tornado. Somehow she was still standing, but a blunt and roaring force had stripped bark off the trees and reduced the landscape to splinters.
“Thanks. Really. But I need to wash this day off of me.”
Her mom forced a smile. “Okay, sugar. You get home and see your new baby.”
Rory glanced at Petra. Her friend didn’t look up, didn’t even react.
Her dad squeezed Rory’s shoulder. “You want to talk about it?”
“Yes, but not now.” She squeezed him back. “I’m sorry I worried you.”
He stared straight ahead. Gathering his thoughts, she knew. Will Mackenzie rarely spoke off the cuff. He considered his words before speaking. The habit came, she thought, from years spent as a forest ranger. All that time among silent giants, trees that had centuries to live—what was the hurry? She sometimes thought that if he didn’t have to, he wouldn’t say anything at all. If you don’t talk, nobody can pin your words to you later on.
Finally he shook his head. “If you think you were the one causing us worry today, you need to study up on logic.”
She leaned against him. He kissed the top of her head. Then he looked over his shoulder.
“They after us?” she said.
“You never know.”
They were a block from the police station. The street had quieted to near desertion. Rory felt a compulsion to pick up her pace.
The stars were out and the moon was up. Everybody’s breath frosted the night air. She felt watched from all angles, from the dark beyond the streetlights, from the recesses beyond corners and in the depths beyond trees in the park. A truck was parked on a cross street, lights off. In the cab, backlit by a streetlight, she saw a man’s silhouette.
The wind brushed over her thin sweater and her skin shrank. She needed to get home, needed to get under hot water, needed to take off these clothes and burn them.
Detective Zelinski’s voice whispered in her head.
What did the gunmen want?
They wanted something from her. They hadn’t gotten it.
And if they were working with outside forces, it meant somebody else was still out there. Still wanting whatever it was.
“I’m okay, I swear,” she said. “I love you guys. But I need to get home.”
And lock the door.
As the police station spit out hostages one at a time to cheers and paparazzi flashes, half a block away, protected by shadows, the truck sat idling at the curb. It was a heavy Mack truck with a winch on the back and RANSOM RIVER AUTO SALVAGE painted on the doors. It had an engine big enough to pull a crashed DC-7 out of a gully. And it had a police scanner under the dash. Boone Mackenzie hung his arms over the steering wheel and watched through a cloud of cigarette smoke.
Rory and her little buddy Petra and Uncle Will and Aunt Samantha.Walking down the middle of the street in the dark like they were four bowling pins, primed for a strike.
And his stepsister, walking away, but pausing to turn and stare. Like Rory was the Holy Grail. Like she was the living model for the voodoo doll Riss kept on the shelf back home.
Three weeks Rory had been back in Ransom River, and already it was starting again.
Cousin Aurora, with the sweet bod and the twisted heart. Who looked at him like he was transparent. Who thought she was too good for this town, swore she was gone for good, but here she was. She didn’t look so smart now, did she?
Seven hours she’d been in the police station, talking to the cops. What did she know that took seven hours to tell?
The police scanner had caught stray chatter from the cops during the siege. Five million bucks in gold bullion. That’s what the gunmen had demanded. Five damned million in shiny gold bricks. It didn’t add up. Five million and a helicopter ride to Mexico? It sounded like a joke.
He figured he hadn’t heard everything on the scanner. This thing—the siege and then the shootout in the courtroom—it was big. Riss had started to tell him on the phone, before the TV crew interrupted her:
“Thanks. Really. But I need to wash this day off of me.”
Her mom forced a smile. “Okay, sugar. You get home and see your new baby.”
Rory glanced at Petra. Her friend didn’t look up, didn’t even react.
Her dad squeezed Rory’s shoulder. “You want to talk about it?”
“Yes, but not now.” She squeezed him back. “I’m sorry I worried you.”
He stared straight ahead. Gathering his thoughts, she knew. Will Mackenzie rarely spoke off the cuff. He considered his words before speaking. The habit came, she thought, from years spent as a forest ranger. All that time among silent giants, trees that had centuries to live—what was the hurry? She sometimes thought that if he didn’t have to, he wouldn’t say anything at all. If you don’t talk, nobody can pin your words to you later on.
Finally he shook his head. “If you think you were the one causing us worry today, you need to study up on logic.”
She leaned against him. He kissed the top of her head. Then he looked over his shoulder.
“They after us?” she said.
“You never know.”
They were a block from the police station. The street had quieted to near desertion. Rory felt a compulsion to pick up her pace.
The stars were out and the moon was up. Everybody’s breath frosted the night air. She felt watched from all angles, from the dark beyond the streetlights, from the recesses beyond corners and in the depths beyond trees in the park. A truck was parked on a cross street, lights off. In the cab, backlit by a streetlight, she saw a man’s silhouette.
The wind brushed over her thin sweater and her skin shrank. She needed to get home, needed to get under hot water, needed to take off these clothes and burn them.
Detective Zelinski’s voice whispered in her head.
What did the gunmen want?
They wanted something from her. They hadn’t gotten it.
And if they were working with outside forces, it meant somebody else was still out there. Still wanting whatever it was.
“I’m okay, I swear,” she said. “I love you guys. But I need to get home.”
And lock the door.
As the police station spit out hostages one at a time to cheers and paparazzi flashes, half a block away, protected by shadows, the truck sat idling at the curb. It was a heavy Mack truck with a winch on the back and RANSOM RIVER AUTO SALVAGE painted on the doors. It had an engine big enough to pull a crashed DC-7 out of a gully. And it had a police scanner under the dash. Boone Mackenzie hung his arms over the steering wheel and watched through a cloud of cigarette smoke.
Rory and her little buddy Petra and Uncle Will and Aunt Samantha.Walking down the middle of the street in the dark like they were four bowling pins, primed for a strike.
And his stepsister, walking away, but pausing to turn and stare. Like Rory was the Holy Grail. Like she was the living model for the voodoo doll Riss kept on the shelf back home.
Three weeks Rory had been back in Ransom River, and already it was starting again.
Cousin Aurora, with the sweet bod and the twisted heart. Who looked at him like he was transparent. Who thought she was too good for this town, swore she was gone for good, but here she was. She didn’t look so smart now, did she?
Seven hours she’d been in the police station, talking to the cops. What did she know that took seven hours to tell?
The police scanner had caught stray chatter from the cops during the siege. Five million bucks in gold bullion. That’s what the gunmen had demanded. Five damned million in shiny gold bricks. It didn’t add up. Five million and a helicopter ride to Mexico? It sounded like a joke.
He figured he hadn’t heard everything on the scanner. This thing—the siege and then the shootout in the courtroom—it was big. Riss had started to tell him on the phone, before the TV crew interrupted her:
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