She hadn’t eaten anything all day and at the moment was glad for it. She squinted from the sunlight and then backed away from the small pile of stomach juices in the dirt. She leaned against the wall and concealed herself under the narrow sliver of shade the protruding edge of the overhanging rooftop provided.
The sickness left a trail of fatigue in its wake, and Lena did her best to stop her arms from shaking. But finding herself alone, she gave up on the efforts to conceal the weariness and slid down to the small piece of concrete that jutted out from the building’s foundation. She rested her head between her knees and shut her eyes.
Deep down she knew Mark was right. If she denounced the bill now, then she would have to live with the possibility of sentencing a girl to death. She’d heard enough horror stories in rehab of drunk drivers killing families to know that the weight of a death on your shoulders wasn’t something that ever left you. But the only thought more horrifying than having the Foreman’s girl’s death on her hands was having Kaley’s instead. She tilted her head back and rested it against the warm concrete of the building.
With two wobbling knees, Lena pushed herself off the ground and dusted the seat of her pants. Once inside she passed the office where Becky Foreman was being held. The two made eye contact through the window. Becky’s face was nothing more than a shell, and Lena knew it wouldn’t take much longer for the façade to crack and expose the rage that lay underneath.
Mark and Jake were still in Jake’s office when Lena stepped back inside, and she left the door open when she entered. “I’ll stay quiet for twelve hours, but if you don’t find either of them by that time, then I’m making the announcement. I’m taking Gwen home.”
One of the officers helped keep the press at bay, and Lena ignored the questions flung at her from the police line. She climbed into the back of the cruiser with Gwen and took note of the time. Jake only had eleven hours and fifty-five minutes left to find the Foreman girl.
***
The pain eradiating from Ken’s lower lip hadn’t dulled since Scott had punched him, and he found himself continuing to check the mirror to examine the swelling that had doubled the size of his upper lip. He kept an eye on Scott in his peripheral the rest of the trip, and after the third house the rest of Ken had numbed. People cried, begged, were beaten, and then ultimately submitted.
Scott’s phone buzzed, and he answered a call. He grimaced and turned his head away, whispering angrily into the receiver. “I don’t care. Just get there!” He hung up and tossed the phone on his lap.
Ken shifted uneasily in his seat, and his neck stiffened, sending a jolt of pain down the rest of his back. The ride between farms had been quiet, and Ken found himself wondering how many more they’d have to visit before it was over.
“Turn left there,” Scott said, pointing up the road.
Expecting another house Ken raised an eyebrow in surprise when he saw the restaurant on the side of the road.
“I’m hungry,” Scott said.
The old diner looked as if it were one harsh winter away from collapsing under the weight of snow. Empty spaces lined the parking lot, and Ken pulled into a spot right next to the front door.
The door’s hinges whined upon their entrance, as if the place had gotten so old it hoped to deter customers rather than inviting them. Aside from Ken and Scott, there was only one other patron, who sat all the way at the end of the bar, and he didn’t even bother to look their way.
The door to the kitchen flopped open, and a waitress who looked as if she should be home with her grandchildren stepped out. “Take a seat wherever you like. But you should know we’re out of fries. Won’t get a shipment in until next week.”
Scott ignored the comment, but Ken offered a smile, which wasn’t reciprocated, and they found a booth near a window. The vinyl seats were torn and spewing a yellow foam from its cracks, which gave the cushion a lumpy feel.
The waitress approached and handed both of them a menu, staring at Ken’s swollen lip for a moment before going over the specials. Somewhere between the meatloaf and lasagna Ken lost his appetite when he saw the cook in the kitchen pick his nose and then slide a burger through the pickup window. In the end he settled for a bowl of tomato soup and a coffee.
Once it was just the two of them again, Ken found his eyes flitting to anything but the man across from him. It was easier to ignore him in the car with the distraction of the road, but across from him in a booth of a diner was a different story.
“You’re not what I thought you’d be,” Scott said, his arm propped up on the windowsill. “You play it up well for the cameras, but you hate what you do.” He squinted his eyes, skeptical. “Why are you here?”
