Free Amber Morn by Brandilyn Collins Page B

check on Wicksell family members.” Vince flicked on his computer and sat down. “And other data — mental health, any known injuries, drug use, places of employment. Photographs. There was a feature article in the
Spokane Review
just after the trial was over — find it. Run down the prosecutor, defense attorney, judge.”
    He pointed to the empty dry-erase board on his right wall. “There’s our situation board.”
    As they gathered information on the HTs — hostage takers — and as negotiations progressed, all pertinent information would be written on the situation board or tacked to the wall around it.
    Vince drummed his fingers as the desktop appeared on his monitor.
Come on, come on
.
    What else for Roger?
    “Get the floor plan of Java Joint.” Some Building Department employee was about to have his Memorial Day weekend interrupted. “And put the telephone provider’s central security command on notice. I’ll want to move communications off the blog onto a phone soon as possible.” When that happened, he’d need a dedicated phone line from his personal number to Java Joint’s.
    “We need to get the log of events started, and you’ve got enough to do.” The log would contain everything that occurred in the incident, along with the time. “Call Jim and see who he can send up to help.”
    “Okay. That it?”
    Vince reached for the mouse. “Yeah.”
    Roger hurried off.
    Vince clicked on to the Internet, picturing Kent Wicksell. The first hours of a hostage situation were the most volatile. The HTs could still be running high on adrenaline from their initial attack. Best to keep initial communication short and factual.
    He typed in the blog’s URL:
www.kannerlake.blogspot.com
. The familiar blue background with the Scenes and Beans logo came up. He scrolled to the bottom of the day’s post and clicked on “Comments.” The box appeared.
    He poised his index fingers over the keys.
    Here we go. Lord, help me.
>> Hello, Kent and Mitch. (And I understand you have a third man with you?) This is Vince Edwards. I’m here to listen and help.
     

TWENTY-SEVEN
     
    Wilbur returned from his bathroom run — still intact. Bailey let out a breath of relief. He settled in his chair, back straight and arms folded over his yellow T-shirt, and Jared got up to go next. Mitch stood glaring at the group, one foot tapping and gun pointed. His ring finger smacked against his weapon. One side of the bottom of his jacket rode up on his jeans, the opposite pocket hanging heavy with ammunition.
    Kent leaned against a table, throwing black looks at the clock on the wall behind him. His overhanging brow and the hungry irritation in his eyes reminded Bailey of a beast stalking prey.
    She shivered. Checked the blog’s comments for the dozenth time.
    And there it was — Vince’s message.
    Thank you, God.
    “It’s here.”
    Kent jerked from the table and strode over to sit heavily in the chair next to Bailey. Laid his gun on the floor. He leaned toward the computer, his thick, hairy arm brushing hers. She willed herself not to draw away. “Took his sweet time, didn’t he.” Raising his chin, he read the words with an expression of disdain.
    “What’s it say, what’s it say?” Now two of Mitch’s fingers drummed his gun.
    All of the hostages’ heads turned, listening.
    Kent read the message aloud. Proudly, as if he’d made the Kanner Lake chief of police bow to his power. He elbowed Bailey. “Write him back what I tell you.”
>> About time you showed up. You took too long, and we’re not happy about that. Our fingers were itching to shoot somebody else. Good thing you’re listening, ‘cause we got plenty to say. The third man is my second son, Brad. You want to help — it’s simple. Get T.J. out of prison.
     
    Kent pressed back in his chair. “Send it.”
    Bailey posted the comment under Kent’s name, then typed the verification letters in the appropriate box.
    “What are you doing?” Kent leaned closer,