“This way,” Laurel called. They entered the living room. Laurel sat on the couch. The boy she had seen in the picture was kneeling in front of her, his face swathed in duct tape. Laurel was working with a pair of scissors at the back of his head, cutting away the tape there that held a shotgun pressed against his skull. It came away with a ripping sound. “There you go, big brother,” she said. “We want you lookin’ your best for your big debut.” She turned to Grace. “Where you want to set up the camera?” she said.
“Dad?” The sound of his daughter’s voice, weak as it was, snapped Frank Jones’s head around. He’d been standing by the window, looking down unseeingly into the parking-lot traffic.
“Marie,” he said. “Oh, God, baby girl…” He walked over to the bed. He wanted to gather her up into his arms, but there were too many wires and tubes running out of her. He stood there, tears running down his face, and ran his hand gently through her hair instead. “Baby girl …” he said again.
She looked up at him, her blue eyes cloudy. She licked her lips, which were dry and cracked. “Can I have some water?” she said, her voice a croak.
“I got you some ice chips,” he said. He reached into the plastic tumbler by the bed and pulled one out. Gently he fed it to her.
She closed her eyes as if she were savoring a fine wine. “S’good,” she murmured. “C’n I have another?” He gave her another. She opened her eyes. “I got shot, Dad,” she said.
“I know, honey, I know.”
“Did Shelby … did he …”
“Shhh…” he said.
“We’ll talk about that—”
“No, Dad,” she said, her voice stronger. Frank knew better than to argue with her when she used that tone of voice, weak as it was. “Tell me. I saw him get hit. What… what…”
“He’s gone, Marie,” Frank said. “But he got the bastard that shot him.”
Marie closed her eyes. “What about Jack?” she said after a moment. “Where’s Jack?”
“I don’t know,” Frank said. “He’s not here. I … I sent him away.”
“Angela,” she said. “Where’s Angela? She’ll know where to find him.”
“I sent her away, too,” Frank said. “They’re no good for you, honey. You’ve had nothing but…”
“Get them back, Dad,” Marie said. “Get them back here. I need to talk to Jack.” She reached out and gripped his wrist. “Please, Dad,” she said. “Please.”
“Okay, baby girl,” he said, his voice choked. “Okay.”
Keller couldn’t see the living room, but he could hear the sounds of the camera guy setting up and the conversation between Laurel and the TV reporter. He used that clatter to mask the sound of his own movements as he crept down the hallway. Finally, he heard the camera guy speaking. “Okay, Grace, we’re on live in five … four …” he counted down until Grace began speaking. Keller stood in the shadows and listened.
“This is Grace Tranh bringing you exclusive live coverage from the inside of the Marks home in Wilmington, where a tense hostage drama is being played out. We’re here with Laurel Marks, who has been holding her mother, her brother, and…” there was a slight hesitation, “… one other hostage for several hours this morning. At the request of Ms. Marks, this reporter and my cameraman Wayne Lennox agreed to substitute ourselves for two of the hostages in order for Ms. Marks to make her statement. Ms. Marks?”
“My name is Laurel Marks,” she began. Her voice was eerily calm, as if she were reading the words. “I and a man named Roy Randle was the people responsible for the killin’s in the First Church of God of Prophecy, The Sun-lyte Diner on Interstate 95, an’ the Barnwell Foods plant. I confess to it all. I ain’t sure who all I killed, but I pulled the trigger. Oh, and I also killed some motherfucker in a gas station outside o’ Fayetteville, but that guy had it coming. I’m ready to take the punishment for that. But first people are gonna know the truth.” There was a pause. “My father, Ted Marks, first raped me when I was twelve years old. He kept doin’ it, at least once a week. When I tried to tell, Social Services took me.” She looked at her brother and her voice cracked for the first time. “But my … my brother here, talked me into takin’ it all back. So they sent me back here. But he knew. He knew it was true. Tell the truth, Curt. Tell the truth.”
