Authors: Marliss Melton
The sound of Tobias
’s voice had her halting on the landing. Her heart leapt up her throat.
“
Hey, Dylan, it’s me.”
Just the sound of his voice filled her with a poignant longing to believe in him. If only he hadn
’t lied to her.
“
Just listen to me and believe me when I tell you that I’m going to get you out of this mess. In fact, I made some headway this morning that I wanted to tell you about—”
Cynicism overtook her weak impulse to dash to the nearest phone and pick it up. Turning a deaf ear to the rest of what he had to say, Dylan plodded up the rest of the steps and turned toward Terrence
’s bedroom, shutting the door.
Tobias couldn
’t save her now. No one could.
***
“Okay, I’ve done background checks on Loomis and Richardson,” Ike said to the Taskforce team, once more crammed into his hotel suite early the next morning.
The television, broadcasting the latest situation on the
“Harpers Ferry Stand-off” with the volume lowered, vied for Toby’s attention. News that seven of Dylan’s civilian soldiers had surrendered to the FBI the previous night had taken top story. One by one, the deserters were being interviewed. With a pinch of disappointment, Toby recognized Nathan, the waiter, as one of those who’d walked out on his leader.
“
Here’s the bad news,” Ike announced, reclaiming Toby’s attention. “I’ve dug up every bit of dirt I could find on Dylan’s colleagues, and they all come out squeaky clean. Director Loomis was a UDT diver back in ‘Nam. He voted for Bush in 2000, and his stance on Syria is pro-intervention, giving him no motive to kill Nolan or Treyburn. You can scratch Loomis off our list.”
Toby glanced at the television in time to hear Nathan say,
“The only reason I gave up is because my wife just had a baby, and she needs my help at home.”
“
Then you still believe in the militia leader’s innocence?” asked the reporter interviewing him.
“
Hell, yes, I believe in her innocence,” Nathan shot back, regaining a portion of Toby’s respect. “Ask anyone around here if they think she’s a murderer, and they’ll tell you you’re crazy. The Feds are framing her because they think the SAM threatens national security. Just what are they afraid of, that’s what I want to know. If you think we’re anti-government extremists, then Santa Claus must be a pedophile.”
“
Then there’s Dr. Kevin Richardson,” Ike continued, unaware of Toby’s difficulty focusing. “Listen to this quote from an article in
Army Magazine
, written back in ‘06, when Richardson received a bronze star.”
Ike leaned toward his laptop to read out loud.
“‘During the bloodiest months of the Iraq War, Captain Richardson worked 60 to 70 hours a week counseling soldiers who struggled with insomnia, nightmares, shock, and grief. Risking his own life, he boarded helicopters and joined convoys in order to reach the hundreds of shattered soldiers needing his help. Colleagues attribute his success to the instant rapport he established with the troops. Though planning to resign his commission, Richardson intends to continue comforting and healing veterans returning from war
.
’”
The team lead leaned back in his chair and looked at Toby.
“He doesn’t sound like the type to go murdering heads of state.”
Toby had to admit that he didn
’t. But he couldn’t ignore the suspicion niggling inside him. Maybe it was that bit of cellophane that had fallen out of Richardson’s pocket yesterday. Every time he thought about it, he wondered if Dylan hadn’t mistaken a wrapper off a box of cigarettes for a candy wrapper.
What if pack-a-day Richardson habitually stuck his wrappers in the pocket of his smock and hung them in his office closet at night? What if one of those wrappers had fallen out and Dylan held felt it when he
’d stuck her in there, while helping himself to her purse and her car keys? It was totally possible.
Toby sat forward.
“Bear with me for just a sec,” he enjoined the others. “Imagine what it must be like to be a man in Richardson’s shoes.”
Ike narrowed his eyes at him.
“Go ahead,” he offered, giving Toby the floor.
He drew a deep breath.
“Okay. Imagine that, for the past fifteen years, you’ve treated hundreds of soldiers whose lives have been torn apart by war. You do your best to put them back together, but they
never stop coming
. One war leads to another, first Iraq, then Afghanistan. You’re exhausted trying to give these vets some kind of quality of life when along comes the threat of more urban warfare, more IEDs, more trauma. You start to wonder if there’ll ever be an end to it and who will help these soldiers when you retire.”
The room fell quiet with the exception of the chipper allergy commercial on TV.
Hamilton spoke up in his calm, bass voice. “But the man has an alibi.”
“
That’s right. He was chaperoning his niece’s party,” Ike reminded Toby.
“
Wearing a mask,” Toby pointed out. “How could anyone tell if it was him or his brother, who looks just like him?”