Ken reached for the ice water on the table. “A job.” He winced when the tip of the cup touched his busted lip, but his thirst overrode the pain. He drained half the glass and then set it down. But when he saw the look on Scott’s face he knew the man wasn’t satisfied with his response. “I wanted the money. That’s what I’m doing here.”
The only reason I’m here.
“Your kid’s sick, right?” Scott asked.
The blood running through Ken’s veins slowed to a crawl at the mention of his son. “Who told you that?”
The waitress returned with Ken’s coffee then quickly departed. Scott reached over and grabbed it then picked up a sugar packet. “The execs only tell me what they want me to know. I wasn’t sure why they told me that until now.” The grains of white disappeared into the black abyss of the coffee, and he ripped open another one.
“My kid and my family is none of your business.” Ken lisped slightly from his swollen lip, which only reminded him of what the man was capable of, but he wasn’t going to sit there and let the thug threaten his family. Consequences be damned. “You got that?” Scott picked up the coffee mug, his eyes innocent as he nodded and took a sip.
When the food finally arrived the soup was lukewarm, but the moment the spoon touched Ken’s lips he realized just how hungry he’d been, and he drained the bowl in less than a minute. Once it was empty he turned his attention to the packets of crackers that were meant to be eaten with the soup.
Scott took his time eating, having chosen the meatloaf special after missing the cook’s disregard for the state department’s health code. Ken eyed him carefully as he watched Scott eat. His profession had forced him to learn how to read people, it was part of what made him so successful at his job, but he had yet to crack the quiet enigma that was Scott Ambers. “You’re no rig manager.” The statement didn’t stop the man from enjoying the meal. “I don’t think you’ve ever worked on an oil rig your entire life.” He leaned forward, but still Scott didn’t look up. “What you did today,” Ken said, thumping his finger into the table, “that’s what you do, isn’t it?”
Scott stopped the sawing motion of his knife halfway through a chunk of meatloaf and looked up. He flexed his grip around the knife handle and then popped the chunk of meat into his mouth. He chewed slowly, holding Ken’s gaze until he was finished. “I do what needs to be done.”
It wasn’t the answer itself that bothered Ken so much as the way Scott had said it. There was a casual innocence in his response, but there was also an undertone of a more sinister intent. But with all things sinister there was a certain magnetism that drew you in, something that was beyond your own power to resist. “And that’s what you did today? What needed to be done?”
Scott wiped his mouth with the napkin and then tossed it over the plate. He looked behind him, and Ken noticed that the only other patron who’d been in the diner had gone, and neither the waitress nor the cook could be seen in the kitchen. When Scott turned around he’d picked up one of the white paper placemats from the next booth and placed it in the middle of the table. “This is North Dakota.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter, and he placed it in the middle of the state. “This is the property that New Energy currently owns in regards to the Bakken shale field.” He pulled out a pen and then drew a circle that nearly took up the entire piece of paper. “And this is the Bakken shale field.”
The disparity between the size of the quarter and the potential for oil in the area was substantial. Ken had seen companies unleash some shady tactics on people to make sure things landed on their side of the table, but this was the first time he’d seen such violence used to obtain the desired outcome. “They’re trying to purchase more land?”
“The executives have had some major foreign investors come on board.” Scott leaned back in his seat and shrugged. “If they can’t deliver on the contracts they’ve already signed, then they go under. And they can’t deliver unless they can frack more land.” He placed his finger against the ridge of the quarter and flicked it off the page, and it skidded into Ken’s lap. “And if they go under, you don’t get paid.”
Ken picked the quarter up off of his jeans and clenched it in his fist. “Is this what Reese Coleman did for you? Drive you around while you beat the shit out of people until they gave up the deed to their land?”
The casual tone returned, and just as before, it sent a chill down the back of Ken’s spine as Scott leaned forward. “Reese Coleman asked too many questions.”
Chapter 9 – 26 Hours Left
The police cruiser flicked its lights, and the sea of reporters and cameras that had been permanently stationed down the driveway off Lena’s property slowly parted to allow them to pass. Gwen kept her gaze in the opposite direction of wherever Lena was looking. Neither had said a word the entire ride, and the silence was only broken by the rumble of the police car’s tires as they traversed the bumpy road. The moment the car came to a stop Gwen was out the door and inside the house.
