Long Lost - James Scott Bell Page 0,103

thirty? More? He couldn’t tell.

Then the sound stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

He wondered if this was just some calm before more storm. Or something worse. What if the feds lobbed in gas or something? Or bulldozed the place with tanks? What if everyone inside burned to death like that time in Texas?

More time passed. Not good. He was starting to feel the internal pressure of nature’s call. A final indignity before death?

Then something at the door. Someone trying to get in?

“Anybody in there?” a voice shouted. “This is ATF. Agent Larson. Anybody inside?”

Steve moved toward the sound, shouting through his hood. “Yeah! One guy!”

“Can you open the door?”

“No.”

Pause. “Stand back.”

Steve heard a grinding of some kind. Someone cutting through steel. Then a chinking sound, like chains falling off. And a burning smell wafting in.

He heard the door open.

“It’s all right,” the voice said, and there followed the sound of footsteps, maybe three sets.

Then his hood was removed.

Three silhouettes stood in front of him, guys with helmets.

“Conroy?” the man said.

“That’s me,” Steve said.

“Good to see you.”

“What’s happened?”

“The place is secure. Let’s get you out. And get those cuffs off.”

“Hurry, will you?” Steve said. “I need to make one major stop before we leave this place.”

78

They checked Steve out and had him sit in the back of an ambulance. He couldn’t see anything outside but bursts of activity from federal agents, a blur of dark jackets with ATF in yellow on the back. It was now about six p.m.

Issler came by, looking tired but relieved.

“How many got out?” Steve asked before the agent opened his mouth.

“All the hostages. Thank God they were in a bunker, like you.”

“What about the men?”

“Three custodies. The rest, no.”

“Johnny?”

Issler shook his head. “This has the marks of death by agent. They fired rounds. We had to go in. Bethany helped enormously. We still don’t know why the women were unharmed. Or why you don’t have a hole in your head.”

Steve said, “Mott. Sheriff Mott. You need to—”

“Mott’s dead.”

“What?”

“One of our guys went with your DA, Meyer, to question him. He took off. They caught up to him heading south. He pulled over and ate his gun.”

Steve’s hands shook. “Talk to a woman named Joyce Oderkirk. Her husband worked for Mott. Mott, or one of the LaSalleites, took care of him when he started asking questions about an autopsy.”

“Anything else?”

“Is one of the women Sienna Ciccone?”

“We don’t know all the names yet. Who is she?”

“Someone you’ll want to talk to.”

Issler nodded. “There’s one more thing. I can’t let you have it because it’s evidence, but there was a shoebox we found inside that had your name on it and something inside. We thought maybe you could explain a rather cryptic message.”

“I’ll try.”

Issler stepped away from the ambulance for a moment, then came back holding a gray shoebox. On the box lid was a yellow sticky note with the words For Stevie from Robert.

Issler removed the lid. In the box was a single can of Mountain Dew.

“So, what’s that all about?” Issler asked.

“I think—” Steve had to pause. Hot tears pushed against his eyes. He took a long breath. “I think it means my brother saved my life.”

Issler requested Steve stay in the ambulance. Might have some questions to be answered.

Steve didn’t have any pressing plans at the moment. His body was buzzing with what he supposed was post-traumatic stress. Like he couldn’t believe it was over, really over.

Or that Robert was dead. And Eldon LaSalle. And most of the others.

He decided small-town life was not for him. LA was a lot safer.

At some point he dozed off on a gurney.

Issler woke him up. “We have a sticky little situation here.”

“How’s that?”

“There is a Sienna Ciccone.”

“You talk to her?”

Issler shook his head. “She said she won’t talk to us until she talks to you. She wants you to act as her attorney.”

Steve blinked a couple of times to clear his head. “Now there’s a twist.”

“Yeah, you want to explain it?”

“I better talk to her.”

“Tell me what this is about first.”

“Agent Issler, I hate to pull lawyer-client privilege, but there you are.”

“What privilege? You’re not even—”

“It’s Gideon v. Wainwright. It’s the U.S. Supreme Court. You get to have the attorney of your choice before you talk, and right now that’s me. You don’t want to run afoul of the Supreme Court now, do you?”

Issler sighed. “I need a vacation.”

79

“Surprised I asked to see you?” Sienna said. She and Steve were sitting in the back of a black Yukon,