Amber Morn (5 page)

The man who shot Frank backed up. His face was red, deep-set eyes narrowed. “Brad, go!”

The second man stood near the first, gun pointed. He rested on one foot, the other leg bouncing. His cheeks were sunken and the pupils of his beady eyes huge. Sweat ran down his temple.

The youngest man, called Brad, slid his gun into his pocket and yanked up the bottom of his jacket. Pulled a white envelope out of his jeans waistband. He strode to Frank and bent down.

“No!” Paige lurched toward him.

The first man leapt forward and shoved her. “Sit
down
!” He pushed her onto a stool next to Jared Moore. The man’s teeth gritted, cords ropelike on his thick neck. “Don’t move or you’re next.”

The world blurred. Paige blinked hard, fighting to see Frank. Vaguely, she registered others gasping. Leslie. Angie.

Brad was stuffing the envelope halfway down the back of Frank’s pants. He pushed to his feet, then grabbed Frank by the shoulders and flipped him over.

Frank’s uniform shirt shrieked three crimson holes.

He was dead.

Paige’s mouth opened. A primal cry rose from her soul, clattered up her throat. She slumped to her left. Jared caught her and held on.

Brad clamped his fingers around Frank’s wrists and dragged him toward the door.

“No, no!” Paige struggled against Jared, fighting to get up, reach Frank. She didn’t care, they could kill her. They’d
already
killed her. “Let me
go
!”

The first man turned his gun on her in cold hatred.

“Shh, Paige, stop.” Jared’s voice shook. His arms were like iron.

Paige went numb. Some part of her watched Brad unlock the door. The second, skinny man jerked backward, gun still pointed at the group, until he could hold the door open with one hand. Brad shoved Frank over the threshold in a sickening tumble. Closed and bolted the door.

Paige burst into sobs and collapsed against Jared’s chest. The only feeble thought her mind could hold was
sixty seconds.
One minute ago, Frank had been here with her. Now he was gone.

She hung on to Jared, squeezing his arms.
Tell me, tell me this isn’t happening
…

“All right, everybody, listen up.” The shooter’s voice could have cut steel. “You seen enough to know we mean business. Anybody who moves is dead.”

I’m already dead.

The hitched breathing of her friends filtered into Paige’s ears. Shock draped a wool blanket over the room.

Frank, Frank
…

The shooter jerked his chin toward Brad. “Get the weapons.”

Brad ran over to one of the duffel bags and wrenched back the zipper.

TWELVE

As John walked up Main toward Java Joint, muffled shouts sounded. He cocked his head. What was that?

Three sharp cracks in a row.

Gunshots
.

Screams followed. Yelling.

Bailey.

John’s feet rooted to the pavement. Sheer, cold terror washed over him.

S-Man’s present slipped from his fingers. Next thing he knew, he was running.

Java Joint’s door swung open. A body clad in a policeman’s uniform tumbled out.

John slid to a halt.
Frank West
.

The café door slammed shut. The deadbolt clicked.

Frank lay crumpled on his side facing the street, still as stone. Something white and flat stuck out of his pants at the back.

The screams from Java Joint stopped.

John’s mind spun. What was happening? He stared at the still form. Frank had been shot.
Shot.

Those three men. Their duffel bags.
Guns
.

Bailey. All of our friends.

Was he dreaming this?

John’s stomach lurched. He had to do… something. Get Frank. Get help.

He ran toward the fallen officer.

At the edge of the café, he pulled up. Its windows were almost floor to ceiling, starting too low to crawl beneath them. Go any farther, and he’d be a sitting duck.

Frank.
John had to get him out of there.

Dear Lord, give me strength
.

No more time for thinking; he had to act.

John took a deep breath, stooped down, and started a crab-walk toward Frank.

THIRTEEN

Bailey clutched the counter, her knuckles white. She watched the attackers around the backs of her friends, who were all clustered on the other side. As if frozen from some other world, Ted’s contract and pen lay near the other end of the counter. Had he only been signing it minutes ago?

The two older men pointed guns at them all. Shock razored through Bailey’s body, shredding her thoughts. She could hardly feel, barely
think
. Couldn’t hear anything over the rush of blood in her ears, the skid-pound of her heart.

Frank. Paige.

God, help us
.

Brad reached into the open duffel bag on the floor.

Bailey tore her eyes away. She couldn’t bear to see what was in there. Numbly she stared at the other two men with guns.
Remember their faces
. The thought pulsed like a dim light through the fog in her brain. Yes — remember. Victims of a crime were supposed to do that.

She tried to focus.

The man in charge was about six feet and beefy. Barrel-chested. Wide nose, close-set brown eyes. Heavy overhanging brow. He had an intense, almost predatory look. Thinning dark hair. Over fifty. His face was flushed. Angst and energy rose like steam off his big shoulders. Any minute now his impatient finger could jerk the trigger.

Second man. Much Younger. Same height but skinny. Gaunt cheeks. Large ears, a mole on his left jaw. His pupils didn’t look right — way too large. His eyes darted this way and that. His tongue ran back and forth under his top lip, his torso rocking.

She cut her gaze back to Brad. He looked like a young version of the first man. But the way he moved, the looks he threw at the man in charge… Brad was steely. Full of anger. Bristling with arrogance.

Movement outside the front window caught Bailey’s attention. She flicked her eyes without moving her head.

John
.

He was trying to reach Frank. But a bullet could pierce that glass so easily.

Oh, dear Lord, no.
She couldn’t lose John.

