Good Day In Hell (17 page)

“There,” she said when she was done. She handed him a brown glass bottle. “Keep replenishing the poultice ‘til this is gone,” she said. “Now let me see your hand.” She briskly applied a thick white oil to the cut on his hand and bandaged it, too.

“There,” she said. “That’ll help you heal faster.”

It might have been his imagination, but the pain in his chest did seem somewhat lessened. He stood up and she handed him his shirt. “Thanks, Gala,” he said.

“No problem, Jack,” she said. “And don’t be such a stranger.”

“I won’t,” Keller replied. He turned to Burke. “Thanks for the info, Pete.”

Burke stood up and tore the sketch off the easel. “No problem,” he said. “Now I’ve got to go out to the workshop and build this thing.” He turned. “Just remember, Jack…”

“I know, I know,” Keller said. “We spent the whole time talking basketball.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

“No,” the producer said. “No way.”

“God damn it, Howard,” Grace Tranh said. “What the fuck is your problem?”

Howard Reed ran a hand nervously through his wispy comb-over. Grace knew that it always unnerved him when she cursed. She was half his size, with the delicate beauty of a porcelain doll, but when she was worked up, she could turn the air blue. The legend in the newsroom was that Grace had once cursed a producer for five minutes without repeating herself once.

Howard looked around the newsroom. Some of the people behind the desks were intently looking at something, anything but the sight of Grace, hands on hips, spitting fury at the man who was, technically, her boss. Others were smirking openly.

“Look, Grace,” Howard said. “People are really pissed that we used those pictures of the church. The families of the victims are talking lawsuits. The management is crawling up my—”

“That’s for show,” she sneered, “and you damn well know it. They’re making a big deal about how they ‘regret’ the broadcast of those pictures, but they’re creaming in their Armanis over the ratings. We’re it, Howard, we’re the only station that has those. And we’ve got pictures of the second massacre, and you want me to sit on them? Fuck that!”

Howard slumped wearily. “I’m sorry, Grace. It’s out of my hands.”

She shook her head. “When are you going to grow a set of balls, Howard?”

He reddened. “Now wait a damn minute, Grace …”

“Forget it,” she said. She threw up her hands theatrically and stalked back to her cubicle, leaving Howard helpless in her wake. She threw herself down in her chair and took a deep breath. Okay, she thought, go to Plan B.

She pulled her chair over to the computer and clicked on her e-mail program. She stared at the blinking icon for a moment. What she was about to do could get her in big trouble. It could also make her career. She didn’t know if the killers still had the cell phone they had taken the pictures with, but since they had sent her
more, she figured it was worth a try. But she didn’t know how they’d react to being contacted. She began to type.

FROM:
[email protected]

TO: jesusluvsu01
@lmoblle.com

SUBJECT:

She paused. What would be most likely to get a response? What wouldn’t scare them away or enrage them? She bit her lip and thought for a moment, then typed in the subject line:

SUBJECT: WHY?

She clicked down onto the empty space for the body of the message and began typing:

I’m the one you e-mailed the pictures to. Obviously you want someone to know what you’re doing. You want to tell your story. I’d like to help you do that. I’d like to help you explain so people will know why you’re doing it.

She studied the message for a moment, typed in her name, and hit “Send.”

The shrill warble of the phone startled Roy so badly he nearly drove off the side of the Interstate. “What the fuck?” he yelled.

“It’s the phone!” Laurel said. “The one we took the pictures on!”

Stan pulled it out of his duffel bag. “Chill out,” he said. “It’s an e-mail. Probably for the person that owns … I mean, used to own this.”

“They can’t trace us on that thing, can they, Stan?” Laurel asked.

Roy’s head whipped around. It had obviously never occurred to him. “Damn it,” he snarled, “if your bright idea leads the fuckin’ cops to us…”

“Just calm down!” Stan snapped back. The lack of sleep and the drug hangover had him strung tight as a drumhead. “You can’t trace a cell phone.”

“You sure?” Laurel asked.

