I circled the room. Obviously this was to become some kind of boardroom or meeting room. Now it was empty, with concrete floor, raw drywall, and open electrical fixtures in the ten-foot ceiling. A large mirror reflected back my image from the wall on my left. I rapped against the mirror, producing a hollow sound.
My heart beat quicker. The mirror wasn’t hanging on the wall, it was built in. I pushed my finger against the glass. The reflection touched my finger without a gap. Cupping my hands to exclude light, I peered into the glass. Faintly I could see a room on the other side.
A one-way mirror.
The mirror was above waist height, too high to get any leverage to kick in. I spun and checked the room, seeking a rock, brick, hunk of concrete, framing hammer.
Empty space mocked me.
Giving up on the mirror for now, I hammered the door and then moved on to the drywall. I kicked the brittle surface until a section crumpled. Quickly I grabbed chunks of the dusty material and threw it behind me. On the other side of the wall was metal sheeting.
I sat back on my heels. What? I closed my eyes and pictured the building’s layout. The elevators. He’d dragged me past a line of elevators. I stood and returned to the window, thumping it with my heel, hoping it would break.
I stopped and leaned my hot forehead against the glass. Across from me, people navigated around the sculpture. They moved, breathed, talked, laughed, loved—not knowing they were doing it all for the last time.
Beth stepped next to the sculpture.
Oh, sweet Lord.
I renewed my screaming and battering the glass. My vision blurred. I tried another area, then charged around the room, kicking, yelling, pummeling the walls with fist and body.
I found myself in the center of the room, gasping for breath, fists knotted by my side.
Mike said he’d detonate the bomb at the top of the hour. I checked my watch. I had fifteen minutes.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT
AYNSLEE GRABBED WINSTON’S RUFF AND TUGGED the dog away from the wall. Ducking below the cars and SUVs, she finally paused and leaned against a green van.
How safe was she? What about Beth? She’d seen photos of the Oklahoma City bombing. Where could she go? Chewing a thumbnail, she rummaged in her brain for an answer.
Winston whined.
“Shh, boy.” She stroked his ear.
Winston whined again, then tugged his leash. At least the dog had a plan. Maybe she could call Beth’s cell phone from the hotel room. She strolled toward the entrance, but Winston refused to move.
“Heel.”
The dog remained motionless.
“Winston, no!”
The Pyrenees turned to face her, then backed away, tugging the leash. Aynslee shrugged and followed the now-trotting dog. They passed through a line of vehicles.
The dog stopped, yanking her arm backward.
A gray 911 Turbo Porsche, vanity Montana license plate: Porsche.
Her dad’s car.
She whipped in a circle, looking for her father. No. Dad drove them in Beth’s car. The Porsche was parked here because her mom had driven it. “Mom?”
Quiet. The police were on the street. That FBI guy was looking for her.
She took the big dog’s head in her hands. “Winston. Find Mom. Find!”
Winston’s tail rose over his back and he wheeled to the car, sniffing it carefully. Swiftly he trotted toward the exit ramp, but before they arrived, he reversed direction.
“Find Mom, find.”
The dog headed toward a set of stairs. At the bottom, Aynslee peered out of the garage opening.
Two police cars blocked the street in front of the conference center. Three officers stood by the patrol cars, staring at something out of sight.
Dog and girl charged across the road. Winston, sniffing the ground, veered, now aiming at a blue barrier with a foreclosure sign and lots of spray-painted graffiti.
The dog yanked her through an opening, then raced faster, head up, across a smelly, garbage-filled lot. The growing whop-whop-whop of a helicopter echoed off the spooky, abandoned building beside them. Aynslee glanced up. The lettering on the helicopter’s side read King County Sheriff’s Department.
Aynslee and Winston came to a chain-link gate. Winston impatiently jumped against it. Locked.
I paced, thinking. Mike planned each step, but he also took advantage of opportunities as they presented themselves. He murdered his own fanatical followers. Covered his tracks. Framed me as the one responsible.
