by James Hunt
“And what if I tell the police I did it?” Lena held up her phone. “I can call them right now, confess everything. They’ll have a phone record of it, and then I’ll go into the station myself and put it in writing.”
“You could,” Jake said. “But the moment you do that you’ll lose both of your girls.” He looked over. “You think you can watch Kaley grow up behind the locked door of a jail cell? You think you’ll be able to help give Gwen advice through those important years into womanhood over the phone once a week?” He shook his head. “You’ve come too far to go back to a life of isolation. I won’t let you go backward.”
Lena wanted to tell him to go to hell. She wanted to tell him that if it weren’t for him, then she never would have pulled herself out of rock bottom during her addiction. She wanted to tell him how proud she was of him and everything he’d done with his life, even the things that were hard to look at. She wanted to tell him that he was wrong, but she’d worked in the courtroom too long. If she went to trial for the gun-store owner’s murder, she might get a few sympathetic jurors, but the prosecution would hammer her for intent. She chose to go to town. She chose to break the law. She chose to carry that gun. She chose murder.
The judge would make an example out of her. How could he not? With the havoc that the town was wreaking on itself they would have to prosecute someone, and she would be the biggest fish in the pond. It was whom she would go after if she were the prosecutor. And the trial would just mean more trauma for her family.
“If you do this,” Lena said, “you’re looking at twenty years plus after tacking on the Reese Coleman body. And that’s if we can prove that you didn’t kill him, which is going to be difficult if we can’t find the murder weapon or get a confession out of someone.”
“I know.”
Lena leaned back and closed her eyes. She couldn’t save everyone. Any way she sliced it, one of her family’s life was over.
Sunlight shone through the front windshield of Scott’s car and warmed the inside. With the engine off, the temperature inside climbed quickly, even though the sun was starting to fade. Scott sat in the driver seat of his car with one foot in the grass while the other remained on the floorboard. A light breeze waved the grass back and forth in the rolling hills in front of him.
His attention was focused on his laptop screen, which was still flipped open in the passenger seat. An audio file played, and two earbuds were planted firmly in his ears. The recording ended, and he plucked them out and tossed them aside. He stepped out of the car, pulling on his gloves, and squinted into the evening sunlight and marched over to the mangled BMW.
He searched Ken’s car and opened the glove box and removed the bug he planted. Then, methodically, he removed the bugs in the trunk, under the steering column, and under the seat. Once it was clean he tossed the bugs into his trunk and slammed the lid. He peeled off one of the gloves then dialed a number on his phone.
“Well?” Mr. Alwitz asked.
“The car has been cleaned. The police won’t find anything in there except what Ken has stashed in his glove box.” Scott glanced in the rearview mirror to the wrecked cars.
“This has gone on long enough.” Alwitz’s tone matched that of a parent scolding a child who continued to disobey after a number of punishments. “Questions are being asked of us that we don’t want to have to give the answers to. I need this cleaned up, and I need it done quickly. We don’t have any more room for error.”
“Did you get the recording I sent you?”
A pause. “I did.” Alwitz took his time as he spoke. “She’s using our own playbook against us.”
“What do you want me to do?” He checked his watch. “Deadline ends in a few hours.”
“There’s no way this comes back to us. Regardless of what happens. We sever all loose ends and bury them in the wilderness. Lena Hayes gets nothing.” Alwitz took a breath. “I think it’s time we utilize some of our more unsavory friendships.”
“You want me to make the call?”
“Yes. It’s time we remind Mrs. Hayes who’s in charge.” The call clicked dead, and Scott took a seat behind the wheel of his car. He unplugged the earbuds from the computer and replayed the last recording, which filtered through the speakers. “Tell them what you have. Extortion, the waste dumping, murder, all of it. Tell them I’m willing to spill all of it if Kaley isn’t returned.”
