Authors: J.D. Rhoades
“I see,” McCaskill said. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. Angela could almost hear the wheels turning.
“Mr. McCaskill,” Berry said, “I assume you’re going to try to get Mr. Keller released.”
McCaskill spread his hands. “I assume that’s what I’m here for, at least in the short-term.”
Berry cast a troubled glance at Angela. “I’d like you to consider, Counselor,” he said, “that that might not be in Jack Keller’s best interest.”
“Dr. Berry,” McCaskill said. “I’ve been practicing criminal law for thirty years this past August. I can’t think of a situation where leaving a man in jail is in his best interest.”
“I appreciate that, sir,” Berry said. He looked away for a moment, then sighed. “I’m breaking confidentiality here,” he said, “but I don’t really see any other way around this.” He looked back at McCaskill. “Jack Keller has been in an extremely volatile emotional state. I’m afraid that the trauma of seeing his lover shot in front of him might precipitate some sort of breakdown.”
“Then it seems to me the sooner we get him into some sort of treatment, the better,” McCaskill said.
“If I thought that was a sure thing, I’d say go for it,” Berry said. “But Keller is sometimes a … difficult patient. He may resist treatment.”
“Let’s drop the formality, Doctor,” McCaskill said. “It’s too early in the morning for it. What are you really afraid of?”
“If Jack Keller saw Marie Jones get shot,” Berry said, “he’s very likely to go after the person he thinks is responsible.”
“And kill them,” McCaskill said flatly.
Berry nodded. “And kill them, yes.”
McCaskill sighed. “Wonderful,” he said. “Nothing I like better than an ethical dilemma before sunrise.”
The door behind the counter opened. Deputy Clevenger came in. A man in a dark suit was with her.
McCaskill turned to Berry. “I’m not making any decisions until I talk to Keller. He’s my client. He’ll be the boss.”
“Just remember what I said, Counselor,” Berry said.
“Oh, I will,” McCaskill said. He sighed again and picked up his briefcase. “I will.”
Keller sat with his cuffed hands on the table in front of him, picking absently at a ragged thumbnail. The FBI agent who had introduced himself as Clancy had
been talking to him for the last two hours. Clancy, however, had been the only one talking. Keller hadn’t said a word since calling Angela. Clancy had spoken reasonably at first. All he wanted, he had said, was to know what had happened. How those people had died. When Keller had refused to respond, Clancy had gotten angry. He had yelled. He had threatened. Keller had just sat at the table and looked at his hands, waiting. Finally, another agent had come in and spoken with Clancy in a low, urgent voice. Keller couldn’t make out the reply, but he could hear the frustration in Clancy’s voice. Clancy stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Keller sat and waited. He was good at waiting. The door of the interrogation room swung open. Scott McCaskill walked in. Keller spoke for the first time.
“Glad you could make it,” he said.
McCaskill sat down across from him. “Well, when Angela called,” he said. “I didn’t know you’d gotten the attention of the FBI. They’re a little harder to convince.” He opened his briefcase, took out a legal pad and a pen. “So what happened?” he said.
“Have you heard anything about Marie?” Keller asked.
McCaskill shook his head. “Your friend Sanchez went to the hospital. He’ll let Angela know as soon as there’s news.”
“Okay,” Keller said. “This is what happened. Roy Randle shot Marie,” Keller said. “And Shelby. Shelby got a last shot off and took Randle down.”
McCaskill nodded. “Okay,” he said. “And what about the girl? The one you were originally after?”
“She lied to us,” Keller said. “She told us that both Randle and that kid they had picked up were dead. She set us up for Randle to ambush us.”
“And do you have any problem telling this to the feds?”
Keller shook his head. “Later,” he said. “Right now I just want to get out of here.”
“Well,” McCaskill said, “that’s what I want to talk to you about.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dr. Berry’s out front. He seems a little worried about you.”
Keller looked back down at the table. “About what?”
“He seems to think that if you get out, you might do something … rash.”
Keller didn’t answer. McCaskill sighed.
