Amber Morn (15 page)

“Judge Hadkin can be a big help, but don’t count on much from Wiley.” Lester’s pitch turned sour. “That guy’ll bend over backward to protect a conviction — a dozen hostages or not.”

Vince repressed a sigh. Dealing with these two attorneys was not going to be fun. Even so, faint hope swirled in his chest. At least both attorneys were available. A small miracle in itself on Memorial Day weekend.

“Vince.” Justin looked up from the computer, his expression grim. “You’d better come look at this message.”

THIRTY-SIX

John Truitt slumped at the desk in his compact home office — a bedroom refurbished after their youngest daughter had moved out. His right hand ached from clicking the mouse, but he kept at it, seeking yet dreading the next message from the captors. That ache was mere dust beneath his feet compared to the one in his heart. It was a tangible pain that more than once had nearly knocked him from his chair.

He’d stumbled upon the talks between Kent and Vince by accident. Devastated upon his arrival home, he found himself at the computer, desperate to see Scenes and Beans, his closest connection to Bailey. Something had led him to check the comments.

Bailey.
Her beautiful face shimmered before him. Her shoulder- length red-gold hair, the warm brown eyes. His wife had the biggest heart of anyone he’d ever known.

Even now, after seeing the men inside Java Joint, after dragging Frank down the street, John could not fully grasp what had happened. His mind trailed random thoughts, screaming it was all a nightmare, running snippets of psalms for protection — psalms John didn’t even know he’d memorized. Tears flowed, then stopped, flowed, then stopped, his vision now blurry and his eyes burning.

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust…”

He needed sleep. The frailty caused by his epilepsy required hours of rest every day, timed around his medication schedule. But no way could he sleep now.

Hear, O Lord, my cry for mercy. O sovereign Lord, my strong deliverer, who shields my head in the day of battle — do not grant the wicked their desires, O Lord; do not let their plans succeed…

The phone jangled, sending electrical current through his nerves. He snatched up the receiver. “John here.”

“John, it’s Helen Communs.”

The familiar voice washed over him like warm rain. Helen, a woman in her early seventies, known for her strong faith and prayers for others amid her own suffering from arthritis. “Hi, Helen.”

“Is anyone with you?”

No stupid questions —
Are you all right?
No platitudes or prying for information. That was Helen.

“No. But I really… don’t want company right now.”

Silence. He could feel her empathy thrumming over the line. “You remembering to take your medication?”

Something his mother would ask, if she were still alive. “Yes.”

“All right then.” Her voice caught, then evened out. “I wanted to tell you we’ve got quite a gathering at the church. People just keep arriving. Old folks like me, mothers with children. We’ve even got someone down at the nursery, watching the little ones so their moms can pray. Other people are leaving work. Seems like all those with shops on Main Street are here, plus many others who just walked out of work. Bailey and all the others with her — they’re covered in prayer, John. Downright drippin’ in it. I want you to know that.
Grab on
to that and don’t let go.”

How he wanted to. But all John could picture were the holes in Frank’s chest, the weapons in the three men’s hands…

His throat squeezed. “They’re killers, Helen. They don’t care who they hurt.”

“Listen to me, John Truitt.” Helen’s words trembled, but she spoke almost defiantly, as if her words aimed straight at the devil, who just might be listening. “Our God’s a whole lot bigger than any murderer on this earth.
He’s
the God who will answer.”

Yes, God answered prayer. John knew that. But sometimes the answers came after all hell broke loose.
Why?
Why Bailey? His most precious, beloved wife?

“Helen, in the past two years, just
look
at all the tragedy that’s hit this town. I just can’t… I don’t…”

“I don’t understand it either, John.” Helen’s voice was gentle. “Who can, this side of heaven? But let me tell you what I can see — what’s come out of it. I see more people in our church than ever before. I see a blog — my goodness, I didn’t even know what that was before! — started by your own wife, that half the country reads. It’s full of funny stories, sure, but it’s also full of God’s truth. How many letters has Bailey received from readers, saying they first started thinking about God after reading those posts, and after hearing how this town prayed through its tragedies? Time after time the country has seen Kanner Lake down on its knees — and God raising us right back up. We’re a living, breathing witness to the power of God, John. And we will be again, this time.”

She stopped abruptly, as if afraid she’d begun to preach.

Sudden anger swelled. “If that’s what it takes to be a witness, I’m
tired
of it.”

“Yes. We all are. And you… I can only imagine —” Helen cut off the words. “John, I can’t tell you why. I don’t
know
why. I just know God. I know he’s merciful and trustworthy, even in the worst of times. Whatever,
whatever
happens — God
is.
Even now. And I’m praying that this…
thing
will end soon, and safely. I’ll stomp up and down these aisles and shout the prayers in Jesus’ name if I have to.” She emitted a raw little laugh. “Not that I think I have to shout for him to hear me. But it might make me feel better.”

John leaned his left elbow on the desk, forehead pressed against his palm. His eyes closed. Somebody turned the heat down in his soul, the anger at God bubbling one last time, then settling. Maybe he was just too tired to feel it any longer. “Thank you, Helen. Thank you and all the folks down there with you. Please tell them I said that.”

“I will.” Helen sighed. “Lord bless you, John. If you need to get word to us, Lyda Hill says to call her cell phone. Crazy old woman. I never saw anybody so thrilled about a new little piece of plastic.” Helen gave him the number, and he wrote it down.

John hung up, strangely calm.
Give me a minute. It’ll pass
.

