Amber Morn (26 page)

Paranoia — a symptom of meth. Not a good attitude with a gun in your hand…

“I got all these people to keep under control, and it’s so stuffy in here you’d think we was in a closet.”

“It must seem like a long time you’ve been in there.”

“
Way
too long. This thing is taking
way too long
.”

“Sounds like it’s really getting to you.”

Wicksell snorted, then chewed out a few more curses. “You think we came this far to give up now, you got another thing coming. You and me got a lot left to work out yet.”

“We’re working with you as fast as we can, Kent. Next thing is to get T.J.’s story aired, and that’ll be soon. Past that I have an idea —” Vince cut off as Roger appeared in the doorway. “Hang on a minute. I may have word about the reporters.”

Roger gave him a thumbs-up. Vince placed his hand over the receiver’s mouthpiece. “How long?”

“They’re ready to go. By the way, we got a TV being delivered here along with the judge and attorneys so we can watch what’s going on. In about two minutes.”

“Thanks.” Vince checked the clock. Just after twelve. “Tell Channel 2 to air at 12:15 and Channel 4 to go at 12:30.”

“Right.” Roger swiveled on his heel and left.

Vince turned back to the phone. “Kent? All systems are go.” He gave the air times for each channel.

Wicksell grunted. “About time.” The phone line muffled, and he yelled at someone in the café. Vince couldn’t make out the words.

“Edwards?” Wicksell bit off the name. “Call you back after we’re done watching the news.”

“Wait, Kent, let’s stay on the —”

“No
. I’m
tired
of talking to you.”

“Kent —”

The line went dead.

Justin let out a breath. He pushed back in his chair and slipped off the headphones.

Vince stared at the receiver, then slowly replaced it. Prick-les danced around the back of his neck. Lack of contact was not good, especially with Wicksell’s present state of mind. As long as the man stayed on the phone, he was less likely to hurt anyone.

Of course, there were always the two sons…

The station’s back door opened. Men’s voices. Footfalls.

The attorneys and judge had arrived.

SIXTY-TWO

Jared Moore clasped his bony hands, feeling the heavy drum of his heart. It had refused to slow since Kent Wicksell dragged him out of his chair. Jared did not doubt Kent was capable of carrying out his threat. Tension in the café vibrated like a live wire. These men were out for blood. Frank’s life had not been enough. They’d kill again without blinking an eye.

The television was turned on to Channel 2. Its picture wasn’t cable-sharp, but not bad. The hostages sat woodenly, watching a car commercial.

“They’d better make it good.”
Kent’s words to Chief Edwards.
Why
had Jared ever opened his mouth? Why should he have believed these men were able to act logically?

At the time he’d suggested the emails to reporters, it had seemed like a smart idea. Give them a sought-after story, and they’d come through with the professionalism expected of their field. Now, thanks to Kent’s rage, Jared’s faith lay deflated, a pricked balloon on the dusty floor. No matter how professional the reporters, Kent would find something wrong with their performance.

On the TV, the commercial flipped to pictures of local houses for sale.
Paid programming.

What a strange parody, all of them listening to a narrator sing the praises of a house in Coeur d’Alene with four bedrooms and large walk-in closets.

Jared shook his head, wishing he could clear it. His mind was a slough of thoughts. Fear, dread, shock, slushed with phrases of the article he would write were he merely reporter rather than participant. He couldn’t help the flow of words in his head. They were as natural to him as breathing. Now they kept him sane.

He blinked at the screen. A new property — a five-bedroom ranch house on three acres in Spirit Lake. Jared pictured couples in their homes right now, safe, watching the program. Seeking just the right house for their family of five and two dogs…

Amazing, how the world out there just… rolled on.

Java Joint hung thick with stale sweat. Some of that sourness surely was his own. Fear had a way of oozing out one’s pores. Without fresh air, the place seemed worse by the minute. The air-conditioning in this old building wasn’t keeping up. And Jared’s rear end had gone numb from sitting on the hard chair for so long. Being shoved around hadn’t helped.

