Owen nodded in the dark. “He was waiting to buy the property before blowing up the bridge, but when she kept refusing, he was weighing whether or not to blow it anyway.” Owen paused. “He’s a little paranoid.”
“A little?”
“I kept telling him to wait. He knew the explosion would call attention to what he was doing out here, but his paranoia increasingly pressured him to cut off the outside world. Some of the other guys wanted to use the dynamite to send a message. They’d talked about blowing up the FBI office in town, or even your department.”
Truman’s blood chilled at the thought of his murdered staff.
“I called in a report about the dynamite, hoping the state police would take it off his land, but Tom was here the day they came and stopped them.”
“What is McDonald doing here?” Truman whispered. “He’s forming a militia, right?”
Owen’s shoulders slumped. “In a way. That’s just one element.”
“Explain,” Truman snapped. Part of his hearing focused on the mess hall where McDonald had taken Mercy. It was silent. What is taking the county sheriff so long to get here?
Another minute and Owen wouldn’t be able to keep Truman from breaking in on his own.
“He’s trying to create a place where we make the rules. Someplace people can go and be heard.”
“Bullshit. The people won’t make the rules; he will.”
Owen shuffled his feet. “Yeah, I see that now. He talks of a community of leadership, but all I’ve seen is that he makes the rules and—”
Owen clamped his mouth shut.
Truman waited. “What happened?” he finally asked. “What did he do?”
The sound of Owen swallowing was loud in the quiet forest. “He killed a guy. Shot him right in front of me.”
“Why didn’t you go to the police?” Truman nearly shouted as he fell back a step. My God. McDonald truly is insane.
Mercy.
I’ve got to get her away from him.
“It just happened today,” Owen pleaded. “I knew then I had to get out and go to the police and tell them everything I know. I was trying to figure out how to leave . . . I didn’t want McDonald coming after me and my family.”
“Who’d he shoot?” Truman suspected he knew the answer.
“A Realtor. Jack Howell.”
I knew it. “What else do you know about McDonald?” Truman could barely speak. Anger had dried out his mouth.
“He ordered Pence’s death. Pence shot those deputies, and McDonald was furious that he’d acted without orders.”
Truman’s mind spun. “You saw this?”
“I wasn’t there the night he ordered Pence’s death, but I heard the story consistently from other men who were. They said Pence and McDonald had a huge blowup over Pence taking things into his own hands. Supposedly Pence thought McDonald would be happy with the death of some cops, but he’d jumped the gun.” He stopped and lowered his tone. “Striking back at the police wasn’t to come until later. McDonald wanted to be more established first.”
Truman pressed his palms against his eyes and bent at the waist, trying to fathom what Owen had just revealed.
McDonald was building a community to rule itself and kill cops.
Pence had killed the deputies on impulse, and McDonald had ordered his death. This was the type of community McDonald was putting together. One where he was king and took orders from no one. He was surrounding himself with a growing army of angry men who secretly hoped to be kings themselves one day and couldn’t see that McDonald offered only a dictatorship.
A society formed by fear, paranoia, and isolation, not formed from freedom. “Why the fire at Pence’s death?” Truman whispered.
Owen shrugged. “There’d been a lot of fires. McDonald figured you’d group them all together. Maybe even blame Pence for all of them.”
I nearly did.
“How can you even be in the same room with him?” Truman asked, his mind spinning. “Most men would give him a wide berth . . . especially after hearing he ordered the murder of Joshua Pence.”
Owen blew out a deep breath. “I was angry. Fuck, I was bitter and furious and looking to strike back after Levi’s death. My brother shouldn’t be dead.” His words shot through the air, forced out with anger and hate.
“I agree it shouldn’t have happened.”
“You were easy to blame,” Owen said slowly. “Mercy was easy to blame. I was brought up to be wary of the government and law enforcement, and when my brother died, I needed someone to take responsibility. It was easier to hate the establishment than admit that Levi might have done something stupid.”
“Levi was intentionally shot. Yes, Levi’s actions up to that point weren’t honorable, but he didn’t pull the trigger. There’s only one person to blame for that. Craig Rafferty.”
“It’s very unsatisfying to blame a dead man.” Owen was broken, his voice barely a whisper.
He can’t get past Levi’s death.
“I hear sirens,” Owen said in a tone of hope just as the far-off sounds reached Truman’s ears.
“Yes!” Relief flooded Truman, and his breathing came easier. He checked for reception on his phone again, desperate to let the county deputies know what was happening inside the compound. No luck. “Dammit!”
The sirens stopped. Owen and Truman stared at each other in the dark, waiting for them to restart.
Perhaps they’re coming in silently.
Rapid gunfire sounded. Even though it was far away, both men crouched and hunkered behind their trees.
“They stopped the law enforcement out on the road,” Owen hissed. “I’m sure Tom sent out a crew to make certain no one gets into the compound.”
Sounds of intermittent gunfire continued, cracking through the night. And then it stopped.
Truman held his breath. Who won? Did more officers just die?
He wanted to vomit.
“Your help isn’t coming,” Owen whispered.
“We don’t know that.” Truman’s heart was somewhere around his feet. What are we going to do? The silence of the night air crushed his hope.
Shouts sounded from the direction of the mess hall. Both men spun to face it as Truman’s heart rate spiked.
“You need to stay hidden,” Owen stated. “If they spot you, I don’t want to think about what they’d do, but I can go in and stall them. Maybe I can get her out somehow.” Owen started toward the hall. “McDonald is probably wondering where I am anyway. Try to get closer to the farmhouse. That’s the best place to get a cell signal.”
Truman grabbed his arm. “Be careful!”
Owen stopped and glanced back at Truman. “I should be fine. For some reason McDonald values my opinion.”
Truman tightened his grip, needing to get the words out before Owen vanished. “Mercy loves you, you know. She’s pissed as hell at how you’ve treated her, but she wants her brother back in her life more than anything.”
Owen froze. His throat moved, and he opened his mouth. It took two tries to form hoarse words. “I know.”
Truman let go of his arm and watched Owen vanish into the darkness. Does he really understand? Does he see Mercy’s pain?
More shouts sounded from the mess hall, and Truman was alone in the cold night.