The boy was weeping openly. “It’s true,” he said. “All of it. All of it. Oh God, I’m so sorry, I thought he’d stop. He told me he’d stop … I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“I know, big brother,” Laurel said. “I know.” Her voice grew stronger. “There’s another story we need to tell. Roy wanted to tell you himself. But he’s—” her voice broke again “—he’s dead now. The police shot him. But there’s a notebook that was delivered earlier to Miss Tranh here. It tells the true story of what happened August 10, 1990, at the studios here in Wilmington. You know the killin’ I mean. Roy Randle got blamed for it, even though nobody ever went to jail. Roy wrote out the real story. We were going to tell everyone, once the time was right. And once we had ever’one’s attention. Roy’s dead now.” She took a deep breath. “But I guess I got your attention, huh?” No one answered. “I guess we’re done here,” Laurel said.
There was another, longer pause, then Grace’s voice, strangely subdued. “This is Grace Tranh, Channel Ten live.”
“And, we’re out,” the camera guy said.
“Laurel,” Grace said after a moment. “Are you ready to go?”
“I’ve got to break this stuff down,” Wayne said. “We’ll come back for it,” Keller heard Grace say. He heard them get up and come toward the hallway. Keller stepped into the room. “Hold on,” he said, “we’re not done yet.”
Laurel was in front, with her brother right behind her. Grace and the cameraman were side by side behind them. Laurel had laid the shotgun down on the couch, next to Keller’s. She was the one who reacted first. She turned around and tried to get back to the couch, back to the weapons. She ran into her brother, who fell back into Grace and the cameraman. Keller took advantage of the confusion to cross the room, passing them in a few long strides, and snatch his shotgun up off of the couch. He turned to look at the knot of people untangling themselves. He pointed the gun at Laurel. “You stay here, Laurel,” he said evenly. He looked at the others. “You two better run,” he said.
“Oh, my God,” a voice said. “You’re awake!” Angela was standing in the doorway. Oscar Sanchez stood behind her.
Marie turned toward her. “Hey,” she whispered.
“Hey yourself,” Angela replied as she came to the bedside. “You had us worried, girl.”
“Where’s Jack?” Marie said.
The artificial joviality vanished. Angela looked at Frank, who looked away.
“Where’s Jack?” Marie insisted more loudly. The effort caused her to cough, and the cough caused her to groan in agony.
“Laurel Marks got away,” Angela said. “Jack went after her.” She swallowed nervously, unsure of whether to go on. “He was acting … he was acting strange. He didn’t want to talk to anyone …”
“He thinks you’re dead,” Frank Jones said.
“Why?” Marie said. “Why would he …” Comprehension dawned in her eyes. “Oh, no. Dad, no. You didn’t…”
“I’m sorry,” Frank said. Tears were running down his cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, God,” Marie said. She closed her eyes. “He’s going to kill her.”
Angela only nodded.
Marie shook her head. “No,” she said. “He can’t.” She tried to sit up, fell back weakly. She reached out and clutched Angela’s arm. “You can’t let him do that, Angela,” she whispered desperately. “If he murders her… in cold blood … Angela, he won’t make it back from that. He won’t.”
Angela was crying too. “I know. I know. But he won’t answer the phone when I call him.”
Marie released her hold on Angela’s arm. “Where’s my cell phone?” she said. “He’ll talk to me.”
“I have i
t here,” Oscar said, reaching into his jacket pocket. He smiled. “I thought you might need it when you woke up.”
Sanderson and Cassidey had watched the interview on a portable battery-powered TV someone had brought up. When it was over, everyone turned their attention back to the house. All the guns came up as the door opened. Curt Marks came stumbling out, followed by Grace Tranh and her cameraman. No one else came through the door.
“What…,” Sanderson said. Officers grabbed the people fleeing the house and rushed them to the perimeter.
“Where’s Sanderson?” he heard Grace yelling. “I have to talk to Sanderson!”
A uniformed officer led her over. “That guy, that bondsman you told me about.”
“Keller,” Sanderson said. “Where is he?”