Kent Wicksell perched on the first counter stool, rapping a knuckle against his weapon. A Freudian gesture?
This works or I kill somebody
.

Brad scoffed at the TV. “Who watches this stuff?”

“People with nothing better to do.” Mitch rocked from one foot to the other.

“Yeah, like us.”

“Won’t be long now.” Kent’s knuckle kept rapping, like a woodpecker against Jared’s temple.

Brad shook his head. “Like you can trust what that cop says.”

“I can trust this.” Kent slid a black look at his son. “Because he knows what’ll happen in here if he don’t come through.”

Brad’s eyelids flickered, but he said nothing.

Behind Jared, Wilbur coughed. Jared hoped he was holding himself together. Not an easy situation for a man who’d had triple bypass surgery two years ago.

Yet another house on TV. Then the screen flashed and reporter Jeremy Cole appeared. “Kanner Lake Breaking News” ran in red letters across the bottom of the picture.

“All
right
.” Kent leaned forward. Brad hissed through his teeth.

Cole stood at the edge of town on Lakeshore, the camera zooming out to show milling reporters and towns people, news trucks, police cars, and flashing lights.

Bev and Angie gasped.

What a strange feeling to know those people were a mere five, six blocks away. They may as well have been a planet apart.

Chairs creaked as every hostage leaned forward, straining to make out the face of a friend, a loved one. Jared scanned the TV screen, wanting,
needing
to see his wife, Tricia, but the camera was too far away to make out faces.

Still, he knew she was there, somewhere in that crowd. He could feel her.

“We interrupt normal programming once again with more breaking news from Kanner Lake.” Jeremy Cole’s face appeared solemn. “On Main Street this very minute, three desperate men are holding a remaining ten people hostage in the nationally known café Java Joint. Kent Wicksell and his two sons, Mitch and Brad…”

Scenes of his years with his wife trailed through Jared’s mind. Tricia, with a nervous smile and little white flowers in her hair, walking down the aisle toward him on the arm of her father. Tricia, after labor, exhausted and sweaty, but so anxious to hold their newborn son. Tricia in the backyard, fretting over rosebushes that wouldn’t grow. The way she hummed while stirring soup at the stove. Her tsking comments as they watched the news — “Jared, you’d have written that story so much better.” She’d gone from brown-haired to gray in their forty years of marriage, and somewhere along the way wrinkles had set in. But her walk was still quick-stepped, her hand in his still firm.

Tricia, I’ll get out of this, you’ll see. Our life together isn’t over yet
.

“… in his own words, emailed by his father, Kent Wicksell,” the reporter continued. “The document is about three pages long. I will now read it in its entirety.”

Angie drew a loud breath. Jared could see the desperate curiosity in her face. He felt it too. Among the hostages, only Bailey knew what T.J. had written.

Let’s hope it’s enough to get us out of here.

Kent’s back went rigid, his shoulders hunched as he focused on the TV, as if daring the reporter to do him wrong.

SIXTY-THREE

As the “Breaking News” shot of Jeremy Cole filled the TV screen, everyone in the lobby of the Kanner Lake Police Station fell silent.

Here it comes.
Vince stood with arms crossed, feet apart. Adrenaline tingled through him, setting his stomach at a low tremble. On his right, defense attorney Lester Tranning towered over Vince, lanky arms on his narrow hips. Tranning was dressed in khakis and a blue knit shirt. He’d been pulled off the golf course to come to the station. On Vince’s left, prosecutor Mick Wiley had drawn up a chair. He perched forward, legs spread, one fat hand stroking his chin. To Mick’s left stood Judge Marcus Hadkin, a wiry, dry-witted man in his sixties who’d seen it all and had the hard face to show it. Hadkin had shown up in paint-splattered jeans and an old T-shirt.

