was speaking, whispering, to herself. Her lips moved clearly. Seth stepped closer to the screen.
“She seems to be reciting a prayer,” the reporter said. “It’s heartbreaking.”
Rory, pray?
Seth watched her, feeling helpless. And then the last vestiges of heat poured from beneath his skin and left him shocked and empty. He watched Rory’s lips.
Things I’ve never done…
She wasn’t praying. Not Rory Mackenzie, who might believe but would never submit to the idea of begging mercy from a remote and capricious power. She was singing to herself.
He murmured, “Never much but we made the most…”
Seth couldn’t believe it, and knew what she was going to say next. It was her favorite song, never fashionable, sad and harsh and beautiful. A little indie lullaby about loss and the thirst for love.
“Welcome home,” he whispered.
Two years. No good-bye. No wave over the shoulder, no word that she had planned to move overseas, no postcards. And yet here she was, murmuring words he knew from a hundred nights in her arms.
I’ve come home…
Not her song. Their song.
He grabbed his truck keys.
10
R ory’s hands felt numb. For forty-five minutes she’d pressed them to the window, and the blood was draining from her arms. A twisted quiet held the courtroom. Nobody tried to rush the gunmen. Nobody begged to be let out. Rory had stopped singing. Trapped, they were waiting for whatever came next.
She didn’t know if the police had seen her hand signals.
Two gunmen.
One civilian dead. One hurt.
Behind her, Nixon paced like a buffalo. She caught him at the edges of her vision, shotgun resting across his forearms, masked face staring at his cell phone. He scrolled and texted and paused, perhaps to read incoming messages.
At the court clerk’s desk, computer keys clicked. The clerk was typing up the confessions of Jared Smith and Lucy Elmendorf. Nixon had dictated it to her. The defendants had complained about this, but their counsel told them the law would disregard any declaration of guilt signed at gunpoint.
Rory listened for the sound of Judge Wieland’s breathing. He had gone fearfully quiet. She risked turning her head.
Wieland lay on his back, bunching the wet fabric of his robe against his shoulder to keep pressure on the wound. He looked pale and vague with pain. Forty-five minutes without medical aid. A knot lodged in Rory’s throat.
She opened her mouth to say something to Nixon. He saw her and jerked his head.
“Eyes out the window,” he said.
“This is Sergeant Nguyen. Is everybody still okay in there?”
Nixon yelled at the doors. “Where’s my gold bullion?”
“If we’re going to talk about that, let’s do it over the phone so we don’t have to shout. Can you pick up the phone at the judge’s desk?”
“No. You better tell me the gold’s on its way.”
“If we’re going to arrange that, we need something from you,” Nguyen said.
“When will it be here?”
Reagan jittered to Nixon’s side. They whispered a moment. Reagan, twitchy, hissed, “Mexico? Don’t like that.”
“It’s a stopgap.”
“But it won’t be the end.”
“It will be for us unless we get out of here.”
Nixon turned back to the door. “And get the networks here to broadcast the defendants’ confession. I don’t see any TV cameras outside.”
“That might be workable. But for a broadcast to be arranged, we all need to work on an agreement. I understand that the defendants’ confessions are being signed. That’s major. So earn yourself some goodwill in return. How about you let some of the hostages go?”
“What part of
no
don’t you get? You give me what I ask for; then we’ll see who comes out.”
Reagan muttered something. Nixon nodded.
“When’s the helicopter getting here?” he called.
“We need some time to arrange a chopper that meets your requirements. I’ll see what we can do. But while we’re working on that, let’s work on helping you and the other folks in
“She seems to be reciting a prayer,” the reporter said. “It’s heartbreaking.”
Rory, pray?
Seth watched her, feeling helpless. And then the last vestiges of heat poured from beneath his skin and left him shocked and empty. He watched Rory’s lips.
Things I’ve never done…
She wasn’t praying. Not Rory Mackenzie, who might believe but would never submit to the idea of begging mercy from a remote and capricious power. She was singing to herself.
He murmured, “Never much but we made the most…”
Seth couldn’t believe it, and knew what she was going to say next. It was her favorite song, never fashionable, sad and harsh and beautiful. A little indie lullaby about loss and the thirst for love.
“Welcome home,” he whispered.
Two years. No good-bye. No wave over the shoulder, no word that she had planned to move overseas, no postcards. And yet here she was, murmuring words he knew from a hundred nights in her arms.
I’ve come home…
Not her song. Their song.
He grabbed his truck keys.
10
R ory’s hands felt numb. For forty-five minutes she’d pressed them to the window, and the blood was draining from her arms. A twisted quiet held the courtroom. Nobody tried to rush the gunmen. Nobody begged to be let out. Rory had stopped singing. Trapped, they were waiting for whatever came next.
She didn’t know if the police had seen her hand signals.
Two gunmen.
One civilian dead. One hurt.
Behind her, Nixon paced like a buffalo. She caught him at the edges of her vision, shotgun resting across his forearms, masked face staring at his cell phone. He scrolled and texted and paused, perhaps to read incoming messages.
At the court clerk’s desk, computer keys clicked. The clerk was typing up the confessions of Jared Smith and Lucy Elmendorf. Nixon had dictated it to her. The defendants had complained about this, but their counsel told them the law would disregard any declaration of guilt signed at gunpoint.
Rory listened for the sound of Judge Wieland’s breathing. He had gone fearfully quiet. She risked turning her head.
Wieland lay on his back, bunching the wet fabric of his robe against his shoulder to keep pressure on the wound. He looked pale and vague with pain. Forty-five minutes without medical aid. A knot lodged in Rory’s throat.
She opened her mouth to say something to Nixon. He saw her and jerked his head.
“Eyes out the window,” he said.
“This is Sergeant Nguyen. Is everybody still okay in there?”
Nixon yelled at the doors. “Where’s my gold bullion?”
“If we’re going to talk about that, let’s do it over the phone so we don’t have to shout. Can you pick up the phone at the judge’s desk?”
“No. You better tell me the gold’s on its way.”
“If we’re going to arrange that, we need something from you,” Nguyen said.
“When will it be here?”
Reagan jittered to Nixon’s side. They whispered a moment. Reagan, twitchy, hissed, “Mexico? Don’t like that.”
“It’s a stopgap.”
“But it won’t be the end.”
“It will be for us unless we get out of here.”
Nixon turned back to the door. “And get the networks here to broadcast the defendants’ confession. I don’t see any TV cameras outside.”
“That might be workable. But for a broadcast to be arranged, we all need to work on an agreement. I understand that the defendants’ confessions are being signed. That’s major. So earn yourself some goodwill in return. How about you let some of the hostages go?”
“What part of
no
don’t you get? You give me what I ask for; then we’ll see who comes out.”
Reagan muttered something. Nixon nodded.
“When’s the helicopter getting here?” he called.
“We need some time to arrange a chopper that meets your requirements. I’ll see what we can do. But while we’re working on that, let’s work on helping you and the other folks in
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