“What the fuck did you let him stay in there for?!” Grace yelled.
“I didn’t!” Sanderson yelled back. “He went in on his own!”
“Well,” Grace said. “He’s holding Laurel Marks at gunpoint.”
“What the hell … she was giving herself up!” Sanderson said.
“Maybe he doesn’t want her taken in,” a voice said. Sanderson looked around. Clancy was walking toward them.
“What do you mean?” Sanderson said.
“One of the cops that got shot taking Laurel Marks’s partner down was this Keller guy’s girlfriend,” Clancy said. “The deputies she worked with are giving odds that Keller blows Laurel Marks away.” He looked at Sanderson. “Sanderson, is there some aspect of this situation you haven’t managed to fuck up?”
“You pull that trigger,” Laurel said, “you’re no better than me.”
“Guess not,” Keller said. “But you set us up, Laurel. You got Marie killed. And Shelby. You set us up for Randle to kill us all. And I have to do something about that.”
The girl laughed bitterly. “Bullshit. You led ‘em into it. It’s as much your fuckup as anything. Only thing you’re tryin’ to do is make up for that.”
The words staggered Keller. His vision blurred and he heard a voice in his head. Maybe, Sergeant, you fucked up, got out of your assigned area, and led your squad into an ambush.
“No,” Keller said. “That’s not it. It’s not it.” His head was vibrating now like an overloaded engine about to come apart. The dimness of the room felt like it was closing in, like Keller was entering a long dark tunnel. He heard a wailing voice echoing in his head. For a split second he was back in Kuwait, with the marines. He saw the kid from Jersey, rocking back and forth with his boom box in his lap, eyes closed, grinning like a death’s head. Goin’ down, the box howled, Goin’ down now…
Laurel’s voice seemed to come from far away. “Well,” she said, “you think shootin’ me is goin’ to make that better, go right the fuck ahead. It ain’t like I was goin’ to die of old age anyway.”
“Okay,” Keller said. He raised the gun.
“Ma’am,” the nurse said, “You can’t use a cell phone inside the hospital.”
“I need to make this call,” Marie muttered as she punched the buttons on the phone.
“Ma’am,” the nurse said more insistently. She moved as if to take the phone away. Oscar stepped into her way, smiling apologetically.
“I am sorry, Senora,” he said. “I do not wish to be discourteous. But she is right, it is an important call.”
“I’m going to go get security,” the nurse said.
“We will be here,” Oscar replied. He turned to Marie in the bed. “You had better hurry,” he said. “Try the speed-dial.” Marie hit the button. Goin’ down, Goin’ down now …
The voice taunted and pulled at him like a cold black undertow. The room seemed to be getting darker, as if the sun outside were growing old, dimming, dying. Keller felt his finger tightening on the trigger, waiting for the break and the explosion that would take them both into the final darkness.
The phone on his belt rang.
Keller took his finger from the trigger long enough to reach down and yank it from the holster. He drew his hand back as if to throw the phone across the room. Then he saw the number on the display. He raised the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
“Jack?” the voice was weak, but it was unmistakable. “Jack, where are you?”
“Marie,” Keller whispered. “Marie.”
“Where are you?” she said again.
“I’m …” He hesitated. “I’m at Laurel Marks’s house.”
“What are you doing there?” There was a cough, then a groan of pain. The sound tore at Keller. He raised the gun again. Then Marie spoke again. “Jack. Please. Don’t…”
“I’m settling some scores here,” he said. “I thought you were dead.”
“But I’m not,” Marie said. “I’m here. I’m alive. And I’m telling you, I don’t want any score settled. I want you, Jack.”
Keller didn’t speak. He couldn’t, past the tightening in his throat. But Marie’s next words hit him like the first shock of water in the throat of a man dying of thirst.
“Come see me, Jack,” Marie said. “I need you.”
“I need you, too,” Keller said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you, too,” He broke the connection and put the phone back on his belt. “Get up,” he said to Laurel.