He avoided answering my question, though. What would mass murder achieve?
Power and control. Revenge. Yes. But something more . . .
Try a different track. What did anyone attending the conference do to deserve death?
They didn’t do anything. Mike has a bigger plan.
I shook my head. Right now it didn’t matter. I had to get out.
I picked up the detonator and hefted it in my hand. Think like Mike. You don’t want Gwen to remove the batteries, so screw down the cover. The detonator would need to work—
Power and control. Revenge.
No. It would need to appear to work if they find it in the rubble after the bombing. Just in case he couldn’t switch it with the real detonator. The one in his possession.
I pictured his glee as he thought of me sweating bullets, staring at the crimson numbers counting down on the fake detonator, wasting time trying to get out or get help.
He’d use the real thing in—I checked my watch—twelve minutes.
I took a giant breath, held it, and threw the device as hard as I could at the mirror.
A starburst crack appeared in the glass.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE
I PICKED UP THE DETONATOR AND THREW IT AGAIN. The mirror shivered. Jagged lines radiated outward.
Taking off my shoe, I smashed it against the surface.
The first small shards fell into the room. I struck again, harder. A small hole opened. Razor-edged shards covered my feet. Bang! I belted the mirror.
The mirror shattered. Slivers of glass peppered my face. I slipped on my shoe, tucked the detonator in my back pocket, and pulled off my sweatshirt. Drops of blood freckled the material. Wrapping the sweatshirt around my arm, I broke away the remaining pieces on the bottom of the frame.
I would have to crawl over the waist-high edge. Stretching the sweatshirt as wide as possible, I raised one leg over the bottom ledge. My bruised hip screamed in protest. My ankle scraped across a remaining glass shard, gouging a deep cut. Ignoring the sharp, new jab, I slid over the frame. The splintered mirror crunched underfoot.
Nine minutes left.
I bolted from the room and ran to the stairs, taking them two at a time. The unfinished lobby stretched before me, plastic sheeting gently waving in the air, the street ahead. Get help? Try to convince the police that I am not a murderer or terrorist?
No time.
I charged to the side door Mike had dragged me through earlier. I slammed it open and leapt through, then froze.
Aynslee and Winston gazed at me from the other side of the chain-link gate.
Eight minutes.
“Mom!” Aynslee screamed over the thumping of an overhead helicopter.
I sprinted, scrambled up the side of the gate, and dropped to the ground. Winston launched himself at me, knocking me backward into the wire. “Down, Winston! Aynslee, did you see Mike? Quickly!”
“No. Mom, I—”
“No time, sweetheart. Take Winston and run. Run away from the convention center.”
“But—”
I pushed the dog down. “I have to find Mike. He’s a really bad person.” I looked at my watch. Seven minutes.
“Maybe Winston can find Mike.” She pointed. She had a leather book in her hand.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“A creepy book. Ethan Scott—”
I grabbed the book and flipped it open. A signature. Joseph Smith. Mike’s
scepter of power. He’d have handled it.
But so had a lot of other people. Leather holds scent longer than metal. “Give me the leash.”
Aynslee handed it over.
“Winston, find.” I held the book to the dog’s nose.
He sniffed for a moment, then looked around as if confused.
Mike had to have gone through this gate.
Winston spun and dashed toward the raw outline of the Osprey Condos.
Six minutes.
CHAPTER
FORTY
WINSTON CHARGED ACROSS THE VACANT LOT, dodging piles of trash, old tires, and broken glass, toward the gloomy interior of the abandoned structure. The bare concrete surfaces amplified the helicopter’s thumping blades. Daylight surrendered to cold, shadowy dimness. I stumbled over a rotting sleeping bag left by a homeless squatter. Aynslee, following behind, grabbed my hand. The dog leaped ahead, pulling us deeper into the interior. I couldn’t see my watch. The seconds ticked off in my head.
