Amber Morn (10 page)

Bailey’s eyes stung. Those girls were so young and vulnerable. And Carla so defiant in her protection. Then there was Wilbur and his indignation. Too many personalities here. Too much fear, way too much anger. The entire room was like one big, roiling cauldron, capable of boiling over any minute.

Hurry up, Vince. Please, please hurry.

TWENTY-SIX

Kent and Mitch Wicksell.

Vince read the letter twice, questions and facts swirling in his mind.

First, a detail: two men. John said he’d seen three. Who was the third? The letter was long — obviously written before the men ever reached Java Joint. At the last minute, someone had joined them.

Second, the demand:
T.J. gets out of prison NOW
. Sure, and paint the sky green while you’re at it. What was he supposed to do, overturn the nation’s court system? Marya Whitbey’s murder had been heinous, an unprovoked attack on a twenty-three-year-old mother. The trial had been heavily covered — and Vince didn’t question the defendant’s guilt for a minute. Too much evidence proved he’d done it.

But Vince could read between the lines of the letter. Kent Wicksell’s underlying demand was simply
Listen
. The man had used the word numerous times. Listening was something Vince could do. In fact, negotiation was all about active listening. Vince would have to gain Kent’s trust, prove he was willing to hear all Kent had to say about T.J.’s “innocence.”

Third:
More people will die.
Emphasis on
more
. When Kent wrote those words, his takeover of Java Joint apparently had been planned out — right down to shooting at least one person upon entry. As it turned out, a cop in uniform had been the obvious target. Then there was the matter of blacked-out windows. The fabric would need to be the right length and width.

These men had planned their attack down to fine detail.

Vince pushed the letter back in the envelope and thrust it in his pocket. Took off his gloves. He had to get to a computer as fast as possible.

First, however — two minutes of crucial coordination of manpower as more ISP officers arrived. Roger Waitman was back on Lakeshore with Jim, now that an ISP officer had taken over his containment post up Main. Vince called everyone together to quickly cover who the hostage takers were and what they wanted. “The command post will be at the police station, two blocks up Main and on the same side of the street as Java Joint.” This was close enough to their target without being in a direct line of fire from the café. “Anyone who needs access will use the back entrance off the alley. If the perps go out the back door of Java Joint onto the alley, a building on Third Street blocks direct line of fire to the station. But let me make clear I’ll want as few people at that post as possible, and I will say who comes in or out.”

Effective negotiation required concentration. Vince did not need distractions.

“This is a deliberate siege with multiple hostages. The three men came prepared, have a lot of firepower and — we’d better assume — plenty of ammunition. We can hope for the best, but experience tells us these kinds of sieges don’t often end quickly.

“I will serve as commander and negotiator.” Vince spread his hands. “If we were in a major city, we’d have a bigger team and I wouldn’t be pulling the double duty. But I need every one of you I can get” — he pointed to the group — “on the streets. I
do not want
our perimeter breached, understand? Jim will coordinate containment and will be second in charge. Roger will stay with me. Al, I’m assigning you to media. Establish a location for them three blocks down Lakeshore, and let them know we’ll answer all their questions when we can. But they are
absolutely
to remain there and not breach into the inner perimeter.”

“Will do.” Al’s hand rested on his hip near his gun.

Vince checked his watch. “Three CRT snipers should be here in thirty to forty minutes. Jim, you assign their positions. Put two of them on rooftops with frontal line of sight to Java Joint, and one in the rear.”

Vince continued with more instructions. Jim would tell Tactical — CRT members — their assigned “tac channel.” The channel would be on a handheld closed-band police radio, giving them direct, private communication with Vince and each other.

“Also, Jim, call Tactical, talk to them about sending more men —”

Vince stopped, frowning. The Coeur d’Alene CRT lacked an APC — armored personnel carrier. With the kind of firepower the Wicksells apparently possessed, he just might need one. An APC could deliver Tactical members safely into a hot zone. His crisis plan for Kanner Lake involved using a fire truck for delivering a team. But after reading Wicksell’s note and realizing what kind of siege they faced…

Better to make his response team interagency. More resources in less time that way.

He cleared his throat. “Jim, see if the commander can get the APC from Fairchild.” Fairchild was the Air Force base in Spokane, under an hour’s drive southwest of Kanner Lake. “Take them longer to get here with it, but a better setup in the long run.”

Jim nodded. “Agreed.”

With a distracted wave Vince ran for his car. Roger followed in his own vehicle. In less than a minute they drove to Fourth Street and into the alley at the back of the station. On the way Vince left a message on Nancy’s cell phone, stressing that he was
fine
. She would find the voicemail on her next break.

In his office he whipped off his protective vest and threw it on a chair, spewing instructions. Roger took notes, his thin lips pulled in and narrow shoulders hunched. “I need a background check on Wicksell family members.” Vince flicked on his computer and sat down. “And other data — mental health, any known injuries, drug use, places of employment. Photographs. There was a feature article in the
Spokane Review
just after the trial was over — find it. Run down the prosecutor, defense attorney, judge.”

He pointed to the empty dry-erase board on his right wall. “There’s our situation board.”

As they gathered information on the HTs — hostage takers — and as negotiations progressed, all pertinent information would be written on the situation board or tacked to the wall around it.

Vince drummed his fingers as the desktop appeared on his monitor.
Come on, come on
.

What else for Roger?

