“Love is preserved by the link of obligation which, owing to the baseness of men, is broken at every opportunity for their advantage; but fear preserves you by a dread of punishment which never fails.” —Niccolò Machiavelli
So you see, that is my choice. I learned early that people are disloyal and stupid and cruel. They showed me no justice from the time I was born. They have shown me only hatred and the frailty of love.
Fear, punishment, that is not only the best way, it’s the only way. Valerie Ryker and the others who have perpetrated crimes against me must pay for what they’ve done. But that isn’t all. They also must be stopped in such a way that they and those like them are not able to commit those same crimes against others.
I will be the change I seek, and I will leave the world a better place.
—Convicted murderer Dixon Hess, from his A MANIFESTO FOR JUSTICE, as received by the Wisconsin State Journal.
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
Val
Val hadn’t allowed herself to truly consider the situation they were in, not until she heard Lund’s words.
And if I don’t make it, give my best to Grace… and my worst to Hess.
When it had been her standing on the bomb trigger, she’d been able to contain her feelings, to stay calm, even though her heart had been beating out of her chest. Now that it was Lund who was in danger, the dam she’d erected to hold back the flood crumbled.
If I don’t make it…
If I don’t make it…
For a moment it was all Val could do to stand upright. Silent tears broke from her eyes and trickled down her face. She thought of the morning before this began, when Lund had popped the question. She thought about early this morning, when he’d made love to her, given her strength to fight on. She loved Lund. She had long before she’d been willing to admit it, even to herself. Yet she’d been alone for so long, she still wasn’t sure she could fully share her life with someone else.
But she also didn’t know how she would survive losing him.
Val wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her coat and forced herself to breathe. “You can give Grace your best in person.”
“Deal. Now get out of here. And move far away from the building.”
“You know, if it wasn’t for Grace, I wouldn’t have let you take my place.”
“I know. Now are you going to leave? Or do I have to let go of this boot and make you?”
Val took a step toward the door, then stopped and turned back. “I love you, Lund. I do.”
“Val… Go.”
Val wanted to say more. To tell him she was sorry, whether he wanted to hear it or not. To agree to be his wife. To make him understand losing him would be like losing herself.
As first responders, both she and Lund had inherently dangerous jobs. Every time Val had to back up her officers, she’d faced risk. Every time Lund entered a burning building, there was a chance he wouldn’t come out. Val thought she’d come to terms with that.
She’d been lying to herself.
But instead of setting the record straight, she walked out of the ticket booth, then out of the building.
The weather was still cold, rain mixing with slivers of ice, and the chill made her realize she’d been sweating while in the ticket booth, her bra and blouse damp under her coat. The Baraboo police had blocked off the street, not that there was much traffic in this run-down part of town.
Bobby Vaughan was standing next to the armored vehicle, and next to him stood Pete Olson.
“Val?” Pete stumbled toward her and enveloped her in a bear hug. “How in the world did you get out?”
Val explained what Lund had done.
Pete shook his head. “Crazy bastard.”
Val glanced between Pete and Bobby Vaughan. “Do we have an ETA on the bomb squad?”
Olson’s shoulders sagged. Vaughan scuffed his boot on the wet pavement.
“What is it?” Val asked.
Olson answered. “There’s a delay.”
“What happened?”
“Madison police found Ruth Steviak in the backseat of an old squad car. Car was probably picked up on that surplus auction of yours.”
“Dead?”
Olson shook his head. “In bad shape, I’m told. Might not last long.”
Olson paused, as if he didn’t want to go on. Or maybe he just didn’t want to tell Val.
“And?” she prompted.
“And there’s a Claymore mine in the car next to her, wired to the doors. Cops are just lucky they saw it before they busted in to help.”
The poor woman. And all of this happened because Val thought to jot Ruth’s contact information in her address book. But Val was sure that still wasn’t all. “Ethan’s foster family lives in Madison.”
