Good Day In Hell (31 page)

Sanderson stared at her. “I don’t know anything about that,” he said. “What’s supposed to be in it?”

Grace shrugged. “I don’t know. Something big, is all she’d say. Something about an old case.”

Sanderson turned to the female agent. “Check it out,” he said. “Call Cumberland County.”

“On my way,” she said and walked off.

Sanderson turned back to Grace. “That all?”

Grace took a deep breath. “No,” she said. “There’s one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“She wants to talk to me. On camera. Live.”

“Where?”

Grace looked at the house. “In there.”

“No. No way,” Sanderson said.

“Agent Sanderson …”

“We are not sending in another potential hostage.” He looked at Wayne. “Or two. That’s an absolute rule.”

“I won’t be a hostage,” Grace said. “I’ll be—”

“Lady, are you thinking at all?” Sanderson said. “You’ve got a dangerously unstable subject in there. This whole thing may be some weird way to get at you. Some sort of celebrity-stalker-type mania.”

“Thanks for the promotion to celebrity,” Grace said. “But I’m willing to take that chance.”

“Mind if I ask why?”

Grace smiled. “You think Katie fucking Couric ever got to do a story like this?”

Sanderson gestured at Wayne. “And what about him?” he said.

“Me?” Wayne said. “I’m just nuts.”

“You both are,” Sanderson muttered. “But the answer’s still no.”

Grace thought for a moment. “You can’t give her another hostage,” she said. “But you can trade one, right?” Sanderson rubbed his eyes wearily. “Miss Tranh,” he said. “Do not—”

“No, think about it,” Grace said. “I actually want to be in there. And I know she won’t kill me. She wants to use me to tell the world something.”

“And you want to use her to further your goddamn career!” Sanderson sneered.

Grace didn’t flinch. “A fair trade, don’t you think?”

Sanderson thought for a moment. Then he picked up the phone. “Go stand over there,” he ordered, pointing a few feet away. “I’m going to talk to them inside.”

Grace hesitated, then nodded. She and Wayne walked off.

“He doesn’t like you very much,” Wayne observed.

“I know,” Grace said. “So maybe he won’t be so reluctant to let me go in.”

Wayne grinned. “Grace,” he said, “You are one crazy bitch. Will you marry me?”

Grace grinned back. It was an old joke between them. “You’re gay, Wayne.”

“Yeah,” Wayne said. “But I’m not, like, fanatical about it.”

Keller picked up the phone. “Yeah?” he said.

“This is Agent Sanderson,” the voice said. “Put Laurel on the phone.”

Keller held out the phone. “He wants to talk to you.” She hesitated. She still held Keller’s shotgun in her left hand. Reluctantly, she put it down. “Slide the phone over here,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” Keller said. “I’m better. I just got… a little shaken up by the helicopter.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Laurel said. “You don’t like ‘em. Fine. Slide it over here.”

“The phone’s not going to slide too far on carpet,” Keller observed.

“Okay,” Laurel said. “But move slow. You make me nervous.”

“Sorry,” Keller said. He walked over slowly and. handed the phone to her. She put it to her ear. “Yeah?”

Keller could hear Sanderson on the other end. “Which one?” Laurel’s eyes moved to her mother, then to Keller. “I’ve got a better idea,” she said. “You can have ‘em both. Just get the reporter in here.” She pressed the button on the phone to break the connection and turned to Ellen. “Guess what, Mama?” she said. “You’re gettin’ out of here. You and Mister Keller.”

“Okay,” Sanderson said. “There’s three hostages in there with her. Her mother and brother, and a guy named Keller.”

“Who’s he?” Grace asked. Sanderson grimaced. “He’s a bail bondsman. He came to pick Laurel up on a missed court date. Can you believe it?”

“Lucky he didn’t get shot,” Grace said.

“Yeah, lucky,” Sanderson replied.

“Laurel,” her mother said, “what are you planning? What are you going to do?”

Laurel smiled wearily. “Nothin’, Mama. Me and Curt and that nice Chinese lady from the TV are goin’ to have a little chat. Then I’m comin’ out. And after that… well, Mama, I think you pretty much know what’s going to happen after that.”