“Get the floor plan of Java Joint.” Some Building Department employee was about to have his Memorial Day weekend interrupted. “And put the telephone provider’s central security command on notice. I’ll want to move communications off the blog onto a phone soon as possible.” When that happened, he’d need a dedicated phone line from his personal number to Java Joint’s.

“We need to get the log of events started, and you’ve got enough to do.” The log would contain everything that occurred in the incident, along with the time. “Call Jim and see who he can send up to help.”

“Okay. That it?”

Vince reached for the mouse. “Yeah.”

Roger hurried off.

Vince clicked on to the Internet, picturing Kent Wicksell. The first hours of a hostage situation were the most volatile. The HTs could still be running high on adrenaline from their initial attack. Best to keep initial communication short and factual.

He typed in the blog’s URL:
www.kannerlake.blogspot.com
. The familiar blue background with the Scenes and Beans logo came up. He scrolled to the bottom of the day’s post and clicked on “Comments.” The box appeared.

He poised his index fingers over the keys.

Here we go. Lord, help me.

>> Hello, Kent and Mitch. (And I understand you have a third man with you?) This is Vince Edwards. I’m here to listen and help.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Wilbur returned from his bathroom run — still intact. Bailey let out a breath of relief. He settled in his chair, back straight and arms folded over his yellow T-shirt, and Jared got up to go next. Mitch stood glaring at the group, one foot tapping and gun pointed. His ring finger smacked against his weapon. One side of the bottom of his jacket rode up on his jeans, the opposite pocket hanging heavy with ammunition.

Kent leaned against a table, throwing black looks at the clock on the wall behind him. His overhanging brow and the hungry irritation in his eyes reminded Bailey of a beast stalking prey.

She shivered. Checked the blog’s comments for the dozenth time.

And there it was — Vince’s message.

Thank you, God.

“It’s here.”

Kent jerked from the table and strode over to sit heavily in the chair next to Bailey. Laid his gun on the floor. He leaned toward the computer, his thick, hairy arm brushing hers. She willed herself not to draw away. “Took his sweet time, didn’t he.” Raising his chin, he read the words with an expression of disdain.

“What’s it say, what’s it say?” Now two of Mitch’s fingers drummed his gun.

All of the hostages’ heads turned, listening.

Kent read the message aloud. Proudly, as if he’d made the Kanner Lake chief of police bow to his power. He elbowed Bailey. “Write him back what I tell you.”

>> About time you showed up. You took too long, and we’re not happy about that. Our fingers were itching to shoot somebody else. Good thing you’re listening, ‘cause we got plenty to say. The third man is my second son, Brad. You want to help — it’s simple. Get T.J. out of prison.

Kent pressed back in his chair. “Send it.”

Bailey posted the comment under Kent’s name, then typed the verification letters in the appropriate box.

“What are you doing?” Kent leaned closer, suspicion on his face.

He wants to use the blog comments to communicate, but he doesn’t even understand how it works?

“I have to type in whatever letters come up on the screen so the comment will go through.”

Even as she answered, a part of her refused to believe this unthinkable situation. Sitting here in her own café at gunpoint, calmly talking to Frank’s killer about blogging.

“Why?”

“It’s the way the system’s set up. So we don’t get spam comments. But once I log in, since I’m site administrator, I won’t have to do it again, even if we post under your name.”

Kent frowned. “What’s — Never mind, just do it.” He shoved both fists on his hips, gaze glued to the monitor.

Bailey posted the comment and refreshed the box. “See — your answer’s up now.”

Kent grunted.

They waited. Brad brought Jared back from the bathroom and wanted Kent to read Vince’s message again.

Kent snorted. “You want me to read everything twice?”

“I was on escort duty, remember?” Brad cocked his head toward Jared. “You want me to do the talking while
you
trek people up and down the hall?”

Kent flexed his jaw and turned back to the computer. Bailey refreshed the comment box. Another message appeared.

>> Sorry I could not answer sooner. But I am here now and will stay available. Together we can work through this. I know you’ve got a lot of people in there to handle. Would you like to just come out now?

Kent punched his palm with a fist. “Tell him
no
. With three exclamation points.”

Bailey obeyed.

>> Okay. Always worth asking.

Kent ran his tongue under his upper lip. Threw a glance at his hostages. He got up, paced away two steps, then paced back. “Tell him who all’s in here.”

The way he said it. So smug. So arrogant about the lives he held in his hands.

Bailey looked down the tables of hostages and listed them in order of seating, starting from closest to the hallway. Bev. Angie. Jared. Brittany. Carla. Ali. Wilbur. Pastor Hank. Paige. Ted. Leslie. Bailey.

At Kent’s insistence, she continually refreshed the comments box. Strange, how her hand almost seemed removed from her body. The rest of her felt frozen. Dead.

An answer appeared.

>> Thank you for telling me who’s with you. Is there anyone with any medical problems I need to know about?

Bailey read the words and briefly closed her eyes.
John.
Thank God he hadn’t arrived here on time. He could be in real trouble by now.

Mitch gave a jagged laugh. “Yeah, tell him a few beers would be good.”

Kent waved a hand at the keyboard. “Type.”

>> No other injuries — yet. We’re counting on you to keep it that way. So stop with the stupid questions.

Brad sighed with impatience. Bailey changed out the comments box until Vince’s answer came up.

>> Glad to hear that. And yes, I will work with you to keep it that way. We don’t want anyone else hurt, you included.

“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Nice Guy.” Kent sneered.

>> So work with me, Edwards. Get T.J. out.