“That’s where they found the car, Val. Bodyguard is dead. Foster mother is dead.” Olson glanced down at the ground. “The bastard has his son.”
Val braced herself on the side of the armored vehicle. Even when they thought they were prepared, Hess seemed to be light years ahead. He had everything planned, every detail prepared. It was as if he was moving at super speed and everyone else was stuck in slow motion.
Olson continued. “The FBI has taken over the scene now with their terrorism bullshit. Keeping information to themselves. Tying up resources.”
Resources to find Grace. Resources to save Lund.
“The bomb squad isn’t coming, is it?” Val asked.
Slowly, Olson shook his head.
“Then we’ll have to figure out a way to save Lund ourselves.”
Grace
Grace’s cheek pressed against the rubber floor of the old squad car, feeling the vibration of the engine and hum of tires on pavement. Aunt Val had told her the reason patrol cars didn’t have upholstered seats and carpet on their floors was that vomit, urine, and worse were easier to clean off hard plastic seats and rubber flooring. Grace tried not to think of all the drunks and criminals and drug addicts who must have ridden in this vehicle over its years of service. Of the traces of themselves they’d left behind.
With the questionable state of Grace’s stomach, she probably fit in.
Before Carla had released Grace from the handcuffs fastening her to the radiator, she’d bound Grace’s wrists with a plastic zip tie. Once in the car, her ankles had been given the same treatment. And just for fun, Carla had thrown in a threat.
“I know how to hurt you so the bruises don’t show.”
Carla was dressed differently this time. A blue blouse and dark Kevlar vest. And as she climbed behind the wheel, Grace realized no one would look twice if they spotted her. They would assume she was a cop.
Grace had no idea which direction they were driving and little idea how long. Rain beat on the windows of the squad, yet compared to the utter darkness Grace had been living in, the dim sunlight was bright enough to sting her eyes. Unfortunately, it wasn’t bright enough for her to tell if the sunlight was coming from the west or east or overhead.
Logically, Grace knew she’d been in that room for maybe a little over a day, but it felt like months. Her body was so stiff from lying on barely padded concrete that even the car floor felt comfy by comparison.
“Where are you taking me?” Grace asked, not really expecting an answer.
“It doesn’t matter,” Carla said, her voice elated, almost singsongy. “You don’t matter. At least you won’t soon.”
“Where is Hess?”
Carla didn’t answer.
“I suppose that doesn’t matter, either?”
“No, that matters. That matters quite a bit.” Carla turned up the radio. Static-laced music jangled through the car. Taylor Swift’s “You Belong With Me.”
A song Grace used to like. A song she never wanted to hear again.
The drive transitioned from curving roads to flat highway and back to curving roads. Grace counted the sways of sharp turns and the ups and downs of hills, realizing she would likely have no use for the info
rmation. Carla was happy because the end was near. And the end was about killing her to punish Aunt Val. Even though Grace was smart and observant, in the end it wouldn’t matter.
The ride in the car hadn’t been very long, far less than an hour, Grace guessed, even though it felt like forever. By the time Carla opened the back door and pulled Grace out into a forested area, she couldn’t feel her feet. Grace teetered, then fell to her knees.
The ground was carpeted with evergreen needles. Clumps of decaying snow and standing water dotted the brown here and there. On one side of the clearing stood a chimney, sort of a rustic outdoor fireplace built of stone. On the other sat a brown-and-white Winnebago motor home.
Carla nudged Grace with the toe of her boot. “Stand up.”
Grace struggled to get her numb feet under her, to rise, but they couldn’t hold her weight, and she flopped back onto the fragrant needles. “I can’t.”
Another jab with the toe, this one sharper. “Now look at you. You’re all mud.”
“I’m already all blood. Who cares if I’m muddy, too?”
“I don’t. But he might not like it.”
Leaving Grace on the ground, Carla took several boxes out of the squad car and carried them to the Winnebago.