“Please, honey,” Ellen said, “let Curtis go. He’s sorry, aren’t you, Curtis?”

“I’m sorry,” Curtis said. “Oh, God, I’m sorry.”

Laurel reached out with her free hand and gently ran it through the boy’s thick brown hair. “I know you are, big brother,” she said softly. “I know you are. It’ll all be over soon. All you got to do is tell the truth.” She looked at Keller. There were tears glistening in her eyes.

“There’s a pair of scissors in the drawer of that table,” she said. “Cut her loose. Then you and her get out of here.”

Keller retrieved the scissors. He cut away the duct tape binding Ellen Marks’s hands and ankles to her chair. She stood up unsteadily, rubbing her wrists. “Just put the gun down, honey,” she begged.

“Mama,” Laurel said wearily. “I love you. After all the bullshit that’s gone down, I still love you. But if you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m going to shoot you.”

Tears were running down Ellen’s face as she moved toward the door. She shuffled her feet as if she was unwilling to go. “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t leave my child.” But she didn’t stop moving.

“Sure you can, Mama,” Laurel said. “To save yourself? Sure you can. You done it before.”

Ellen cried harder. “I’m sorry,” she wailed. “I’m sorry. I failed. I failed you.”

“Yeah,” Laurel said. “You sure as shit did.” She turned to Keller. “Get her out of here.”

Keller put his hand on Ellen’s shoulder and pushed her in front of him. They walked out, down the long hallway to the front door. When they got there, Keller reached past Ellen and opened the door, slowly. He was looking at the barrels of at
least fifty guns. He raised his hands high above his head. Ellen stood in front of him, as if paralyzed.

“Get your hands up,” Keller hissed. Slowly, she raised her hands. Two people, a man and a woman, detached themselves from the crowd and came up the driveway. The man was carrying a portable TV camera. “Now walk,” Keller said to Ellen as they reached the door, “Go towards the cops.” She began walking, slowly at first, then faster. Keller stayed in the doorway. The female half of the team was a petite Asian woman who Keller vaguely recognized from the TV news. She started to say something, but Keller silenced her with a finger to his lips. As they went in, Keller slipped inside with them and closed the door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“What?!” Sanderson said. “What the hell did he just do?”

“He went back inside,” Cassidey said. Her face was slack with shock.

“I know that, God damn it!” Sanderson said. “What the hell for?”

“Maybe he changed sides,” Cassidey said. “Stockholm syndrome.”

“No,” Sanderson said, his lips drawn into a line. “Not Stockholm syndrome. He’s a cowboy. He thinks he’s going to take her down himself. FUCK!” He slammed his hand down on the roof of the car he was standing behind. “All I need is some goddamn amateur in there.” He turned to Cassidey. “How long till HRT gets here?”

She spread her hands. “I don’t know. They’re flying into the local airport. Another hour? Maybe?”

“Get Dockery. Tell him to get his local team, what did he call them, Emergency Response, online. We may have to force entry.”

“What the—,” Grace heard Wayne say. She dug an elbow into his ribs. The tall blond man who had slipped back in with them stood motionless in the shadowed hallway. He didn’t speak, merely gestured with his head toward the end of the hallway. He put his finger back to his lips again. Grace turned and walked down the hall, slowly.

“Laurel?” she called out. Her mind was racing. That must be Keller, she was thinking. The other guy Sanderson was talking about. What the hell is he doing? She had a good idea, however, that the girl with the shotgun wasn’t going to approve of his presence. She decided not to mention him until she knew more.

“This way,” Laurel called. They entered the living room. Laurel sat on the couch. The boy she had seen in the picture was kneeling in front of her, his face swathed in duct tape. Laurel was working with a pair of scissors at the back of his head, cutting away the tape there that held a shotgun pressed against his skull. It came away with a ripping sound. “There you go, big brother,” she said. “We want you lookin’ your best for your big debut.” She turned to Grace. “Where you want to set up the camera?” she said.

“Dad?” The sound of his daughter’s voice, weak as it was, snapped Frank Jones’s head around. He’d been standing by the window, looking down unseeingly into the parking-lot traffic.