“
We ask his brother’s wife,” Jackson proposed, and they all turned to look at him.
Ike reached for his keyboard.
“Easy enough. I’ll find the brother’s address right now. With a little luck you could question her this morning.”
“
Have we tracked down Ivan Ackerman yet?” Toby asked. “Richardson treated him for PTSD. He could have used him to plant the evidence.”
Ike started sifting through his notes.
“The state police haven’t found him, but I came across his father’s address in Martinsburg. Maybe Ackerman senior knows where his son is hiding. Why don’t you drop by there after questioning Richardson’s sister-in-law?”
Feeling encouraged for the first time in days, Toby entered the two addresses Ike gave him into his phone—Scott Richardson
’s and Ivan Ackerman Sr.’s. They had three and a half hours before Palmer’s daily briefing. Wars had been won in less time, he reminded himself. With a little luck, maybe they’d find proof of Dylan’s innocence, and her persecution would be over.
***
“Hey!”
A distant shout startled Dylan out of a light slumber. She found herself in her own bed, lying on top of the covers, having sprawled there in exhaustion toward the wee hours of the morning. The brightness of the light in the windows had her turning her head to her clock with a stab of alarm. It was 8:05 in the morning, and Terrence hadn
’t yet had his medicine.
Snatching up her bathrobe, she flew barefooted down the hall toward his bedroom. She was still threading her arms through the sleeves when she barreled through his door. The absolute stillness beyond drew her to a sudden stop. The way the sunlight sparkled in the suspended dust motes had her drawing a frightened breath, and the faint but unmistakable odor of death hit her nostrils.
For a brief moment, the world funneled to black and she was staring down at the mangled bodies of her boys. But then the image dissolved, giving way to the brilliance of the morning sun and the gentle coo of a dove sitting on Terrence’s windowsill.
Keeping her gaze averted from the bed, Dylan watched the bird bob behind the glass. At the same time, she absorbed into herself the reality that Terrence was no longer in the room. Only his broken and diseased body remained, but he himself was as free as the bird, which lit abruptly off the sill and flew away. It had been there just long enough for Dylan to see it.
Oh, Terrence
. She closed her eyes, savoring the vision and the certainty that he’d wanted her to know that he was happy. He hadn’t died the way her boys had. He’d been ready to go. And though her heart felt utterly hollow and she lacked the desire to do anything but turn around and crawl back into bed, she knew she would be all right.
The realization had her opening her eyes. They slid slowly toward the bed, where she absorbed the details in as detached a manner as possible. She took a wary step closer. Terrence
’s eyes were closed. His jaw hung open, but there wasn’t any sign that he’d struggled in his last moments. Her prayers for a peaceful death had been mercifully answered.
It
’s over
, she thought, with a hitch of foreboding.
What happens now?
Chapter Eighteen
“Mr. Ackerman?”
“
Who’s wantin’ to know?”
Leaning against the cold stone wall at the rear corner of the Ackerman residence, Toby overheard Jackson introducing himself and Hamilton to the individual answering their knock at 18 Piney Knob, one of two dozen mobile homes occupying a tract of forested land.
Toby, meanwhile, kept an eye on the humble abode’s rear exit. The Rangers had a term for cowards who fled the scene whenever there was a confrontation—squirters. If Ivan Ackerman happened to be in his father’s house, he’d go running out the back, for sure.
“
He ain’t here,” Ackerman Sr. asserted.
“
Any idea where we might find him?”
Toby rolled his eyes. Jackson was always so freaking polite. He had to be hearing the same thumps and bumps that Toby could hear as someone inside the trailer scurried around frantically. If luck was with the Taskforce members—which it had certainly been when they
’d questioned Sally Richardson earlier that morning—then Ivan Ackerman was right here in his father’s house panicking over the thought of being apprehended.
Toby
’s blood bubbled with anticipation.
Come out, come out, wherever you are
. They didn’t have a warrant, which meant they couldn’t break the door down. But a tip to the state police, who hadn’t managed to locate Ackerman on their own, even though he owed them several outstanding fines, just might persuade Ackerman Sr. to hand his son over. Either that, or Ivan would pop out on his own, and
then
they could call the state police.
“
I haven’t seen my son in years.” The father’s belligerent lisp told Toby they wouldn’t get any cooperation from him.
Toby could hear the doorknob on the back door squeaking. Anticipation whipped his muscles into a state of readiness. The hinges groaned, and he peeked around the corner of the house, only to tamp down a full-throttle charge as a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair stepped outside to light a cigarette.
Damn.