Grace struggled to sit, trying to make note of anything in her surroundings that might help. Trees lined the edge of the clearing, evergreen but also deciduous. On one side, through a layer of tree trunks and naked limbs, Grace could see the ground drop off, as if they were perched on the edge of the world.
What was this place?
The RV door opened, and Carla bustled out. She took Aunt Val’s shotgun from the squad car, then cut the ties binding Grace’s ankles.
“Now get up. They’ll be here soon.”
Grace wasn’t sure who they were, but she could guess. A weight filled her chest. That poor, sweet little kid. “You can’t do this to Ethan. Not if you care about him.”
“Can’t do what? Give him a real family?”
“You’re not a real family.”
“I’m the only mother he’s ever known. And Dixon is his flesh and blood. Nothing is more family than that.”
“Families are about love.”
“We have that, too.” Carla drilled her toe into Grace’s side, sending a stab of agony through her rib cage. “Now get up.”
The pain mixed with all the other pain until Grace couldn’t tell one injury from the other. She struggled to her feet, her legs now feeling as if they were being stabbed by needles as the blood rushed back into them.
“Dixon is getting our baby back. He’s going to make us a family. And everything will be perfect. You’ll see. Everything will be perfect.” Carla smiled, the expression a little too wide, a little too bright.
Grace remembered back when her grandmother was still alive and Grace’s mother was caring for her. Some days Mee-Maw stayed in her room, unable to think, barely able to move. On others, she seemed like her old self. But no matter what kind of day Mee-Maw was having, Grace’s mom would be there, quiet, a little worried, making sure Mee-Maw got what she needed, making sure she knew she was loved.
But one day, Grace’s mom’s mood changed. Her voice became loud, as if talking over a party. Her smile was so big it made Grace’s face hurt to look at her. But it was her mom’s laugh that disturbed Grace most of all. It felt shallow and tight, like a choke in the throat, and although Grace was too young to know what was happening, she could sense something was wrong.
Later, Grace learned that her mother had been diagnosed with cancer that day. As her mother felt the world falling down around her, she had forced herself to act happier and happier. As if by sheer willpower, she could make life the way she wished it could be.
That was what Carla was doing now.
Grace didn’t want to feel sorry for Carla. She didn’t even want to understand her. But she couldn’t help recognizing the woman’s fear. Her desperation. Her need to make life the way she wished it would be, even as it was descending to a dark place.
Carla pointed the shotgun at Grace. “Now get up and get in that RV. They’re going to be here soon, and I have so much to do to get ready.”
Lund
Seconds ticked by as slowly as hours.
As was always the case when you couldn’t move, Lund wanted to do nothing but. His hands felt numb, his arms jittery. His back ached to high heaven, and his ears itched as if he’d suddenly developed an elementary school-sized case of head lice. Sweat drops big enough to trip the trigger themselves dribbled off his nose and chin and contributed new stains to the flimsy mattress.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been crouching there when he could swear he heard the low hum of voices outside the door.
His first inclination was to scream a warning to whomever was out there. The closet-sized room was frame and drywall, not substantial enough to stop seven hundred steel balls. Anyone not behind solid cover would be every bit as dead as him.
His second inclination was to plead for them to take his place.
The door opened.
“Lund?” a muffled male voice said from behind him.
“That’s me. I hope you’ll excuse me if I don’t shake your hand.”
“No, that’s just fine. My name is Pete Olson, and I’ll be your bomb technician today.”
“Olson?” Lund twisted as much as he could, but all he could see were a set of long, blue-clad legs. “Get the hell out, Olson. Stay with Val.”
“He is staying with me. That’s why he’s here.”
Lund let out a groan. “Don’t know the meaning of safe distance, Val?”
“The bomb squad is not going to make it,” she said. “So if you’ll just quit with the warnings and start helping us figure out a plan, we’ll get you out of here.”