“Marie,” he said. “Oh, God, baby girl…” He walked over to the bed. He wanted to gather her up into his arms, but there were too many wires and tubes running out of her. He stood there, tears running down his face, and ran his hand gently through her hair instead. “Baby girl …” he said again.

She looked up at him, her blue eyes cloudy. She licked her lips, which were dry and cracked. “Can I have some water?” she said, her voice a croak.

“I got you some ice chips,” he said. He reached into the plastic tumbler by the bed and pulled one out. Gently he fed it to her.

She closed her eyes as if she were savoring a fine wine. “S’good,” she murmured. “C’n I have another?” He gave her another. She opened her eyes. “I got shot, Dad,” she said.

“I know, honey, I know.”

“Did Shelby … did he …”

“Shhh…” he said.

“We’ll talk about that—”

“No, Dad,” she said, her voice stronger. Frank knew better than to argue with her when she used that tone of voice, weak as it was. “Tell me. I saw him get hit. What… what…”

“He’s gone, Marie,” Frank said. “But he got the bastard that shot him.”

Marie closed her eyes. “What about Jack?” she said after a moment. “Where’s Jack?”

“I don’t know,” Frank said. “He’s not here. I … I sent him away.”

“Angela,” she said. “Where’s Angela? She’ll know where to find him.”

“I sent her away, too,” Frank said. “They’re no good for you, honey. You’ve had nothing but…”

“Get them back, Dad,” Marie said. “Get them back here. I need to talk to Jack.” She reached out and gripped his wrist. “Please, Dad,” she said. “Please.”

“Okay, baby girl,” he said, his voice choked. “Okay.”

Keller couldn’t see the living room, but he could hear the sounds of the camera guy setting up and the conversation between Laurel and the TV reporter. He used that clatter to mask the sound of his own movements as he crept down the hallway. Finally, he heard the camera guy speaking. “Okay, Grace, we’re on live in five … four …” he counted down until Grace began speaking. Keller stood in the shadows and listened.

“This is Grace Tranh bringing you exclusive live coverage from the inside of the Marks home in Wilmington, where a tense hostage drama is being played out. We’re here with Laurel Marks, who has been holding her mother, her brother, and…” there was a slight hesitation, “… one other hostage for several hours this morning. At the request of Ms. Marks, this reporter and my cameraman Wayne Lennox agreed to substitute ourselves for two of the hostages in order for Ms. Marks to make her statement. Ms. Marks?”

“My name is Laurel Marks,” she began. Her voice was eerily calm, as if she were reading the words. “I and a man named Roy Randle was the people responsible for the killin’s in the First Church of God of Prophecy, The Sun-lyte Diner on Interstate 95, an’ the Barnwell Foods plant. I confess to it all. I ain’t sure who all I killed, but I pulled the trigger. Oh, and I also killed some motherfucker in a gas station outside o’ Fayetteville, but that guy had it coming. I’m ready to take the punishment for that. But first people are gonna know the truth.” There was a pause. “My father, Ted Marks, first raped me when I was twelve years old. He kept doin’ it, at least once a week. When I tried to tell, Social Services took me.” She looked at her brother and her voice cracked for the first time. “But my … my brother here, talked me into takin’ it all back. So they sent me back here. But he knew. He knew it was true. Tell the truth, Curt. Tell the truth.”

The boy was weeping openly. “It’s true,” he said. “All of it. All of it. Oh God, I’m so sorry, I thought he’d stop. He told me he’d stop … I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I know, big brother,” Laurel said. “I know.” Her voice grew stronger. “There’s another story we need to tell. Roy wanted to tell you himself. But he’s—” her voice broke again “—he’s dead now. The police shot him. But there’s a notebook that was delivered earlier to Miss Tranh here. It tells the true story of what happened August
10, 1990, at the studios here in Wilmington. You know the killin’ I mean. Roy Randle got blamed for it, even though nobody ever went to jail. Roy wrote out the real story. We were going to tell everyone, once the time was right. And once we had ever’one’s attention. Roy’s dead now.” She took a deep breath. “But I guess I got your attention, huh?” No one answered. “I guess we’re done here,” Laurel said.