31
5 Hours Left
The sky had turned beautiful shades of pink, blue, orange, and red as the sun started its descent into the horizon. Mark stood in the wild grass in the backyard of his home and stared at it intently. With the day nearly gone he hoped that whatever Lena had found in Bismarck would bring an end to the waiting.
That was the worst part. Waiting. He’d done a lot of it in his time with Lena. He waited for her to be ready to commit to a relationship. Then he waited for her to be ready to get married, then had to wait until she was ready to have children again, then he had to wait until Gwen trusted him, then he had to wait until Lena was done with building her practice, then during the civil suit, then the campaign, then the legislation, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.
Mark closed his eyes. A breeze cooled the sweat that collected on his forehead. He’d always been a patient man, and his relationship with Lena had tested that time and time again. But this was different. He wasn’t blaming her for this—he would never do that. Yet the anxiety that flowed through his veins continued to prick that virulent thought tucked deep within his mind.
Little nudges, tiny jabs, all of them building up over the past few days and then becoming louder once Kaley was taken. She was his own flesh and blood. He thought back to what he told Gwen, which he meant with all of his heart, but he also knew that the relationship he had with Kaley was different. Not better, just different. He would always share a special connection with his youngest, because there was a part of him that lived inside her.
Before the tears in his eyes had a chance to fall, Mark wiped them away. He just needed to have faith. Faith that Lena could get it done. He’d seen her do it time and time again throughout her life. Her resiliency was one of her most attractive qualities. She didn’t quit. Ever.
Mark started his trek back toward the house, being mindful of where he stepped for the many snakes that inhabited the great open spaces that surrounded the property. When he entered the back door of the house he stopped, looking down at the floor where he’d shot the man who’d almost killed Lena. A faded blood stain the size of a beach ball still lingered on the tile.
The creak of the screen door snapped Mark out of his stupor and when he looked up inside he saw Ken waiting by the door and a yellow taxi coming down his driveway. He jogged to the front. “Hey, what’s going on?”
“Lena called.” In his hands Ken held one of Mark’s hats, which he quickly pulled tight over his head. “We’re setting the meeting up now.” He pulled on his jacket and flipped the collar high, shielding his face, and finished the ensemble with a pair of sunglasses.
“What did she say about the guy in Bismarck?”
The cab parked in the grass, and Ken stepped outside, turning back to Mark and shrugging. “She didn’t.” He climbed inside the vehicle and ducked low in the backseat, practically disappearing from view.
Mark returned back inside the house and immediately grabbed his phone, which he’d left on the kitchen counter. No missed calls. He clicked Lena’s number and felt his heart leap into his throat. “Pick up, pick up, pick up.” But it only continued to ring until the voice mail came on. He hung up and tried again. Same result. “C’mon!” He tossed the phone across the countertop, where it skidded to a stop three feet away. He tapped his forefinger on the granite kitchen counter rapidly. He looked back at the phone then to the dirt path where Ken had left in the taxi.
“Dad?”
Mark turned around. Gwen stood at the end of the hallway to the bedrooms, still in her pajamas from the night before. “Hey, you all right?”
&nb
sp; “Is Mom coming back soon?” She spoke as if she were a child. Her eyes were large and her cheeks slightly puffy from the long day of remaining in bed.
Mark glided across the kitchen tile and wrapped Gwen in his arms. “Soon enough.” He kissed the top of her head and walked her over to the couch. “You hungry at all?”
“A little.” Gwen collapsed onto the soft cushions, which bobbed her up and down softly before she curled up into a ball. “Do we have any pancake batter left?”
Mark smiled. “I’ll check.” But when he turned to leave for the kitchen he saw something out of the only front living room window that wasn’t boarded over with plywood. Cars. Five of them. The first pulsating reaction was that Jim Foreman had returned with his gang of oil workers, but Jim Foreman was in jail, and he would have thought the deputies out front would have deterred any further petty, violent spats between New Energy employees and his family. And he was right. Except the men in the cars slowing at the press gate at the entrance to the dirt road were not employees of New Energy.
