Amber Morn

by Brandilyn Collins

  In his late fifties, Justin was over six-two and hard- muscled from working out, with an angular face and dark brown eyes. His experience as a negotiator would provide Vince with a second set of ears and expertise as he communicated with Wicksell.

  “Okay. Whatever I can do.”

  Justin spoke in a level tone, but the words hardened at the edges. For a surreal moment Vince stood outside himself, surveying the scene. Hearing the voices, watching the movements, all carried out in this new, grim normality. Weighted, that was the word. Everything felt weighted.

  Justin turned to the ISP officer, a salt-and-pepper-haired man who looked to be in his forties. “Thanks for bringing me in.”

  “No problem.” The officer looked to Vince. “Anything you need me to run back?”

  “Not right now. Thanks.”

  The officer exited the station. Vince motioned Justin into his office. “I’ll print the blog conversation so you can see where we are.”

  “All right.” Justin pulled a chair up to the other side of Vince’s desk. As the printer spat paper, Vince plucked up the sheets and handed them to him. Justin read them swiftly, his lips pressed. “This where we are now, with your answer about the TV?” He tapped the papers.

  “Yeah. I’m waiting for Roger to get through to the reporters. Once I manage to move Kent to the telephone and we can tape the communications, you can be my note-taker and help me with ideas.” Even though the digital taping system could feed into a computer, it would be much quicker to refresh memory from notes than to search for specific information in a downloaded file.

  Roger leaned in the office door, a phone to his ear. He pointed to it, mouthing, “Prosecutor Mick Wiley.”

  Vince looked back to Justin. “I need to take this. You know how to check the blog for comments, in case Wicksell says something?”

  “Sure. I always read the blog posts.”

  “Okay. Let me know if anything comes up.”

  Justin came around the desk to sit at the computer. Vince picked up the receiver for the station line and walked a few steps toward the front window. Staring at an empty and silent Main Street, he hit the talk button and greeted the prosecutor who’d sent T.J. Wicksell to prison.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “That man who dragged the cop away…”

  Brad’s words turned every vein in Bailey’s body to ice.

  Kent hulked nearby, gun in his left hand, scratching his neck with the other. His expression indicated he was considering the idea.

  Mitch jerked his chin. “He’s gotta be a friend of these people. Probably won’t try to pull a fast one like some cop.”

  “Exactly.” Brad sniffed.

  Bailey looked down at her lap. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

  Kent’s clothes rustled. She could feel his cool gaze on her.

  “Who is he?” He leaned down toward her.

  She refused to answer, even as she knew her silence would give her away.

  Mitch pulled in air with a whistle. “Obviously somebody she likes pretty well. Her husband?”

  “Mm.” Kent sounded pleased with the thought. “That true?” He eyed her coldly.

  She managed the barest of nods.

  “Hey, man, that’s perfect.” Brad gave a low chuckle.

  “Yeah.” Kent pressed his knuckles into Bailey’s upper arm. She cringed. “Tell Edwards we want your husband to bring the TV and nobody else.”

  Bailey was afraid of heights. Put her near the edge of a cliff, on a high bridge, and the panicky sensation was always the same. Like an unhinged trap door, the bottom of her stomach would just… drop away. A sickening feeling, dizzying. The same reaction could come just from watching someone else sidle too close to an abyss, particularly if it was someone she loved.

  This was what she felt now, with Kent’s hot breath on her, his fingers digging into her skin. The thought of summoning John here perched her on a crumbling mountaintop, no end to the drop in sight.

  “Hey!”

  Kent hit her shoulder. The punch landed so fast she didn’t even see it coming. Pain shot through her muscle. Bailey heard her friends gasp.

  Fine. He could hit her again. Kill her if he wanted. She was not luring her husband into this death haven.

  Slowly she raised her head and dared look him in the eye. “No.”

  Anger twisted his features. “Don’t tell me no. Do it!”

  Bailey shook. Try as she might, she couldn’t bear to look into his heartless face any longer. She lowered her head and focused on the keyboard, heart thumping.

  “No.”

  Silence. Bailey squeezed her eyes shut, steeling herself for whatever came next. A strange aura settled over her — not calm, surely not peace.

  Acceptance.

  She sensed a motion from Kent. Then — firm footsteps. Coming from Brad’s direction. They stopped.

  Sudden rustling. A moan. Someone wailed.

  Angie?

  Bailey’s eyes flew open.

  The barrel of Brad’s automatic weapon dug against Bev’s left temple. She sat frozen, head tilted away from the killing machine, eyes round, mouth hanging open. Both hands clawed the tabletop.

  Kent sank his fingers into Bailey’s shoulder. “Do it or he shoots.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “Mick, Chief Edwards here.” Vince wandered the office, unable to keep still. He pictured Mick the last time he’d seen him in a courtroom.