Winston twisted, then plunged up a set of almost invisible stairs. I tripped and sprawled on the hard surface, rapping my knee so hard that tears flooded my eyes. Winston didn’t slow, his momentum pulling me up and onward. My knee stiffened, and I released Aynslee’s hand and used the metal handrail to keep up with the dog. We reached a landing. Winston kept going. Two stories. Three. My breath came in sobs. Seconds gone. Minutes.
We stopped climbing and raced forward. The helicopter’s pounding thudded like my own heart. Ahead, dusty light beat back the darkness. I could finally see orange plastic netting forming a flimsy barrier around the exterior.
Cement dust made me blink.
Mike appeared.
He stood behind a half wall of concrete. He raised his right arm, aiming the detonator toward the conference center. His other hand reached for the button.
I released Winston’s leash.
Mike half turned toward us. Winston didn’t slow. Mike reached for his gun.
I screamed, my voice drowned out by the helicopter.
Mike pulled out his pistol, aimed.
Winston jumped on him, driving him to the floor.
I couldn’t hear if he’d pulled the trigger. I kept running. All I could see was Winston and Mike’s legs thrashing underneath. A flash of blue steel appeared by Winston’s neck. I kicked, sending Mike’s pistol flying.
The detonator! Frantically I spun about, searching.
Mike grabbed my cut ankle, his grip slipping on the blood. He dug tighter using his fingernails and pulled.
I fell hard, elbows abrading on the rough surface, cement dust filling my nostrils. Rolling and kicking at the clinging fingers, I pushed away.
The hand loosened, then let go.
I lunged to my feet, still looking for the detonator.
Mike shoved Winston away and stood. The dog tried to get up, failed, and collapsed on his side. A red stain spread at his shoulder.
Adrenaline flooded my veins. My vision narrowed.
Mike faced me, his jaw a granite block, veins throbbing in his forehead.
The copter’s thumping diminished.
A figure shot past me, landing beside the prone dog. Aynslee’s wail of anguish rose above the sound of the retreating helicopter. I jumped between Mike and my daughter. I felt my lips pull back into a snarl, my hands clenched into fists.
Mike’s gaze transferred to something to my left. I risked a glance. His pistol.
We both dove for it. I was closer. I grabbed it, rotated, and swung the weapon. His fist caught me alongside my head and a million sparklers went off.
I dropped the gun, stumbled backward, then fell, landing next to Winston.
Mike snatched the pistol, whipped it around, and fired. The bullet tore through my side, ripping clothing, peeling skin from ribs. A legion of rattlesnakes bit me. I clamped my teeth together to hold in the scream.
Mike raised the gun, now aiming at my head.
“Wait!” Aynslee stood, tears streaming down her deathly pale face. “Don’t kill my mom.” She stood between Mike and me, holding the journal like a shield in front of her.
I couldn’t breathe.
Mike stared at the book and licked his lips. “Bring it to me.”
I put my hand down to brace myself and touched something cool. I risked a glance. The detonator was under the dog’s tail. I looked at Mike.
The book riveted his attention. Aynslee edged closer to him.
I moved my hand near the device, watching Mike.
He motioned Aynslee closer.
Grabbing the detonator, I slipped it behind me.
Mike snatched the journal. “Go sit next to your mom.”
Aynslee scurried to my side. A soft thump of Winston’s tail told me he was still alive. Aynslee buried her face in my lap.
Mike held up the book. “See? I told you. Everything always works out for the best. I never lose.”
He again took careful aim at my head. The gun barrel was an onyx tunnel.
“Stop!” A bullhorn of a male voice rang out. “Put the gun down! Do it now!” Four uniformed officers charged into sight, their guns trained on Mike.
“Cops.” Aynslee sat up. “The helicopter! Hey, that man shot my mom. And my dog!”
Mike raised both hands. “It’s all right. I’m FBI.”
“Very slowly, put the gun down,” the officer repeated.
Mike complied, gently placing the journal next to his firearm.
“Now step back and get on your knees with your hands behind your head.”
One officer approached Mike, kicked his firearm farther away, and handcuffed him.
