in a packed space. She weaved back and forth, turned in circles, pressed a hand to her ear while talking on her cell phone.
“It’s crazy here,” she said into the phone. “Unbelievable. No, I’m not making it up. Turn on your TV. Something’s gone way to hell wrong and everybody’s trapped in the courtroom including Rory. It’s a nightmare.”
She scraped her fingernails through her gleaming hair. A vivid tattoo ran across one shoulder and down her left arm, parrot bright, some mythic battle, demons and angels. She looked on the verge of panic. No, that wasn’t it—she looked like she was desperate to
do
something. To act. To help.
The reporter said, “Miss, what’s your name?”
She glanced up from her phone call. After a second, she focused. “Nerissa Mackenzie.”
“And your cousin—”
“If anything happens to her, oh God.”
“It looks like some of the hostages are trying to communicate with the police.”
She glanced at the windows.
“Does your cousin have a cell phone?” the reporter said.
Nerissa paused and slowly turned back to him. She seemed to take in the implications and instantly jumped ahead about ten steps.
“If I can get through to her, you can patch the call to the cops.” Another quick glance at the courthouse. “It’s a long shot. Look at her. They have her pressed to the windows where she can’t move.”
“But if her phone’s in her pocket…”
“Yeah. Worth a try. We could find out what’s really happening in there.” She nodded at the cameraman. “Record it, so we get everything verbatim. No mistakes.”
She hung up on her call without saying good-bye and scrolled through her contacts.
The reporter said, “Quickly—she’s your first cousin? You live here in Ransom River?”
“L.A. Here visiting my mom. I’m an actor.”
“Have I seen your work?”
“Video game—
Skywraith: Ascent of the Damned.
I’m the body model for a rebel fighter. And Butterfly Bombshell in Hollywood, the bar. I waitress and cosplay—role-play on duty. Catholic schoolgirl, usually.”
“Okay.” Fabulous. And how gloriously weird.
“I was coming to see the trial. If traffic had been better, I’d be trapped in there right now.”
The cameraman turned to her. She straightened, flipped her hair over her shoulder, licked her lips. Eyes dazzling, her face riven with tension, she dialed a number.
To herself she murmured, “Rory, baby, please pick up.”
Overhead, a hard thwapping motor drowned out all sound. A black helicopter swooped over the roof of the courthouse and slowed above the lawn.
Nixon’s demand echoed through the courtroom.
Ninety seconds.
The moment stretched. Reagan pushed Nixon and muttered at him. Rory caught, “…ultimatum,
idiot,
you…”
Nixon shoved him away and pumped the shotgun. The sound chittered across the room. Rory sensed more than saw the hostages cringe. A woman’s crying turned jagged.
“Eighty seconds,” Nixon cried.
Sergeant Nguyen came back: “The helicopter is on its way.”
“Seventy-five seconds.”
“It’s coming. It’s inbound. It needs clearance to land. You have to give the pilot time to approach safely.”
“Seventy seconds.”
In the reflection from the glass, Rory saw Nixon turn and look around the courtroom. The ghostly reflections of the hostages shrank back. They all knew what he was doing.
He pointed. “You.”
A man said, “No.”
“Stand up,” Nixon said. He turned back to the main doors. “Sixty-five seconds.”
“The helicopter is coming. You should be able to hear it,” Nguyen called back.
Bullshit,
Rory thought.
“Bullshit,” Nixon said.
Rory could see distant choppers and hear one that seemed to be hovering high overhead, but it could not have had time to load up five million dollars’ worth of gold bricks. Her stomach cramped. Whatever this was, it was coming, and fast.
Nixon’s voice settled into a low rasp. “You at the far window there, yeah—you. Tell me what you see.
“It’s crazy here,” she said into the phone. “Unbelievable. No, I’m not making it up. Turn on your TV. Something’s gone way to hell wrong and everybody’s trapped in the courtroom including Rory. It’s a nightmare.”
She scraped her fingernails through her gleaming hair. A vivid tattoo ran across one shoulder and down her left arm, parrot bright, some mythic battle, demons and angels. She looked on the verge of panic. No, that wasn’t it—she looked like she was desperate to
do
something. To act. To help.
The reporter said, “Miss, what’s your name?”
She glanced up from her phone call. After a second, she focused. “Nerissa Mackenzie.”
“And your cousin—”
“If anything happens to her, oh God.”
“It looks like some of the hostages are trying to communicate with the police.”
She glanced at the windows.
“Does your cousin have a cell phone?” the reporter said.
Nerissa paused and slowly turned back to him. She seemed to take in the implications and instantly jumped ahead about ten steps.
“If I can get through to her, you can patch the call to the cops.” Another quick glance at the courthouse. “It’s a long shot. Look at her. They have her pressed to the windows where she can’t move.”
“But if her phone’s in her pocket…”
“Yeah. Worth a try. We could find out what’s really happening in there.” She nodded at the cameraman. “Record it, so we get everything verbatim. No mistakes.”
She hung up on her call without saying good-bye and scrolled through her contacts.
The reporter said, “Quickly—she’s your first cousin? You live here in Ransom River?”
“L.A. Here visiting my mom. I’m an actor.”
“Have I seen your work?”
“Video game—
Skywraith: Ascent of the Damned.
I’m the body model for a rebel fighter. And Butterfly Bombshell in Hollywood, the bar. I waitress and cosplay—role-play on duty. Catholic schoolgirl, usually.”
“Okay.” Fabulous. And how gloriously weird.
“I was coming to see the trial. If traffic had been better, I’d be trapped in there right now.”
The cameraman turned to her. She straightened, flipped her hair over her shoulder, licked her lips. Eyes dazzling, her face riven with tension, she dialed a number.
To herself she murmured, “Rory, baby, please pick up.”
Overhead, a hard thwapping motor drowned out all sound. A black helicopter swooped over the roof of the courthouse and slowed above the lawn.
Nixon’s demand echoed through the courtroom.
Ninety seconds.
The moment stretched. Reagan pushed Nixon and muttered at him. Rory caught, “…ultimatum,
idiot,
you…”
Nixon shoved him away and pumped the shotgun. The sound chittered across the room. Rory sensed more than saw the hostages cringe. A woman’s crying turned jagged.
“Eighty seconds,” Nixon cried.
Sergeant Nguyen came back: “The helicopter is on its way.”
“Seventy-five seconds.”
“It’s coming. It’s inbound. It needs clearance to land. You have to give the pilot time to approach safely.”
“Seventy seconds.”
In the reflection from the glass, Rory saw Nixon turn and look around the courtroom. The ghostly reflections of the hostages shrank back. They all knew what he was doing.
He pointed. “You.”
A man said, “No.”
“Stand up,” Nixon said. He turned back to the main doors. “Sixty-five seconds.”
“The helicopter is coming. You should be able to hear it,” Nguyen called back.
Bullshit,
Rory thought.
“Bullshit,” Nixon said.
Rory could see distant choppers and hear one that seemed to be hovering high overhead, but it could not have had time to load up five million dollars’ worth of gold bricks. Her stomach cramped. Whatever this was, it was coming, and fast.
Nixon’s voice settled into a low rasp. “You at the far window there, yeah—you. Tell me what you see.
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