His bleary gaze refastened upon the computer screen. And from nowhere — God? — more lines from the Psalms flowed through his head.

O Lord, the God who saves me, day and night I cry out before you. May my prayer come before you, turn your ear to my cry…

He reached for the mouse, clicked to renew the comments.…
For my soul is full of trouble and my life
(Bailey’s!)
draws near the grave…

The new comments box appeared.

>> Vince, this is Bailey…

John read the words — and all soothing psalms whisked away.

THIRTY-SEVEN

>> Vince, this is Bailey. About that TV — now they’re demanding that John be the one to bring it. No one else.

>> Brad held a gun to Bev’s head, and they made me type this. Because I was telling Kent I wouldn’t do it.

The words punched Vince in the gut. He straightened and gazed out the front window. Had Kent now pulled that barrel away from the head of a retired teacher who’d never done him harm?

Roger moved to Justin’s side and frowned at the monitor.

“What’s happening?” Larry set the marker down on the situation board’s ledge and came over.

Vince pushed both hands on his hips, anxiety descending over him like a cold fog. He didn’t want to have to go tactical, but these kinds of threats…

Justin clicked the mouse. “Vince, look. A new one.”

He jerked his head to the screen.

>> Bailey again. Kent says to tell you Brad moved his gun away from Bev.

Roger grimaced. “Yeah, for how long?”

Vince buffed his jaw. “Let me sit down there, Justin.”

They changed places.

John Truitt
. Why demand he make the delivery?

The station line rang. “I’ll get that in the other office.” Roger trotted out, followed by Larry.

Vince poised his fingers over the keys. No way could he allow John to take in a television. But he couldn’t say so — not yet. Not when a mere moment ago, Bev had felt the cold steel of a gun against her head.

The second phone line rang, once, twice, three times. Justin picked it up. “Kanner Lake Police Station.” He listened a moment. “Yes, he’s here. Hang on.” He turned to Vince. “Jeremy Cole from Channel 2.”

Vince focused on the monitor. “Give me one minute. Get his email address for me.”

As Justin got back on the phone, Vince typed.

>> Kent, you make it more difficult for me to help when you threaten hostages. How about if we just forget about them for now and concentrate on setting up what we have agreed to do?

Vince read the comment over and posted it. The answer came in under sixty seconds.

>> I won’t threaten any more hostages if they’ll just do what they’re told.

Great. But what crazy thing might he ask them to do?

>> Glad to hear it.

>> Kent, one of the reporters just called. I need to talk to him now. It will take a few minutes. This all right with you?

Vince looked to Justin. “Just another second.”

He clicked the comments box impatiently, thinking about Kent’s agreement to move to a telephone. Good choice for his sake. The comments the man was posting on the blog wouldn’t exactly win the hearts of Scenes and Beans readers across the country.

>> Yeah, talk to the reporter. But make it quick.

Roger stepped into the doorway. “That was John Truitt on the line. He’s reading the blog comments. He says he’ll take the TV in.”

Vince blew out air.
Poor John
.

How long before the media caught on to the comments? Bound to happen anytime.

“Call him back, tell him I can’t let a private citizen go into a hostage situation. If we get them that TV, an officer has to deliver it.”

Roger nodded.

“And listen, we’re coming close to getting on the phone. Is the dedicated line set up?”

“Ready to go — onto your private line. All we got to do is set up the taping system.”

“Great. Thanks.”

Roger left. Vince held his hand out to Justin for the phone.

“Jeremy, thanks for calling.” Vince knew this reporter, as he did all the other locals. With the rash of incidents in Kanner Lake in the last two years, he’d met more reporters than he had in the entire previous decade. Jeremy was in his midforties, with dark hair and a wide smile that had raised him to popularity.

Vince explained the situation. “I have no idea how long this document is. Now they’re wanting a TV to watch the coverage. Will your station be willing to hold running the thing until that delivery is made?”

“I’m sure we can work that out. It’s going to take a bit of time to set things up anyway. In the meantime we’ve already started covering the story.”

Vince could detect stirred excitement in the reporter’s voice. “Good. Now understand these men will be watching your coverage. I need you to tell your viewers the basic facts without looking or sounding negative or even the least bit judgmental about what the Wicksells have done. Remember these men are volatile, and it won’t take much for Kent Wicksell to be sorry he chose you to read the document. Can you agree to that?”

“Yes. I understand lives are at stake.”

“All right then. I don’t know how long this will take. Somebody in that café’s going to have to type the document. They will send it to me, and I will forward it to you. Meanwhile, Wicksell and I have a lot of details to negotiate regarding the delivery of the TV. But keep checking your email and stay close to your phone.”

Jeremy agreed.

By the time Vince hung up, Roger stood near his desk. “Jim called. ISP helicopter’s available when you want it. And the CRT team has arrived. Jack Little’s the commander. They’ve got their mobile command post, a van, and the APC from Fairchild. And they got techs to mount three cameras where the snipers are positioned.”

From CRT’s mobile post, packed with communications equipment, Commander Little could watch monitors showing footage from each compact camera.

“How many new men?”

“Seven.”

Vince’s thoughts raced. “Tell them to set up their command post on Lakeshore, just around the corner from Second Street. Move the APC and van there too. Jack needs to get up here immediately for a briefing. Also, the ISP helicopter team needs a heads-up. If I get the breakthrough in negotiations I’m hoping for, we’ll need them over here, pronto.”