Toby sagged against the corner of the house, doused in disappointment. Just then he heard the woman whisper, “All clear, honey. Hurry!”
In the next instant, Ackerman, Jr., wearing the same militia uniform he
’d worn on Saturday, went streaking across the small back yard toward the cover of the pine forest, some fifty feet away. Toby let loose a whoop of relief and lit out after him. “Squirter!” he called, alerting his colleagues and praying the woman didn’t produce a weapon and shoot him in the back.
The startled look on Ivan
’s face as he cranked his head around was one that Toby would savor for days. With a burst of speed, he barreled into Ivan, knocking him down onto a bed of pine needles that crackled and popped as they rolled. Ivan struggled but proved no match for a former state champion wrestler. Within seconds, the deserter lay face down, one arm and one leg bent up behind him, completely immobilized.
Hamilton materialized out of thin air to back Toby up, leaving Jackson to keep the residents subdued.
“Police are on their way,” TJ relayed.
“
I’ve got a question for you, Ivan,” Toby growled, taking advantage of the time they had to themselves to clear up certain matters. “Did Dr. Richardson give you that pipe to put in the barn?”
Ivan blanched.
“Man, I told you, I found it next to the driveway,” he insisted.
“
You’re lying. Someone told you to plant it on her property. Was it your psychiatrist? Did he also tell you to drive Dylan’s Suburban into D.C. one night in September?”
“
I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Damn it.
“Are you going to play dumb with me?” Toby asked, tightening his hold.
Ivan howled in pain.
“Please! Please, don’t hurt me. I don’t know anything, I swear.”
“
Then why did you desert the militia when your captain needed you, you backstabbing, weak-willed son-of-a-bitch?”
The gentle hand landing on Toby
’s shoulder eased the compulsion to make Ivan suffer.
“
He’ll spill the truth soon enough,” Hamilton assured him.
The DEA agent
’s calm energy flowed down Toby’s spine, prompting him to loosen his brutal grip. Hamilton was right. After all, Ivan was a classic squirter, the first to turn his back on his teammates. With a little persuasion from the state police, he would eventually blurt the secret he was keeping. But would he do it before the siege turned ugly? And would his words have any effect on the charges staring Dylan in the face?
Sally Richardson had told them that she
’d gone to bed before the party was over, leaving her husband and her brother-in-law in charge of the party. Scott had complained the next morning that Kevin had taken off for a couple of hours, forcing him to handle the dozen or so teens on his own. Toby’s theory appeared to be gaining ground. If the fur fiber found in Dylan’s car matched the fur on the mask Kevin had worn that night, Dylan’s good name might be cleared. But a warrant was required for that to happen, and only the FBI could get it now that they’d laid claim to the investigation. Furthermore, getting a judge to sign off on a warrant took time—twenty four hours at least.
The odds of keeping Dylan out of jail were dwindling by the moment.
***
Dylan startled at the slamming of the ambulance doors. Terrence
’s sheet-draped body had just disappeared from view. The need to ensure that he received the same care and consideration she’d bestowed on the fallen back in Afghanistan had her taking a step toward the vehicle as it pulled away. Sergeant Morrison caught her back by her elbow.
What if I never get to say good-bye?
Scalding tears blurred her vision. She’d attended every one of her boys’ funerals. But with her arrest now imminent, chances were she’d be deprived of that deeply symbolic experience. She’d never get to honor Terrence the way he deserved to be honored.
The lights atop the ambulance sparkled all the way down the driveway—now flanked by notably fewer cars and trucks. Its siren remained respectfully quiet. A cold chill seemed to rise from the gravel under Dylan
’s feet to ascend her legs and spine like mercury rising up a thermometer. It was over. Another Chapter of her life had ended.
Rousing from her self-absorption, she forced herself to consider her remaining militia members, many of whom appeared to have abandoned their posts to witness the solemn occasion. Their grimy faces reflected defeat. They had sacrificed their time and risked their lives to defend her innocence from a misguided and presumptuous federal government. Some may have lost their jobs because of their devotion to her; others had jeopardized their relationships with loved ones. She refused to ask anything more of them. The time had come to surrender.
Clearing the phlegm from her throat, she turned to tell them it was over.
“
Wait.” Sheriff Fallon stepped in front of her, cutting her off. “We’ve held out this long,” he insisted, having accurately guessed her intentions. “We can hold out a little longer.”
She shielded her eyes to study him incredulously.
“What for, Cal?” she demanded. “They’re ready to go home.” She gestured toward the yard. “Look how few of them remain.”