“So that’s what a Claymore looks like.” A third voice.
“Vaughan? You’re in here, too? I thought at least you were smarter than that.”
“I am,” the tactical team commander said. “I just hate missing a party.”
“Goddammit.”
“Lund,” Val said, stepping into Lund’s line of sight. “When are you going to learn that we’re stronger together than you are on your own?”
Lund shook his head, recognizing his own words flung back at him. “Val… I…”
“Love me? Yeah, I know. Want to sacrifice yourself for me? No chance. We’re getting you out of here.”
Val nosed up to the Claymore and examined the wire that led to the pedal switch Lund was pressing down. “The mine is directional, right? So would it help to turn it around? There’s enough wire that it’s not going to disturb the pedal trigger.”
“Risky,” Vaughan said. “Not sure it would do any good, either.”
Val crossed the few feet to Lund and bent down, staring at the boot under his hands, deep in thought.
“I have a bomb suit in the truck,” Vaughan offered. “Might help.”
Olson grunted. “You think it’ll matter at this close range?”
Lund shook his head. “A bomb squad guy once told me the suit’s purpose is to keep body parts intact for the funeral.”
Vaughan shrugged a shoulder. “Takes a special kind of crazy to be a bomb tech.”
“Says the SWAT guy.”
“Says the firefighter.”
Val straightened abruptly. “I have an idea.”
“We’re all ears,” Vaughan said.
“Olson and I will get the bomb suit, and I need to get a few things from Lund’s truck, too. Don’t move until we get back.”
The two of them left Lund and Vaughan alone. Even though the tac team commander was standing still, he had a restless vibe about him. As if in his mind, he was taking action. As if doing nothing bothered him as much as it did Lund.
“Waiting around is the worst,” Lund said.
“Should we turn it around quick while she’s not here?” Bobby Vaughan said. “If it goes off, I have no kids, no wife, and no psychopath holding my niece
hostage.”
“Go for it.”
Vaughan stood over the Claymore, his hands ready. “All right. On three.”
Lund was afraid to breathe. He stared down at his hands, trying to keep them steady.
“One…” the tac team commander counted. “Two… All clear.”
“You said on three.”
“You looked tense. I didn’t want you to make a sudden movement.”
“Sudden movement? I have nerves of steel.”
“Good. Because we still have a C-4 charge big enough to liquefy your insides, and when those steel balls hit the brick wall, they’re going to ricochet somewhere.”
“You’re so reassuring.”
When Val returned, she took one look at the mine, now facing the wall, and shook her head. But she didn’t say a word. Instead, she draped the jacket portion of the bomb suit over the Claymore. Olson added two Level IV ballistic shields.
“All right,” Olson said, turning to Val. “Your turn.”
Lund didn’t like this. Any of it. He’d convinced Val to get out, to save herself, to save Grace, and yet now she was back in the thick of it as usual. She was good at throwing his words back at him, but she never listened to them herself. “What are you planning to do?”
Val knelt down on the flimsy mattress. She pulled out a box cutter Lund recognized as coming from the truck box in the back of his pickup and extended the blade. She sliced through the pad’s filthy cover, then started slashing little by little into the foam, like a hunter carefully removing hide from venison. She circled the boot, slicing away the foam until the pedal switch was exposed on all sides. Then she pulled something from her pocket and held it up.
“Liquid nails?” Another item from the box in the bed of his truck.
“Metal Projects Repair. Has a set time of five minutes and a cure time of one hour. Think you can hold the boot down that long?”
“Piece of cake.” He liked to tease Val about being a “blue canary,” rushing toward danger without thinking, like cops often did, while firefighters carefully planned their approach. But in this case, she had been the one who’d come up with a plan. He’d just reacted, his only thought about getting her out of that boot and away from the danger. “You think epoxy is going to be enough?”
Dead Too Soon: A Thriller (Val Ryker series Book 3) Page 18