She glanced at the two men with guns. Both were in profile to the front of the cafe, focused on their hostages. Brad’s attention was riveted to the duffel bag.

Bailey’s eyes cut again to the window.

Her husband crept forward.

FOURTEEN

John’s leg muscles shook. He focused on Frank’s still body, screaming at himself not to look inside Java Joint. The terror of what he saw might freeze him.

His head turned.

The sight stabbed him. Three men, two with guns trained on everyone in the café. The Scenes and Beans crew huddled near the counter. Bailey stood alone on the serving side. Looking at him.

John’s knees nearly gave way.

Everything within him pulled toward Bailey. Right there — she was
right there
. His arm twitched to punch through the glass, rescue his wife —

Some unseen hand shoved him forward.

He reached Frank. John squeezed between the young officer and the wooden door, breathing hard. He was now out of sight through the windows. His wavering gaze fell on the white thing stuck in Frank’s waistband. Looked like an envelope. With the visible letters “ce Edwards.”

Vince Edwards?
Kanner Lake’s chief of police.

With trembling hands John grabbed the envelope and stuffed it in his pants pocket.

He had to get Frank out of there.

Which way? Up the street and around the corner?

No, down to his car.

John grasped Frank’s shoulder and turned him onto his back. Three red stains glared from his chest and stomach.
Dear God.
He was already dead.

Rage shot through John. He couldn’t save Frank. It was
too late.

His eyes stung. He would still get Frank out of here. He was not leaving the young man’s body to lie in the sun.

John leaned forward, peered over his left shoulder through the window. The two men with guns hadn’t moved. He couldn’t see the youngest one.

Now or never. Ten seconds, that was all he needed. Ten seconds to drag Frank past those windows…

Energy burned his veins like a fast-catching fire.
One, two, three — go!

John scuffled below Frank, grabbed his feet, and tugged with all his might.

Movement through the window. John’s head swiveled. The youngest man was pulling something out of a duffel bag. His head jerked up.

Their eyes met. The man’s motion stopped.

I’m dead
.

The split second stretched out. John didn’t slow.

One of the gunmen spotted John and yelled something. The younger man’s eyes held John’s for a split second. Then he twisted back to the duffel bag.

Air gushed from John’s throat. He cleared the last window and jumped out of view.

Keep moving,
shouted a voice in his brain. He couldn’t stand the sight of Frank’s unprotected head dragging along the cement, but what could he do?

He checked back over his shoulder, gauging the distance to his car, his cell phone. The Subaru looked a million miles away.

John’s head swam. Dizziness brushed his limbs. He wasn’t going to make it. If he collapsed on the sidewalk and one of those gunmen stepped out Java Joint’s door…

Somehow he kept on his feet.

Halfway down the long block he passed the bait and tackle shop — with a deeply recessed entry. John swiveled into its safety and yanked Frank all the way in.

Gulping air, John collapsed beside the still form. He leaned back against the hard brick, hardly daring to believe he’d made it this far.

His vision dimmed.

He’d just stay here a minute until the dizziness passed. He had to get Frank to his car. Call 911. Drive off this street…

All energy drained away.

No, no. Bailey… I have to help Bailey
…

John’s world faded to black.

FIFTEEN

Bev Trexel saw John disappear past the windows.

She closed her eyes in fleeting relief. When she’d caught sight of John trying to drag away Frank’s body — the epitome of heroism — Bev’s terror had risen to the point of nausea. She could not imagine Bailey without John. That moment of eye contact between John and the despicable man named Brad still hovered in Bev’s head. She’d been so sure Brad was going to shoot.

Bev stood toward the front end of the counter next to Angie, who gasped each breath in a sob. Bev’s eyes remained dry — she couldn’t muster the ability to cry. But her legs shook. Her whole
body
shook as she tried to hold up both hands. She felt the blood rushing down her arms, into her shoulders, until both limbs wobbled as if made of straw. Her rational mind knew this nightmare was real, screamed that she’d witnessed Frank West being shot to death. But her heart couldn’t yet comprehend it.

Bev wanted to look over her shoulder and check on Bailey, standing by herself behind the counter. Had she seen John? But no. It might only draw attention to her, and the mere act of turning her head might upset the little balance to which she clung.

Her eyes fixed on Brad.

From the duffel bag he yanked out a long black sheet. Masking tape ran along its top, half of the tape’s width on the fabric. Sections of the tape above the sheet had stuck together, and Brad ripped them apart. He threw a dark glance at their huddled group. “That one?” He jerked his head toward S-Man.

The thug who had shot Frank turned to S-Man. “Help him hang the sheets. And move fast.” His words came clipped and hard. “You.” He sneered at Pastor Hank. “Get chairs for them to stand on.”

S-Man glared at him, then strode to the duffel bag and took one end of the sheet. Hank hustled toward the nearest table and chairs. Picked up a chair in each hand. Brad pointed to the window closest to the counter. “Put ’em on either side.”

Hank obeyed.

“Hurry up!” Frank’s killer spat. Tension pulsed from him, beating into Bev’s chest.

Alexander. Abigail. Angela.
Her three grandchildren, ages fourteen to eight. From nowhere, their faces burned into her mind.
Harlon.
Her husband of over forty years.

Harlon, don’t despair. I’ll get through this
.

She had to — what would the man do without her? He couldn’t even wash his own laundry.

“Everybody else line up with her.” Frank’s shooter pointed toward Bailey. His animal-like gaze swung to Bev and hung there. She cringed. “Move it, move it!”