“Jack,” he said. “I’m about to do something that I never do. I’m about to ask a question I never ask, because if the answer is ‘yes,’ then under the law, I have to do something about it. Up to and including breaking confidentiality and ratting out my own client.” He leaned forward. “Look at me,” he ordered. Keller looked up. “If I get you out of here,” McCaskill said, “are you going to try to kill somebody? Somebody like Laurel Marks?”
“You’re right,” Keller said. “It’s better that you don’t ask.”
McCaskill leaned back. “Jack—,” he said.
Keller broke in. “Relax,” he said. “I don’t even know where to find her.”
“I’m not sure I believe that, Jack. And it’s not an answer, in any case.”
“Am I being charged with anything?”
“Doesn’t look like it,” McCaskill said glumly. “They could charge you with interfering with an investigation, but this whole thing’s got everyone in such an uproar, everyone seems to be waiting for someone else to do it.”
“Then get me out of here,” Keller said, “or I’ll find a lawyer who will.”
McCaskill stood up. His face was grim. “Fine,” he said. “Wait here. This shouldn’t take long.”
Keller raised his cuffed hands. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said.
After a few minutes, the door opened again. A middle-aged man in a deputy’s uniform stepped in. He was carrying a handcuff key. He stepped over to Keller and began unlocking the handcuffs. “Looks like you’re gettin’ out,” he said. The cuffs fell away from Keller’s wrists. He began mbbing the marks the cuffs had made. The deputy looked at the red marks and scowled in disapproval. “That wasn’t one of my people put those cuffs on too tight, was it?” he said.
Keller shook his head. “I think it was one of the FBI guys.” The deputy nodded grimly. “Figures. They come down here, play games in our jail, an’ we get blamed.” He looked Keller in the eye for the first time. “You were with Jones when she got shot?”
“Yeah,” Keller said warily. He wondered if this guy was a plant, a trick by the FBI to get him to open up and volunteer information. But the deputy didn’t demand information; he gave it. “She’s in surgery now,” he told Keller. The next sentence seemed to load years onto the man’s face. “It don’t look good. I heard she lost a lot of blood. An’ the bullet was close to her spine. She might not walk again.”
Keller, still wary, asked, “You work with Marie … Deputy Jones?”
The man nodded. “She was … I mean she is … good people. And Shelby…” He shook his head. “God, I hate to think of what his wife and them two girls are goin’ through.” Then he looked up and extended a hand. “I’m Tom Wardell.”
Keller shook it. “Jack Keller.” He started to draw the hand back, but Wardell held on. He looked Keller in the eye.
“Mister Keller,” he said in a low voice. “Talk around here is that when you get out, you’re goin’ after the people that killed Shelby and shot up Jones.” He held up a hand. “I don’t want you to answer that,” he said.
“I wasn’t going to,” Keller said.
Wardell grimaced. “Fair enough. But if you get ’em … well, a lot of people wouldn’t be real unhappy.” He released Keller’s hand. “I’ll keep that in mind,” Keller said.
The door opened behind Wardell. Scott McCaskill was standing there. “Time to go,” he said.
Angela was waiting in the lobby. Lucas Berry was standing behind her. Angela ran to him and threw her arms around him. He hugged her back gently. “Jack,” she said, her voice muffled by his chest. “Oh, God, Jack, I’m so sorry.”
“I know,” Keller said. He kissed her on the top of the head, hugging her tighter. Then he broke the hug and stepped back. He nodded to Berry. “Major,” he said formally. “Thanks for coming down.”
“Thought it might be an emergency, Jack,” Berry said. He looked at Keller, shrewd appraisal in his dark eyes. “You want to talk?”
“Thanks again, Major,” Keller said, “but I’m fine.” He looked at Clevenger, the deputy behind the desk. “Where’s my car?” he said.
She took a manila folder from behind the counter and handed it to him. “It’s in the parking lot,” she said. “You’ve got to sign for the keys and other property.” McCaskill walked up and joined them as Keller fished in the envelope and pulled out the keys. He signed the property receipt without looking at the other contents of the envelope. He began walking toward the door.
“Jack?” Angela called out. “Where are you … Jack!” He walked out without looking behind him. She tried to follow, but by the time she reached the parking lot, he was gone.
The sun was just rising as Laurel pulled the stolen car up to the gate. The dozing guard jerked to life as he saw the vehicle. He leaned out of his little window and regarded her suspiciously. She smiled at him.
