless, uncertain, and betrayed in a way he’d never imagined.

  The arrival of paramedics and OSBI officers clogged the narrow hallway as King wandered aimlessly toward the elevator. He had to get away from this nightmare. The only thing that was keeping him from coming apart was the thought of Jesse. She was out there… somewhere. And he knew he had to find her.

  * * *

  “What’s happening?” Jesse asked nervously, as Captain Shockey maneuvered his way through Tulsa traffic, a red light on the dash of his car flashing a warning to allow him easier access. Jesse could hear the traffic on the police radio, but nearly everything was in code. She couldn’t decipher their messages, yet the look on Shockey’s face told Jesse something was wrong. She was afraid of his answer.

  “Police and paramedics are on the scene,” he replied gruffly.


  “Paramedics?” Jesse felt sick to her stomach. It was almost more than she could ask. “Someone is hurt?”

  Shockey hitched his position in the car seat, trying to find a cooler, more comfortable spot. But the sun coming through the windows beat out the faltering air conditioner’s weak airflow, and the seats in these cars weren’t ever going to be comfortable. One way or another, a policeman was always on a hot seat. Finally, he cleared his throat and blurted out, “Someone’s not hurt,” he replied. “Someone is dead.”

  “Not King,” she moaned, and buried her face in her hands. It wasn’t King. She couldn’t face it if it was. “Hurry, please!” She choked back a sob, and gripped the armrest on the car door until her fingers turned white.

  There were so many official vehicles in the apartment parking lot that Shockey had trouble turning into the entryway. Jesse looked frantically from man to man in the milling crowd around the cars and in the doorway. She saw nothing but uniforms.

  Shockey hit the brakes, flashing his badge as an officer momentarily halted their progress. Jesse took the opportunity to bolt from the car. She was out and pushing her way through the policeman before Shockey had unbuckled his seat belt. Her heart was pounding so viciously against her ribcage that it hurt to breathe. Fear weakened her legs so that each step she took was a test of endurance. Yet she continued blindly toward the darkened doorway, shaded by a wide, striped awning over the walkway. More than one officer noted the pretty, dark-haired woman in the green dress darting through the crowd, but each time a hand stretched out to restrain her, she would elude the order to stop.

  King saw a flash of green coming through the crowd, and felt all the anxiety of the last few minutes pour from him in a rush. It was Jesse. He fixed on that sundress with desperation, and came out of the shadowed doorway into the sun.

  Jesse saw him pause, saw the stunned, blank expression and the almost aimless stride. Then she saw him focus and start toward her with unwavering determination. She was in his arms!

  King clutched desperately, tangling his fingers in her hair as he drew strength and sanity just from holding her against his heart. He couldn’t talk. It was beyond him to tell her, at least…not yet. He couldn’t admit to himself the festering guilt that was beginning to spread inside him. How had he been so blind? How could he have been so unaware of such vicious, demented hate? Maybe if he’d noticed sooner? There had to have been signals over the years. Maybe…just maybe he could have prevented this. But it was too late to speculate. Jesse had nearly died…and Duncan was dead. And in some way, King had decided, it was all his fault.