Ridley Pearson - Killer Summer

Walt tried to focus on the voice in his head. It wasn’t Fiona’s voice, it wasn’t his own. It definitely was a man’s voice… Something about movies…

“What about Mastermind ?” Walt said, trying to stimulate whatever had prompted the mental itch.

“It was so-so,” Brandon said. “Fairly predictable.”

“It was a heist movie,” Walt said.

Flickers of an earlier conversation… The voice belonged to Arthur Remy.

“Absolutely. Horse racing, hitting up the track on the day of the biggest race of the year. The bad guy stole the movie, the Mastermind guy. He was the best thing about it.”

“But he had his fifteen minutes. You’re aware of that, right?”

Walt had it. He reined his horse to an abrupt stop. Brandon reined his horse but Jerry’s kept trotting.

The satellite phone rang as he was reaching for it. His mind was elsewhere as he answered.

“Dad!” Walt called out to Jerry, who still rode on.

“Stay with him!” Walt said to Brandon. “Stop him if you can. We ride together.”

Brandon passed Walt the lead rope to the pack horse as Walt spoke into the phone. The bluish hue of Brandon’s headlamp disappeared into the curtain of tree trunks.

“It’s me,” Steven Garman answered back, his voice just audible above the growl of an engine “I’m at nine thousand feet, directly over the river.”

Walt had heard a small plane not twenty minutes earlier. He’d switched on his phone and had caught a signal briefly. The phone had buzzed repeatedly with incoming messages. The connection was lost before he could check them.

“I’ve got the repeater on board and up and running,” Garman said. “Damn, if the thing didn’t light up about five minutes ago.”

“I had reception about twenty minutes ago. Didn’t last long.”

“I’m talking five minutes ago. I’m well north of you. Didn’t last for me either.”

“Kevin?”

“Could be one phone… could be ten. I had the hit only a few seconds. I came around and headed upriver, throttling back to limit engine noise. I’m now a mile west of my earlier route. I’d like to get closer and try again.”

“Only one pass,” Walt said, “as quietly as you can, directly over the ranch. See if the repeater gets a hit. If it lights up, then circle and try to hold the connection. I’m going to start calling Kevin’s cell from the sat phone and hope I get through.”

“Copy that,” Garman said. “Turning for the ranch now.”

Walt was about to punch in Kevin’s number when he realized that it would take Garman a few minutes to get in position. That gave Walt time to make another call first.

He punched in the numbers and hit SND.

Come down from there, boy,” a man’s deep voice called out.

Kevin shuddered, cold and scared and unsure what to do. The cowboy had told him to shoot if he were discovered in his rooftop hiding place, and yet by all appearances, the cowboy had led them to him.

As if reading his thoughts, the cowboy spoke.

“Forget what I said, son. They’ve got Summer. I surrendered my weapon. We need you to come down.”

Kevin’s back to the stone chimney, he replayed the message, focusing on weapon and need you. Was there a subtext to the cowboy’s message? Was Kevin supposed to come down shooting? Was he supposed to hide the shotgun for later? He was shaking so badly he couldn’t keep his hands still.

“We’re not going to hurt you… or anyone.” He recognized the voice as the copilot’s. “We’re only interested in the plane.”

The plane?

“We know you’ve got a shotgun. I’ve got Summer in front of me. Lower the shotgun down to me, and then we’ll get you off of there.

“This is no time for heroics, Kevin,” the voice continued. “No one’s getting hurt unless you start something. You hear me?”

If the copilot had Summer, that left the two others with the cowboy. They likely had his rifle and pistol.

Can I get a shot off, maybe two? Maybe even drop one of them? With Summer as their only bargaining chip, would they dare hurt her?

“Do as he says, boy,” said the cowboy with resignation in his voice. “They don’t mean no harm to us.”

He and Summer had gone through too much to surrender now.

“Kevin, they mean it,” Summer called out.

He felt for the extra shotgun shells, slipping one in each sock. Doing it made him feel like this wasn’t surrendering.

“Okay!” he called back.

The copilot came around the side of the building, his left arm slung over Summer’s shoulder and tightly across her chest. In his right hand was the cowboy’s handgun.

“The shotgun first,” he said.

Kevin wasn’t about to provide them with another weapon. He swung the gun against the chimney like a baseball bat, busting it at the hinge. That left the three men with the over-under shotgun loaded with bird shot, and the cowboy’s rifle and handgun.

“That was unnecessary,” the copilot hollered, his voice brimming with anger.

Kevin climbed down. The small guy took Kevin by the arm, roughed him up as he took away the flashlight and knife.

“Easy,” the copilot chastised.

“I owe this kid,” Matt said.

As Kevin was led away along with the others, he glanced surreptitiously up at the chimney. No one had thought to check up there.

If they had, they would have found his cell phone, tucked onto a high chimney rock, its red NO SIGNAL flashing.

High above, a shining star flickered, then disappeared in the black velvet backdrop of space. A moving object had blotted it out. Farther along, another star flickered, disappeared, then reappeared.

Unseen by any human eye, the phone’s LED began blinking green, just as it had done ever so briefly only minutes before.

The impenetrable coal-black sky bled to the color of a fresh bruise as it surrendered to the first photons from a faraway morning sun. It held a luminescence not unlike the ocean depths where the last vestiges of sunlight mingle and fade. Soon the ashes of the Milky Way would shrink to a mere brushstroke, leaving only named constellations and the planets battling for recognition.

At four-thirty A.M., Fiona should have been in bed, savoring a final few hours of sleep. Instead, she, along with Teddy Sumner, had hung around the Sheriff’s Office, awaiting word of Walt’s rescue attempt, her stomach in a knot. When asked if she would fill in for the videographer, she agreed solely because of the subject matter: Teddy Sumner. Walt had requested an interview with the man.

The interview room, directly across from Walt’s office and one of three down a long hallway, had a metal table bolted to the floor and metal chairs. Two fluorescent tubes lit the room too brightly. Fiona and her tripod-mounted camera kept to the far corner, a close-up of Sumner’s tortured face on the screen.

Deputy Gloria Stratum read from a card, declaring the date, time of day, location, and who was in the room. It was noted that Sumner was submitting to the interview voluntarily.

Sumner was nodding. Fiona saw an acceptance on his face that she didn’t understand.

“You understand this interview is at the request of the sheriff,” Stratum began, reasserting what had just been said.

“Yes. I’m aware that timing is critical. You people have no idea what this is like for me.”

Fiona watched the close-up of his face as his pain intensified. She braced herself, realizing this was no simple Q &A.

Stratum shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“You understand: I know what’s going on,” Sumner said.

“The sheriff… I realize this is a bit unorthodox… but the sheriff asked that I say just one word to you. He wanted me to add that the best chance he has to rescue your daughter requires full disclosure…”