She looked at him warily. “What?”
“Get up,” he said. “I’m taking you out of here.”
She stood up slowly. Keller walked behind her, out of the darkness of the living room, down the long hall, toward the door.
Toward the light.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ,” the preacher said, “we commend to Almighty God our brother Warren, and we commit his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless him and keep him, the Lord make his face to shine upon him and be gracious to him, the Lord lift up his countenance upon him and give him peace. Amen.”
“Amen,” the crowd intoned.
A few people jumped as the rifles of the honor guard cracked once, twice, three times, the sharp reports echoing in the crisp fall air. The flag on the coffin was folded and handed to the widow by Tom Wardell. Her two girls stood beside her, their faces streaked with tears. Barbara Shelby’s face was composed. People gathered round, offering hugs and clichés. She smiled and acknowledged them.
Keller pushed Marie’s wheelchair away from the graveside, moving with difficulty across the soft earth until they reached the brick walkway. She was still weak, and her doctors at first refused to release her from the hospital for Shelby’s funeral. When she had told them that they could either let her out for that short time, in which case she’d come back, or she’d check herself out against medical advice, they relented, and only on the condition that she use the wheelchair and keep her nurses posted on where she was and when she was coming back. She had accepted the restrictions only after her first few tottering steps had left her panting and gasping for breath. It was going to be a long road back.
“If we hurry,” Keller said, “We can have you back in time for lunch.”
“Whee,” Marie said. “More lime Jell-O. I can hardly wait.” She turned to look at him. “Thanks for picking me up, by the way.”
“No problem,” he said.
“So does it look like Scott’s going to be able to keep the FBI off your back?”
He shrugged. “That guy Clancy made a lot of noise about interference and obstruction of justice. But Scott thinks they’re not really eager to make a big deal out of it, especially since they’d have to bring Sanderson back from his new assignment to testify.”
“His new assignment?” Marie said. “Where?”
“Anchorage.”
She laughed. “Damn,” she said. “They must really think he fucked up.”
“Letting a reporter into a hostage situation isn’t exactly by the book.”
“Not l
ike she’s complaining,” she said. “You can’t hardly turn on Fox these days without seeing ‘a special report from Grace Tranh.’”
“Hey,” a voice said from behind them. “Wait up.” Keller stopped. Tom Wardell came up, clad in his dress uniform.
“Hey, Sergeant,” Marie said.
“Hey,” Wardell said. He gave a short, abrupt nod to Keller, who nodded back expressionlessly. Wardell turned to Marie. “What’s this I hear about you quittin’?” he said.
Marie smiled. “Word travels fast.”
He ignored the comment. “I hate to see you do it, girl,” he said. “Sure,” he looked pointedly at Keller, “you made some mistakes. But that’s no reason…”
“I know, Sarge,” Marie said. “And I may come back. But right now …” She shrugged. “Like I said, I love the job. But it doesn’t seem to love me.”
“Well…” he said, then hesitated. “Well, keep in touch.”
“Thanks,” she said, “I will.” They both knew it for a polite lie. Cops who left the job soon found themselves with nothing to talk about with other cops. They shook hands and Wardell walked away.
“He thinks I’m one of the mistakes you made,” Keller said.
“Yeah,” Marie said.
“What about you?”
She sighed. “I don’t know, Jack. I love you. I think you love me. But the things we’ve been through … the things we’ve done … they’ve left scars. Inside and outside.”
“I know,” he said.
“But the difference between us, Jack,” she said, “is that you love your scars. So much that you go out and look for new ones. You’re like those people that take razor blades and cut themselves so they can feel something. I don’t know if I can live with that.”
He didn’t say anything as they approached the parking lot. Marie’s father was standing by her car, waiting. He started toward them. He stopped as Keller crouched down beside the wheelchair.
“It’s not easy for me to trust people,” he said, “or to let them in my life.”
“I know,” she replied.
“But I’ll try,” he said. He paused. “I’ll work on it.”
Good Day In Hell Page 24