“Laurel Marks,” she said. “My folks live at 100 Sandpiper Court.”
The guard scowled. He obviously didn’t know her. “I been away for a while,” she explained.
He scratched his chin, still stupid from sleep. He muttered something under his breath, then picked up a loose-leaf notebook and began turning pages. He turned to her.
“I don’t see you on the list,” he said.
She opened the door and slid out of the car. “Let me see,” she said, standing by the window. He picked up the notebook and leaned partway out. When he did, she pulled the tire iron she had taken from the trunk out from behind the front seat and smashed it as hard as she could into the side of his head. The guard cried out in pain and she hit him again. He slumped over, then slid back inside the window. The notebook fluttered to the ground. She picked it up and tossed it back into the tiny guard shack. She opened the door and stepped inside. The guard was lying in the corner, moaning and dazed. Laurel hit him again. And again. And again until he stopped moving. She closed the door and got back in the car.
As she pulled into her parents’ driveway, she saw Curt’s Jeep parked out front. Her father’s Cadillac was gone. The house was silent. As she got out, Laurel could vaguely hear the sounds of the mowers on the golf course. She caught a whiff of freshly cut grass. She stopped and took a deep breath, savoring the smell. She found the spare key in its usual place, under the fake rock that sat in the bushes by the side of the door. She let herself in silently, slipping through the opened door like a wraith and closing it quietly. The caution was probably unnecessary; her mother was undoubtedly in her usual near-coma from the booze and sleeping pills that she used to hammer herself down into sleep every night. And Curt… it looked like that apple was falling close to the tree as well. But sneaking in had become an ingrained
habit. She had tried as hard as she could not to be noticed in the house, not to attract her father’s attention.
She padded silently down the hall and turned left past the living room. Her father’s office was as she remembered it, and the key she was searching for was in its usual place in the top right desk drawer. The gun cabinet swung open with a slight creak and she surveyed the contents inside. She made her choices. She stopped by the kitchen for a few more supplies before heading up the stairs. She swung the door of her brother’s room open. He lay sprawled on his back, his mouth gaping. He was dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts. An empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s lay on its side by the bed. Curt stirred slightly when Laurel put the barrel of the shotgun beneath his chin. “Time to get up, big brother,” she said.
Keller stood in the dim hospital lobby, studying the directory. The visitors’ desk was closed at this late hour and the lobby was mostly deserted. He had located the ICU and was turning to head for the elevators when he saw Frank Jones standing at the bank of pay phones in a hallway off the lobby. He saw the older man slam the phone down in frustration. He walked down the hall. Jones’s face turned to stone as he spotted Keller.
“Get out of here,” he said in a low, dangerous voice.
“Frank,” Keller said. “Frank, I’m sorry.”
“Fuck you, Keller,” Jones replied, “and fuck your I’m sorrys. You brought my girl nothing but trouble since the day you walked into her life. And now look what you’ve done.”
“I need to see her, Frank,” Keller said.
“You can’t,” he said. “Frank—”
“No, Keller,” he said. “You’re … she’s dead, Keller.”
Keller felt his knees sag beneath him. He leaned against the wall to steady himself. His voice came out as a croak. “What?” he said.
“She died on the operating table. You got her killed, you son of a bitch. Now get out of my sight before I kill you.” Keller watched him dumbly as he turned and walked away. His chest constricted as if he were being cmshed by an iron band wrapped around it. He saw a chair nearby and staggered toward it like a dmnkard.
He fell into the chair, his body wracked with a fit of trembling. He huddled there for a good five minutes as the spasm passed. When he got up, the trembling had stopped. He walked slowly at first, like a sleepwalker, but by the time he reached the visitors’ parking lot, his gait was normal. No one would think there was anything wrong with him unless they looked in his eyes. The parking lot was nearly empty at this hour, and he spotted Angela’s Dodge pickup truck parked a few rows away from Keller’s Crown Victoria. He stood staring at it for a few moments, then unlocked his vehicle and got in. He took a notepad from the backseat and a pen from the glove compartment. He wrote a short note, then walked across to Angela’s vehicle and put the note under her wiper blade. Then he got back in his car and drove away.