Amber Morn (16 page)

Media
. One of the hundred details…

“Roger, have Larry help you call the local TV stations. Tell them to keep their copters on the ground. I want our airspace open only to emergency and police aircraft.”

“Right. Okay. On that —”

The station phone rang.

Justin picked it up, identified the caller, and muffled the mouthpiece with his hand. “Teresa Wright, Channel 4.”

“Oh. Good.” Vince took the receiver. “Roger, call Jeremy Cole back. Ask him to tell his station about keeping their helicopter away. I’ll cover it with Teresa. You and Larry can catch the other stations.”

Roger nodded and hurried off.

Vince rubbed his eyes as he put the phone to his ear. “Teresa, thanks for calling…”

Their conversation was brief, Vince’s brain running ahead with details and possible scenarios. Like Jeremy, Teresa agreed to hold the footage until Vince gave the go-ahead.

Vince hung up and stared at the wall, ticking off items. CRT team. Helicopter. Air traffic. Reporters.

Google
. They’d never called back.

Didn’t matter now. Not as long as he succeeded in moving Wicksell off the blog.

Vince returned to the keyboard.

>> Kent, good news. I’ve talked to BOTH reporters. They are willing to read your document. I know it will take Bailey some time to type it. I suggest you and I move to the phone now. That way we can continue to communicate about the TV while she works. As soon as the document is typed, email it to me and I will forward it to the two reporters. Agreed?

Come on, Wicksell, let’s get off this computer.
Wicksell’s answer shot back.

>> I’ll call you. What number do you want to use?

“All
right
.” Vince ran a hand across his jaw.

He looked to Justin. “Ask Roger to get you the headphones. Wicksell’s agreed.”

“One for our side.” Justin pushed back his chair.

>> Kent, we will have a “dedicated phone line.” That way no one else will be able to call the regular Java Joint number and interrupt us. All you need to do is push the talk button on your phone, and mine will automatically ring — no need for dialing.

Justin returned with the headphones and a tablet of paper for note taking. He would also use the paper to write suggestion notes to Vince during communications. Roger set up the digital recorder.

A minute later, Vince’s line rang.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Lenora Wicksell scrubbed the kitchen baseboards with all her might.

Her knees hurt from the hard floor. Her back hurt. Her arm muscles ached from the constant motion. The pain was good,
good
. Something to focus on, something to wrap her mind around, because if she dwelt on the fear and grief, she would lie down on the cracked linoleum right now and die.

She hadn’t cleaned in weeks. No energy. And who cared? Ever since the Day of the Verdict, she had merely lived one moment to the next, reminding herself to eat, to breathe. Sleep — what was that?

Dirty water ran from the brush to the floor. Lenora wiped it away with a soggy white cloth. She dipped the bristles into a bucket of now-dingy water and scrubbed some more.

Laughter and applause wafted from the TV in the den. Some silly infomercial about skin care. Those people lived in another world. Another
planet
. Lenora gritted her teeth at the stupid claims and constant clapping. But she would not turn off Channel 2. Any time now she might hear some news.

It’ll work, Lenora, and it won’t take long
.

They’d left over two hours ago. Wasn’t that long enough? Lenora sat back on her haunches, remembering the feel of Kent’s arms around her. His familiar smell. Fresh pain stabbed through her.
How
could she have let them go when she knew they wouldn’t be coming back? Kent, Mitch, and Brad — now she’d have to visit them
all
in prison.

But T.J. would be home.

She didn’t know how, exactly. They wouldn’t just let him out like nothing happened. But when the world heard his story, when caring people around the country bombarded the judge to
do
something, relook at evidence…

The voices of many could make all the difference for one.

T.J.
Every day the thought of her innocent young son in prison with all those horrible men had turned her inside out. Then to hear that he’d been beat up. She’d curled into a fetal position in bed for a solid day — until Kent told her what he and Mitch planned to do. She pictured T.J. falling under punches, being kicked and bloodied — and felt every blow in her own body. That’s what a mother did. That’s all a mother knew.

How well she remembered T.J. at age five, proudly giving her a bunch of wildflowers he’d picked in the field. At age eleven, parked in front of the oven, wanting to be the first to get at the chocolate chip cookies she was baking. At fourteen he’d gone crazy over the used dirt bike Kent bought him. She’d been scared to death he would break all his bones with such wild riding. Last year at this time he was just graduating from high school. As he accepted his diploma, he’d shot her that lopsided grin of his —

Stop it. Stop thinking.

Lenora shuffled forward on her knees, wincing, and redipped the brush. Even now two days’ worth of dishes cluttered the sink and countertops. But that was far too easy a job for a morning like this.

“… special report from Kanner Lake.” The words hurled into her ears.

Lenora dropped the brush and cloth, struggled to her feet. Hunched over, one hand at her lower back, she shuffled into the den, holding her breath.

Kent’s face filled the TV screen.

An old mug shot. How unfair. Made him look like such a criminal.

Mitch’s face. And Brad’s. A grim-faced reporter spoke of a dozen hostages, including two teenage girls…

Lenora covered her mouth with both hands.

A policeman — shot three times. Clinging to life as he underwent surgery.

Oh, God, let him live, please! If Kent killed a cop…

The camera shifted to a street milling with people. Policemen, towns people, other reporters, cameras. Yellow crime-scene tape stretched across the pavement, a state officer standing guard.

Lenora sank onto the frayed, rough edge of her couch, eyes glued to the screen.

The reporter interviewed a man. Stan somebody. He talked about how the cop was rescued, all the shot-out windows on Main Street, how terrified and angry he felt. “I know everybody in Java Joint right now. They’re all my
friends
. They don’t
deserve
this.”