“Your man Roger caught me shopping for paint in Spokane,” he’d told Vince with a shake of his gray head. “I got my family room half done. Promised my wife I’d finish today. When I told her why I had to come here, she thought I was making up the wildest excuse she ever heard.”

The two attorneys hadn’t been so talkative. Vince sensed the ancient feud between them, animosity an undercurrent in their voices and eyes.

Roger stood on the other side of Tranning, rocking on his heels, watching the TV out of the corner of his eye. Vince knew he was keeping one ear attuned to the doctor as she spoke to the girls in the second office. Justin and Larry stood beyond Roger.

Jeremy Cole’s lead-in to the story was fine. The basic facts. Nothing Vince saw that should upset Wicksell.

So far, so good.

The reporter raised the pages of the document and began. Tranning made a knowing sound in his throat, then shrugged as if to say,
“Heard this before.”

Then why didn’t you use it in court?

Wiley sat like a stone through the entire reading. He would soak everything in, Vince knew, filtering it through his steel-trap mind before responding.

Cole finished reading and looked into the camera. “Kanner Lake Police Chief Vince Edwards continues to negotiate for the release of the remaining hostages. Kent Wicksell has not moved from his initial demand that T.J. be freed from prison. We will continue our coverage soon with further footage and information. For now, this is Jeremy Cole, Channel 2 News.”

The TV screen flicked back to the infomercial on local real estate.

Judge Hadkin sucked air through his nose. He lifted both hands. “That’s no new evidence — that’s a
story
. A poor one at that.”

Wiley grunted his assent.

“No. T.J. saw someone running away — a key piece of information that the police ignored.” Tranning’s voice sounded even more nasally when he was complaining. “They zeroed in on my client and never looked back.”

“Maybe because there was no other place to look.” Wiley shook his head. “I didn’t see
you
coming up with anything to support that claim.”

Vince stepped to the TV. “We should listen to the one on Channel 4 too.”

He flipped the station. Soon Teresa Wright appeared and read the document. Her statements before and after were similar to Cole’s. Nothing, Vince thought, that should set Wicksell off.

Please, Lord.

Vince snapped off the TV. “Okay. Would you three sit down and start discussing what we can do? I need to give Wicksell something. Right now he doesn’t even know you’re here. Just telling him that ought to placate him a little. But I’m hoping you can come up with something that’ll help me talk him out of there.” He looked from Wiley to Tranning with a silent message:
Put your differences aside
.

Vince focused on the judge. “Marcus, I’d appreciate it if you lead the discussion and take notes. I’ll get back to you all as soon as I can.”

“Just like the courtroom.
Somebody’s
got to keep these two in line.” Judge Hadkin sparked with energy. “Go on and talk to that lunatic, Vince. I’ll take care of this. Too bad I didn’t bring a gavel.” He scratched his nose and surveyed the area for chairs. “All right, gentlemen, let’s pull those over and get to it.”

Vince flashed him a tight smile.

“Roger, would you continue debriefing the girls?” he asked. “I’ve got to get back to Wicksell. Have Larry take notes. I want to know the dynamics between the three men, and between them and the hostages. And make sure Brittany draws the diagram of where everyone is in the room.”

“Okay.”

As Vince headed for his office, his private line rang. He hurried to his desk and picked up the phone. “Kent. You hear the newscasts?”

Justin stepped through the door, and Vince motioned for him to close it. No need to be distracted by the drone of voices from the lobby.

“Yeah, I heard ’em.” Wicksell sounded mad as a wet hen.

Whoa.
Vince lowered into his chair. “You sound upset. What’s wrong?”

“We got trouble, that’s what.”

SIXTY-FOUR

Angie Brendt felt the first strange flutter in her heart as the despicable Kent Wicksell switched the TV to Channel 4. They’d already heard the reading of T.J. Wicksell’s story once; now they were going to hear it again. Wonderful.