“Yeah,” Stan said. “I’m sure.” Pretty sure, anyway, he thought. He glanced at the phone’s screen. The phone had stopped ringing, but there was a tiny icon of an envelope flashing and the words “one e-mail waiting.” He studied the controls for a moment, then pressed the buttons to open the message.

“It’s to us,” he said.

“What do you mean, it’s to us?” Roy said.

Stan studied it for a moment. “It’s from that reporter on TV. That Chinese girl.”

“What?” Roy pulled the van over to the breakdown lane of the highway. “Let me see that.”

Stan handed the phone to Roy. The older man looked down at it for a moment, then looked up. His eyes were bright with excitement. “So you know how to send messages on this thing, right, boy?” he demanded.

“Yeah,” Stan said.

Roy pulled the van back onto the highway. “Okay,” he said. “Send this back.”

Marie had been on patrol for five hours when the BOLO came in. She had driven more or less randomly through her assigned patrol zone, stopping occasionally to check in on storeowners, drinking stale coffee and trading small talk—“showing a presence,” as the sheriff put it. People were anxious, keyed-up; almost everyone asked her if “the church shooters” had been caught. Some asked if they were going to strike again, as if the badge on Marie’s uniform blouse was some sort of crystal ball. She put on her best reassuring voice to let them know that everything was under control, that the sheriff’s department was on the job. Some were reassured; the rest were silent, their faces still puckered with worry as Marie walked out.

She was driving down a narrow two-lane road between tall stands of pine when the call came in. “All units, Be On Look Out for a white 1979 Chevy Impala, license plate Bravo Victor Echo One Four Six Three, driver a white male, name of Garrett, Henry J. Driver wanted for questioning, Fort Bragg CID.”

Marie pulled up to a stop sign at a deserted crossroads and keyed her mike. “Say again, County, did you say Bragg CID?”

There was a brief pause. “10-4.” Another pause. “All units are advised to use caution.”

Another voice came through, slightly distorted by distance. “County, twenty-seven.”

“Go ahead, twenty-seven.”

“County, this subject involved in the church or diner shootings?”

Another long pause. “Twenty-seven, unable to advise at this time.”

“Lovely,” Marie muttered. The dispatcher came back on. “If subject is located, hold for further instructions. Authority Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“Whoa, whoa, Janelle,” another voice spoke up. “You just said Bragg CID. Now it’s the Feebies? What’s going on?”

The break in formality seemed to snap the dispatcher out of robotic-speech mode. “Your guess’s as good as mine, shug. All I know’s what they tell me.”

“Okay, y’all,” another voice broke through. Marie recognized the voice of an older deputy named Wardell. “Let’s stay professional out here.” Wardell was a short, chubby, round-faced deputy who had never seemed to advance beyond sergeant despite having been on the department since most of the younger officers were in high school. He served as a sort of unofficial mentor to the newer deputies, a role he seemed to enjoy. In many ways, he reminded Marie of her father. The effect was apparently not limited to her. The chorus of “10-4s” that came back seemed a bit sheepish.

Marie drove in silence for the next half hour. This far out in the county, there was light traffic, but she scanned every car carefully. Then the radio crackled back to life. “County, All units, twenty-seven. I have a white Chevy Impala, license plate Bravo Victor Echo One Four Six Three, driver a white male. Headed east on Galloway Road between State Road 1243 and Highway 421. Request backup.”

Marie tried to map it out in her mind. Unlike some of the other deputies, she hadn’t grown up locally, and sometimes had to refer to the county map stashed in her glove compartment to figure out where she was. She glanced over at a signpost at the next intersection as the radio crackled to life again. The voice this time was high-pitched and tight with excitement.

“All units, county, this is twenty-seven. He’s, I mean subject, is running. I am in pursuit.”

The dispatcher’s voice came back. “10-4, twenty-seven. All units, officer needs backup, subject speeding to avoid custody.”

Wardell came back on. “Twenty-seven, this is twenty-nine, advise of your 10-20.”

Marie could hear the sound of twenty-seven’s siren in the background as he came back. “Still eastbound on Galloway, he just crossed Highway 421.”