The scar hashing Fallon
’s upper lip whitened as his face hardened. “The whole town is behind us,” he insisted. “They’re protesting in the streets. The entire nation is divided! We can’t quit now. This is history! This is where the people check the power of the federal government once and for all.”
Dylan drew a tight breath. The legacy of being descended from John Brown was something she could not escape.
Fallon stepped closer. His slate-gray eyes burned with emotion as he added intently into her ear, “All you have to do is talk to the media and protest your innocence. When the nation sees and hears you, they’ll know you’ve been wrongfully accused, and they’ll rise up in protest of federal tyranny!”
“
Stop it, Cal.” She’d heard enough. “If you want to start a revolution, you can do it on your own turf. But this is
my
land, and I will not have any blood spilled on my account. Marshal the troops. Have them clean up this yard and gather their possessions. We’re surrendering today.”
Whirling, she marched proudly into the house to wash up and dress. If her capitulation was going to be aired on national television, then she would do it with as much dignity as she could muster.
***
Eastern Regional Jail in Martinsburg lacked adequate heat to warm the cinderblock maze of rooms and hallways. Even so, when Toby stepped out of the low-security corridor into the waiting lounge and realized what he was seeing on the television, his soaring hopes took a nose dive, and he broke into a cold sweat.
“No fucking way.”
Suddenly, it no longer mattered that Ivan Ackerman had just buckled under the threat of a lengthy jail sentence or that he
’d confessed on tape who the real killer was and how he’d been paid by him to divert suspicion onto Dylan Connelly.
“
We’re too late,” a stunned Jackson concluded, having followed Toby’s horrified stare.
Ike and Hamilton joined them in the room, saw what was happening live on television, and stared in silent dismay. As a unit, they drew nearer to the wall where the TV hung to watch the unfolding news story.
Following a three day stand-off, Dylan and her militia appeared to be surrendering of their own volition.
Frustration roared through Toby as he took in the aerial view of three dozen or so militia members marching toward the head of Dylan
’s driveway. They kept their hands behind their olive berets, fingers interlocked to communicate the intent to surrender. Dylan, with her burgundy beret, stood apart from the rest as she led them toward her mailbox and the wall of black SUVs lining the other side of the road. A hundred yards in either direction, border patrol agents fought to keep the press at a distance, behind a line of yellow tape.
Toby rounded on Ike.
“Damn it! Why didn’t Palmer tell us this was happening? Call him. Tell him what we know.”
With a hard look, Ike showed him the cell phone that was already plastered to his ear.
“
Obviously
, he’s not answering,” he bit out.
“
Shit!” Toby wheeled away from the television unable to watch. Grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes, he told himself this couldn’t be happening. They’d been minutes away from tipping the scales of the investigation in Dylan’s favor, only to run out of time.
He
’d failed her. He’d promised himself he would spare her the indignity of being arrested while a nation watched. Now, the most that he could do was get her charges dropped before she slipped off the deep end and was lost to him forever.
***
The Fox 5 news helicopter hovered over Dylan’s orchard stirring the leaves that carpeted her estate. It would have sent the beret flying off her head if her hands weren’t locked at the back of her braid, holding the hat in place.
The tramping of boots on the gravel behind her reminded her of the beat of a drum, such as the one she imagined had accompanied her ancestor to the hangman
’s rope.
In a solemn procession, her army marched toward the end of her driveway, where the FBI had instructed her to surrender. She
’d been promised that her followers would face no charges; that she, alone, would be taken into custody.
The sight of a half-dozen black Tahoes made her stomach ache, especially when she spied the heads bobbing behind them, and the automatic rifles of at least three sharpshooters trained on her and her hesitant soldiers. At either end of the FBI convoy, media vans jammed the road as far as the eye could see. Their logos—WTTG, WJLA WUSA—marked them as stations from the metro area, all of them sympathetic to the government. Where was the local representation?
Sweat gathered at the base of Dylan’s spine.
So, this is what defeat feels like.
She cast a wary glance back at Cal Fallon, who, unlike the soldiers that had all turned in their weapons at the barn, still carried his service pistol tucked inside his shoulder holster. If Cal fired on the Feds this time, they
’d end up like victims of a firing squad, all mowed down at once.
“
Hands above your heads, all of you!” a voice shouted, and Dylan jerked to a stop, signaling to her soldiers to do the same.
With his pistol trained on Dylan, Special Agent in Charge Palmer crept out from behind his Tahoe and ventured warily into the road. A cadre of agents crept into the open after him, and Dylan
’s knees quaked as they fanned out, forming a U-shape around her and her men.
“
Captain Connelly, approach the road in the company of your leaders,” Palmer barked. “The rest of you boys hang back.”