Lena lingered in the backseat and caught the eyes of the officer in the rearview mirror. “Do you need to get back?”
“No, ma’am. I’ll be on duty at your house tonight.”
He was friendly. All of the deputies had been friendly. But after all the time and resources that Jake had poured into keeping her and the rest of her family safe, she wasn’t sure how much longer that friendliness would last. She knew some of the deputies had ties with family members that worked for the oil company. And with one of their own shot dead trying to defend Kaley, Lena noticed that there were only a handful of deputies that remained at the house at all times. The same officers rotating in shifts. “Thank you for the ride.”
“You’re welcome, Mrs. Hayes.”
The walk from the police cruiser to the front door felt long. From her lawn she could still see the news vans parked on the side of the main highway. The sight made everything feel foreign, like the makings of a dream where the landscape and buildings were abstract, warped beyond recognition. But this wasn’t a dream, and no matter how many times she tried to pinch herself she wasn’t going to wake up.
Music thumped loudly from Gwen’s room, and Lena stood outside her daughter’s door for a moment, knowing the two needed to speak, but hesitant of what would be said.
It’s better to just rip the Band-Aid off quickly.
Lena pounded on the door. “Open up!” But the music only got louder. “Gwendolyn Hayes, you open up this door right now!” When the music refused to lower and the door remained closed Lena went to her room and retrieved the key. She fumbled the brass into the lock, and the screaming music blasted her senses upon entrance.
Gwen jumped from her bed as Lena made a beeline for the stereo. “Get out of my room!”
The scratching noises of whatever her daughter believed was music ended, and Lena rounded on her, thrusting her finger in her face. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Do you have any idea how stupid that was? What if someone had decided to go after you instead of that girl? What if the same person that took your sister decided to come back for you? What if—”
“What if it was me who was taken instead of Kaley?”
The question surprised Lena, and she shook her head in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“I know what you think, and I definitely know what Mark thinks. You both wish it would have been me that was taken, not Kaley. Not the daughter who hasn’t been ruined. Not the daughter who you got to do it the right way with. But me?” Gwen thrust a finger into her chest. “I’m the one that’s broken. I’m the one that’s the fuck-up. I’m the mistakes of your past, and you can’t see anything but that every time you look at me.”
“That’s what you think this is about?” Lena’s voice escaped in thin, wispy gasps. She gripped her daughter by the shoulders, but Gwen pulled away. “You’re not broken.”
“I’m not?” Gwen laughed, tears streaming down her cheeks. “But you’re broken, and my real dad is broken. How can I not be?”
In rehab, Lena had seen some of the most hardened people break down. People who had walked through life with a steel callus over their souls, never letting anyone inside, never letting anything touch them. They did this because of what they’d seen, what they’d experienced. But in rehab everything was always about learning to let your guard down, learning to trust people again, and then dealing with the inevitable fallout when they would hurt you. Because that was what people did—they hurt one another. Sometimes it was intentional, sometimes it was by accident, but sooner or later it would happen. And that was why the group leader would always hound on self-reliance. They couldn’t help other people until they were strong enough to take life’s punches. It was one of the reasons why addicts turned to the things that destroyed them—because it was better than feeling whatever shit life had thrown their way.
Deep down, Lena knew that everything she’d done when Gwen was a child would come back to haunt her. In her nightmares she would listen to her eldest daughter spit every curse and blame from the sins of her past, but never in any of the darkest corridors of her guilt did she think her daughter would ever blame herself. “Did you know that you were born six weeks early?” Lena held out her hand, her fingers shaking, and ran her finger down her palm. “I could fit you right here. You were so small.” She smiled. “When I went into labor my first thought was that it was because of the drugs I’d taken, or all the alcohol I drank. I thought of all of the horrible things that I may have done to you from the mistakes I made. But when I saw you”—Lena sobbed—“you were perfect. Despite everything I’d put you through, all of the mistakes I’d made, at six weeks premature, you were already stronger than I was.”