“Careful of the book. You’ll find identification in my jacket,” Mike said.
One officer gingerly checked Mike’s pocket, pulled out a wallet, and flipped it open. “Sorry, sir. We—”
“Just uncuff me. I was about to arrest Gwen Marcey, wanted for murder.” He nodded in my direction. “Killed two FBI agents.”
Four pistols now rotated to me.
Aynslee stared at the men. “Mom didn’t kill anybody.”
“Put your hands where we can see them.” The older cop glared at me.
I extended both arms, palms outward.
Mike’s gaze sharpened on the device in my hand. “Careful! That’s a detonator.”
“Put it down, lady.” The officer licked his lips.
With one hand, I placed it next to me.
“Push it over here. Gently!”
I slid it toward the officer.
“I’ll take it from here.” Mike picked up the detonator, retrieved his pistol from the ground, and pointed it at me. “See, Gwen? I keep telling you. Everything always works out for the best.”
“Not quite.” I tried to ignore the warm puddle of blood forming under me. “Beth says everything happens for a reason.”
Mike shrugged.
“I left a message and phone number for Sheriff Dave Moore before coming here,” I continued. “The phone number the Avenging Angels called just before you had them murdered. Dave should have called it by now. He knows everything.”
“You have the right to remain silent,” Mike said.
“Do you want me to cuff her?” the older cop asked.
“I’ve put some things together since,” I said.
Mike spoke louder. “Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law.”
Two officers glanced back and forth between Mike and me.
“I kept coming back to power and control.” I glanced at each of the officers.
“Get to your feet,” Mike said.
“Sir,” one of the officers said, lowering his pistol. “Do you want us to call an ambulance? She’s bleeding pretty good.”
“She’s fine.” He raised his pistol. “You have the right to speak to an attorney . . .”
“You’ll be the one needing an attorney,” I said.
“Shut up!”
My voice was getting weaker. “What would you gain by killing all the p
eople at the conference?”
Two of the officers shifted until Mike was in their sight.
“The only way you’d get power and control over the Mormon Church was to take over the leadership. How did you phrase it? ‘Rule with your holy priesthood,’ with your scepter of power.”
“If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.” Mike rotated the pistol toward Aynslee, then back to me.
The world grew fuzzy around the edges. “You told me the details.” Every breath burned like salt in my wounds. Aynslee touched my hand, and I briefly smiled at her. “You had to destroy the power structure of the LDS Church.” I addressed the cops. “The bomb he created for the Peace Conference—”
“Shut up! Shut up!” Mike waved the detonator.
“Hey, careful with that thing,” the older officer said.
“When his bomb,” I continued, still looking at the cops, “in the Joseph Smith’s reconstruction blew up, he’d create a specific threat that would send the LDS hierarchy to safe bunkers under Temple Square in Salt Lake City.”
“I said shut up!” Blood drained from Mike’s face.
“The security guards you recommended to the LDS Church placed, what? Another bomb? Sarin gas?” I pointed at the book. “With all the leaders dead, you’d become the Prophet of the Mormon Church. Complete power and control.” I looked at the cop. “You have to warn them . . .”
The cop aimed his gun at Mike. “There was a bomb threat in Salt Lake this morning. They found explosives. No one was injured.”
The officer nearest Mike grabbed for the detonator.
Mike pushed the button.
Nothing happened.
“Wrong detonator.” I held up the real one and smiled. “You lose.”
CHAPTER
FORTY-ONE
AYNSLEE CLUNG TO ME, AND I GENTLY STROKED her hair. “Sweetheart,” I whispered. “I have to go now.”
Aynslee slowly released me and stepped away. The travelers at the SeaTac airport rushed past the corner where we hovered, racing toward security. “You’ll have a wonderful time going up the Inside Passage to Alaska with your dad.” I briefly removed my oversize sunglasses and smiled at Robert. “Your dad made sure he booked you a—what did you call it?”
A Cry from the Dust Page 27