“10-4,” Wardell came back. His voice was as calm as if he were doing a routine time check. “Thirty-five, what’s your 20?” Marie keyed her mike. “Headed north on SR 2345, near McDonald Road,” she reported. She was glad she had checked the signpost.

“10-4,” Wardell said. He sounded almost happy. “Thirty-five, meet me at the crossroads of Johnson Lake Road and Galloway.”

Marie hesitated. “Your next left is Johnson Lake,” Wardell said patiently. “Take it. I’ll be there before you. We’ll block the road. Twenty-seven, you run him at us.”

The sirens again. “10-4,” twenty-seven replied.

Marie accelerated through the left turn, her tires squealing. When she straightened out onto Johnson Lake Road, she hit the lights and siren. In a few moments, she saw the flashing lights of Wardell’s car. He had parked across one lane of the deserted road. Wardell was out of the car. He waved to her and pointed at the other lane. She positioned her car across the other lane, nose to nose with Wardell’s vehicle.

“Hey,” Wardell greeted her as she got out.

Marie tried to match his nonchalance. “Hey,” she said. They heard the distant keening of the sirens at the same time. They drew their weapons and took up positions behind their respective vehicles.

“Here they come,” Wardell said.

The road was flat and straight, rising gently for almost a quarter mile. The first vehicle they saw was the white Impala, cresting the hill. A sheriff’s car was immediately behind, lights flashing, siren wailing. Marie could hear the roar of the Impala’s engine over the noise of the siren. There was a slight drop in the pitch of the engine noise as the driver saw the obstruction ahead and let up on the
accelerator. Then the engine howled again as the driver gave it the gas. “That dumbass,” Wardell commented. “Aim for the tires.” He raised his gun.

Grace sat at the computer, mouse-clicking in a nervous cycle:
CNN.com
.
BBC.com
.
Washingtonpost.com
. Her e-mail program.
CNN.com
.
BBC.com
…. She knew that it might be hours, or never, before she got an answer. Still, she clicked through, her eyes not seeing the screen, her stomach in knots. Then, she stopped on the e-mail program, watching the little blue bar that indicated an incoming message sweep across the bottom of the screen. She saw the sender:
[email protected]
And the subject line:

WHY NOT?

“Yessss,” she said under her breath. She clicked on the message.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT: WHY NOT? DNT CALL US WELL CALL U. GIVE US A #

Grace’s hands trembled slightly with excitement as she hit the “Reply” button and typed in her cell-phone number. She had just hit “Send” when a voice behind her made her jump.

“Ms. Tranh?”

She whirled around, startling the young female intern who was standing in the doorway of her cubicle. She resisted the temptation to snarl at the girl, who blinked at her with a look of confusion on her pretty face. “What’s up, Tina?” she said, with as much friendliness as she could summon.

“Howard…er …Mr. Reed, wants to see you. In his office.”

Christ, what now? Grace thought. She smiled at the girl. “Thanks, hon,” she said. “I’ll be right up.” She turned and shut down the computer.

She mounted the short flight of steps at the back of the newsroom to Howard’s office, a small space with a picture window that looked out over the newsroom. Howard was seated behind his desk. He didn’t look at Grace as she came in. She was surprised to see two men there. One was a tall blond, the other was a short man with red hair. Other than the color, their short haircuts were almost identical. Their cheap dark suits also looked as if they had been bought off the same
rack. As one of the men—the redhead—extended a hand, Grace caught a glimpse of a shoulder holster beneath the suit coat. Cop, she thought.

“Ms. Tranh?” the man said. “I’m Special Agent Clancy, Federal Bureau of Investigation. My partner is Special Agent Gray.” The blonde man nodded.

“Ms. Tranh,” Clancy said, “I’ll get right to the point…”

“You’re here about the pictures, of course,” she said. She looked at Howard, who was looking out his window at the newsroom. She turned her most brilliant smile on Clancy. “I thought you might want copies, so I burned them onto a CD. Let me just go get it …”