  At five-seven, Mick Wiley could only be described as round. Round face, rotund body, big round green eyes. He looked like a teddy bear — until he opened his mouth. His booming voice echoed off courtroom walls and straightened tired jurors’ spines. Mick had won a lot of convictions, and he was proud of every one. Especially, according to the papers, T.J. Wicksell’s, because of the heinousness of the crime.

  “Vince, sorry it took so long to get back to you. I was out on the lake without my cell phone. I hear you got yourself a situation with the Wicksells. Can’t say I’m surprised, knowing that family.”

  “You deal with any of them during the trial?”

  Mick snorted. “Oh yeah. Big brother Mitch is a meth head. And daddy Kent’s a roaring locomotive. Guy was in my face every time I turned around. Complaining about the defense attorney, insisting his son was innocent. Had to kick him out of my office twice. After that I refused to see him.”

  “We tried and tried to talk to the lawyers, but no one would listen.” Kent’s words in his letter.

  Vince knew Mick’s case had been airtight. He’d put forth evidence; the jury had convicted. End of story. There was little Mick could say to placate Kent Wicksell — yet that was exactly what Vince was asking him to do.

  “Kent accused the defense attorney of showing up in court with a hangover. You know anything about that?”

  Mick snorted. “Get real. We had reporters in there every day, hanging on every word. You think one of them wouldn’t mention some bumbling attorney? T.J. got fair representation. He just happened to be guilty.”

  Larry hurried into the office, notepaper in hand, and made a beeline for the situation board. He picked up the fine-tipped marker lying on the ledge beneath the board and started writing, head jerking up and down as he consulted the paper.

  “No questioning that. But I need to give Kent something. Of course I’m trying to talk him out of there, but his level of anger tells me that won’t happen anytime soon.”

  “What can I do to help? Roger said he’s demanding we cut T.J. loose. That’s not about to happen.”

  “No. But Wicksell needs to see me talking to you. Like I’m trying to free his son. Will you be willing to listen to his so-called evidence?”

  “Sure, sure, we have to do something. You talked to Lester?”

  Mick’s tone dipped. Lester Tranning — T.J.’s defense attorney. The two men’s animosity toward each other was legendary. According to courthouse talk, it started years ago over some case Mick won, with Lester publicly accusing him of underhanded lawyering. Durin
g T.J.’s case their hostility had only given the media more titillating stories.

  Vince would have his hands full trying to work with them in the same room.

  “We’re trying to reach him. Judge Hadkin too. I’d like to get the three of you down here to talk this thing over while I communicate with Wicksell. I’ll want to keep it quiet because I don’t want to tell him you’re here until I can get the best negotiating advantage from the information.”

  Larry began taping photos of the Wicksell men to the situation board.

  “Yeah, got it.” Mick paused. “Okay. I can be there in forty-five minutes.”

  Mick was driving from the Coeur d’Alene area. “Great. Thanks.” Vince gave him Jim’s cell number to call for instructions on being escorted into the inner perimeter. He didn’t want the attorneys meeting at Al’s media site, where reporters would recognize them.

  Vince hung up and strode to the situation board to study photos of the three Wicksells. He gazed into Kent’s eyes, trying to get more of a feeling for the man. Then read through birth dates, contact information, and other pertinent data. Kent’s wife — Lenora, 51. He might want to talk to her at some point. Priors: Kent — armed burglary, 1988. That would be a year before T.J. was born. Brad — two assaults against girlfriends. Mitch — drug possession and sales.

  “You make copies of these photos for Tactical?” Vince asked Larry.

  “Got a set ready.”

  “Thanks.” Vince veered toward his desk. He needed to give Jim a heads-up about the attorneys and judge. Justin still focused on the monitor, clicking the mouse.

  “Anything?” Vince reached for the phone.

  “Nada.”

  Two minutes later as Vince hung up from the call, Roger hustled into the office. “I checked with Al first about reporters Jeremy Cole and Teresa Wright, in case they’re already at the media site. No such luck. I called their stations — both are off today. Called their cells and left messages.”

  “Good. They should call back before long.” Reporters stayed close to their phones.

  Roger’s cell rang. He checked the ID, his face lighting with recognition. Held the phone out to Vince. “Lester Tranning.”

  As Vince took the call, Roger moved to Larry and handed him more paper. The reporters’ names and phone numbers went up on the board.

  “Vince, I heard what’s going on. What can I do?” Unlike the dichotomy between Mick’s voice and body, Lester’s nasally tone had always struck Vince as fitting for his tall, lean frame.

  “Tell me about Kent Wicksell.”

  “He’s bad news, that’s what. Kept accusing me of not doing enough for T.J. I finally stopped taking his calls. One day he barreled into my office when I was in the middle of a meeting. I had to call an officer to escort him out. Hate to tell you, but I’m not all that surprised to hear what he’s done.”

  Vince asked Lester if he could come to the station to meet with Mick and — if they could get ahold of him — the judge. Lester said he could be there within an hour.

  “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