Neither did T.J.

Footage changed to shots of T.J. at trial. Lenora’s own image as she came out of court, head down and holding a hand against the cameras. A picture of Marya Whitbey, smiling with her daughter.

Anger spiraled through Lenora.
How about my son beaten up, stitches in his face, his head wrapped. Why don’t you show
that?

The kitchen phone rang.

Lenora swiveled toward the sound. She froze.

A second ring.

Kent?

He’d said he wouldn’t be able to call her. But maybe…

She pushed upright and hurried to answer.

THIRTY-NINE

Here goes.

Vince plucked up the receiver. “Hello, Kent.”

“Hi.”

The voice had a gruff rawness to it.

“Kent, good to finally talk to you. Things can go much faster this way.”

“Let’s hope so. We’re getting antsy in here.”

“You have someone typing the document?”

“Bailey. So what are you doing for my boy? You talked to the lawyers?”

“Yes. T.J.’s defense attorney and the prosecutor both say they’re willing to listen to whatever you have to say about the case.”

Wicksell snorted. “Lester Tranning’s not worth his weight in hog slop. We need a new lawyer.”

“We can discuss that later, but for now he’s the one most familiar with the case.”

“Yeah, yeah. Where’s our TV? It’s got to be one with rabbit ears, since we ain’t got cable in here. And we want that man John to bring it.”

Vince drew out a pause. First objective — take John Truitt out of the equation.

“Edwards?”

“I’m here. Just trying to figure out how to make this work. I can find you a TV — with rabbit ears — provided you do something for me in return. But I can’t allow a private citizen to bring it to you.”

“What do you mean, can’t allow it? You the head honcho, ain’tcha?”

“Yes. And because of that I’m sworn to protect people in this town. That ties my hands as far as sending in a private citizen. But I want to be sure I understand. You want the TV in order to watch news coverage, correct? Does it really matter who delivers it?”

“You think I want some cop coming in here?”

“You just want to make sure the delivery goes safely?”

“Yeah. And a cop don’t fit that picture.”

“Whoever brings you the television will be unarmed. What’s any unarmed man going to do against the three of you with all your weapons?”

Kent pulled in a loud breath, blew it out. “So how soon do we get it?”

Was that a concession?

“Soon as you and I agree on what you’re going to do for me in return.”

“I ain’t doin’
nothin’
for you, Edwards. Who do you think holds the cards here?”

“I don’t think of it as anyone holding cards, Kent. You want something; I want something. Either we work out some deals, or we get nowhere. Now are you willing to work with me?”

“What do you want?”

Vince heard the rear entrance of the station open, followed by a deep voice.
Jack Little, CRT commander
. The man soon appeared in the doorway. Jack stood a stocky six feet, with a square face and flat-topped brown hair. Creases around his eyes. He looked every inch the ex-military man he was. Vince pointed to the situation board. Jack walked over to study it, one ear cocked toward the phone conversation.

“I want to make a fair exchange.”

“Oh yeah? What you callin’ fair?”

During Vince’s negotiator course, trainer Ed Marck had related an incident in Miami involving an HT with the appropriate name of Silas Wretch. He broke out of prison, where he was serving time for double homicide, and took five people hostage in a convenience store. Demands: $10,000 and a plane ticket to Mexico. With all the food in the store, after eight hours Wretch got a hankering for sweet-and-sour pork. The negotiator proposed a deal: delivery of Chinese food in exchange for the release of a female hostage. Wretch said okay. The food was delivered; the woman was freed. Only then did Wretch ask why the negotiator had wanted only one hostage. “There’s two women in here,” he said. “I’d have let ’em both out if you’d asked.”

Vince leaned an elbow on his desk, hearing Ed Marck’s punch line: “
Don’t
attach a number.”

But every incident was unique. In this one, two certain hostages were the most vulnerable. In his gut Vince knew asking for them alone was pushing it.

“Here’s fair, Kent. The television goes in; the two teenage girls come out.”

Jack turned from the situation board, eyebrows raised.

Kent gave a raw laugh. “No deal.”

“I’d like you to think about it. You’ve asked for some big things in regard to your son. Those things are going to take some time. It’ll be easier for you in the meantime if everybody in there keeps his cool. That’s least likely for two young girls.”

“What I asked for don’t need to take long. Take a key, stick it in the lock, and open T.J.’s prison cell. Sounds pretty simple to me.”

“You and I both know it’s not that simple.”

Kent made a noise in his throat. “Maybe I’ll send the old codger out. Guy’s got a mouth on him. I got an MP5 pointed at him, and he’s all bent out of shape ‘cause Brad’s sittin’ on his stool.”

MP5.
Vince wrote it down, as did Justin.

Vince chuckled. “Yeah, Wilbur’s a tough old guy. Talks a lot but not going to give you any real trouble.”

“Tell you what, Edwards, I’ll let him go. We don’t need him anyway. Hey!” The phone muffled, as if Wicksell pulled it aside. “You done typin’ over there?” A pause. “Get with it — we ain’t got all day!” Kent’s voice grew clearer. “Okay, I’m back.”

“Well, I appreciate the thought about Wilbur, but I’m still asking you for the girls.”

Wicksell swore. “Why they such a big thing to you?”

“Kent, look. T.J.’s just eighteen, right?”

“You know it.”

“I know how bad you feel because such a terrible thing has happened to T.J. at his young age. You said he’s scared in prison. Kent, those girls are just a year or two younger than your own son. Now they’re in a very frightening situation. Do you really want to draw that out for them? These are girls who could have gone to school with T.J., had they lived in the same town. Maybe Ali’s even met him at some school ball game.”