The tinted windows of the sedans were lowered, and the barrels of automatic rifles were thrust from the open spaces. A brief roar of panicked screams filtered through the air before they were all cut short by gunfire.
The deputies that watched from the police line at the front of the dirt road were gunned down before they even had a chance to pull their weapons, and the deputies that were standing in the front yard stormed into the house as both Mark and Gwen stood frozen in shock, staring at the sedans now racing at a breakneck pace down the dirt road.
“Go to the bedrooms and lock the doors.” The first deputy inside went to Gwen and pulled her from the couch as the first sedan screeched to a stop in the front yard. He practically flung her into Mark’s arms as the second deputy shut and locked the door behind him. “Go!”
It wasn’t the deputy’s voice that prompted Mark to run, but the first bullet that splintered the plywood that covered the shattered windows where Jim Foreman and his goons had decided to redecorate the house. He dragged Gwen down the hall, and the two tucked themselves away in the bedroom. “Get under the bed.”
Gwen trembled as she crawled underneath while Mark immediately went to the gun safe. Shaky fingers twirled the combination dial as the gunfire outside sounded as if they were reenacting the D-Day invasion.
The world around Mark had grown completely silent. He felt his heart thump in his chest. He curled his fingers around the steel of the rifle in the safe, and it slipped from his sweaty hands when he removed it. He fumbled it again when he picked it up off the ground, and kept low on his way to the door. He craned his neck around the doorway and into the hallway toward the front of the house, or at least what was left of it.
The fading glow of sunset shone through the hundreds of bullet holes that had pierced the plywood covering the windows. The door was splintered and a few hard shoves away from disintegrating into nothing more than toothpicks. Both deputies crouched low on the floor, left impotent by the relentless gunfire.
The thunderous rain of bullets suddenly ended, and the two deputies lifted their heads, frantically tossing hand gestures back and forth. Mark looked to the back door and noticed the dead silence that followed the gunshots. The hardware, the precision, the coordination—these people weren’t going to stop until the house and everyone inside was leveled to the ground. Mark thrust his hand under the bed. “Gwen, we have to go!”
She hesitated, shock controlling her now, but Mark grabbed her arm and pulled her out from underneath. Tears streamed down her face, and Mark shoved her into the hallway, using his body to shield her as he hurried both of them to the back door. “Keep low, keep quiet, and don’t stop running until I tell you to drop.”
Mark cracked the back door open and confirmed that the coast was clear. “Hurry.” He shuffled Gwen and shut the door behind them just as the two deputies in front opened fire. The return of gunfire brought with it the frantic adrenaline that powered him past the fatigue of the week. He looked back to the house just as they entered the tall grass, shoving the blades of wild wheat aside, Mark keeping Gwen in front of him on the run.
The automatic gunfire returned as the house grew smaller behind them, and Mark shoved Gwen to the ground, hiding them in the thick grass fields. Mark pressed his finger to his lips then looked up at the fading evening sky. If they could just wait until dark, it would give them the cover they needed to make a run for it.
Two quick screams followed by two short bursts of gunfire ended the battle, and Mark slowly raised his head to the thin top of the grass cover. A gust of wind shifted the wheat, and through it he saw the back door of the house open, where three men with sunglasses spilled outside with machine guns in their hands. Mark ducked back down and froze.
Shouts filled the evening air, but the words weren’t English. The assassins sprayed random gunfire into the field, and each step brought them closer to their position. Mark repositioned the gun in his hands, sweat pouring from his palms, which slid along the metal of the weapon. He at Gwen, who had shut her eyes, her hands balled into fists and her body completely flat against the ground. He reached with his left hand and placed it over hers.
Gwen opened her eyes at the touch, and Mark smiled. He wasn’t at the house when Kaley was taken. He never got the chance to try and save her, and it was a reality that had tortured him since the abduction. But he could do something here. He could give Gwen the time needed to make a run for it. He could save her.
“When I shoot, stay low and keep heading away from the house.” Mark whispered the words so quietly that he couldn’t even hear it himself. The residual ringing of the gunfire and the continued shouts of the thugs overpowered his voice. He watched Gwen’s eyebrows grow closer together and her mouth drop in confusion. He drew in a breath and forced the word out louder as he pointed away from where the goons were approaching. “Run.”
Mark pushed himself to a knee, and he felt Gwen’s hand grab his shirt, and panicked nonsense poured from her lips, but he had already shifted right, heading away from Gwen’s location and making sure that any gunfire that would be sent his way wouldn’t hit his daughter. He placed his finger over the smooth curve of the trigger, squinted one eye shut, and squeezed.
The bullet missed wide right, but it served its purpose as a distraction as all three thugs returned fired. Mark sprinted across the open fields, cutting a path through the tall grass, screaming and turning to shoot back every dozen feet.
The shots were sporadic, and Mark never expected to actually hit anything. He just needed to buy Gwen time. When he turned around on his next pass he saw all three sprinting toward him, and then he saw one of the cars pull around the side and enter the field, flattening the golden strands of wheat.
What sunlight remained reflected a glare off the windshield, blocking the driver from view, and Mark fired into the glass, hood, and grill of the car, only hitting his mark a few times before he veered a hard right. The car followed, and Mark felt the burn in his lungs and muscles with every step. The noise of gunfire and the roar of the engine hastened his pace, but he wasn’t fast enough to escape.
A bullet connected with his lower back, and he tumbled forward. The gun flew from his hand, and he belly-flopped onto the ground, skidding across the dirt and grass. When Mark opened his eyes the adrenaline masked the pain at first, but it didn’t last more than a few seconds.
The soft tissue of his back had been replaced with concrete, and any attempt to move it brought with it a stabbing pain. He remained flat on the ground and curled his fingers into the dirt, feeling the gritty texture jam underneath his nails.
The gunfire ended, and the roar of the car engine faded as well, but both were replaced with the foreign tongue made even more untranslatable by the otherworldly pain that plagued him. Sweat had broken out all over his body, and his cheeks had grown pallid. He tried the simple task of lifting his head, but even that was too much of an effort for what life he had left.
He saw the rifl
e lying in the grass a few feet from where he’d fallen, but the line of sight was suddenly blocked by the black pant legs of his pursuers and their polished dress shoes. Mark strained his eyes to look up and saw two of the three shooters hovering above.
One of the polished shoes flew into Mark’s side, and his mind suddenly came alive with a thousand knives digging into his skull. A white-hot flash of light blinded him, and he felt himself open his mouth but heard no noise as his entire body seized and spasmed.
When the pain finally passed and the white flash cleared from his eyes, he once again saw the brightly polished dress shoe that had trampled the bed of grass he lay upon. The sound of a car door opened, and the polished shoes stepped out of the way, their owner saying something in his native tongue then laughing.
Mark heard footsteps and when they stopped Mark strained his eyes to look up and saw the barrel of a pistol. It wavered slightly, and Mark only saw his face for a second. At first he thought his mind was playing a trick on him, some cruel joke. “You?” He coughed, spitting up blood, which sprayed the flattened golden blades of grass.
Anger replaced astonishment, and the lightest color of pink returned to Mark’s cheeks. “You fucking son of a bitch. Give me back my daughter! Giver her back right n—”
The bullet sliced through his left temple and exited the rear right back of his skull. Mark’s body went limp, and blood oozed from both ends of the gaping hole the bullet had left behind. The polished shoes returned, picking up Mark’s body and throwing him into the trunk.
Gwen listened to the muffled shouts from her position in the grass where Mark had left her. She covered her mouth with the palm of her hand as tears streamed down her face at the sound of the gunshot that ended Mark’s voice. The violent sobs choked out her ability to move, to think, to do anything but lie flat on top of the itchy grass and hide until she was either killed or found.
