Ransom River Read Online Free PDF Page A

manically in his sweatshirt pocket.
    Rory grabbed his forearm. “Careful.”
    He looked near panic. “Can’t breathe.”
    Rory held his arm. “It could look like you’re pulling a weapon.”
    He nodded tightly and brought out an inhaler. Helen Ellis kept repeating, “Oh God God Jesus, help us.”
    In front of the bench, Judge Wieland stood with his hands raised. “You have no right to do this.”
    His voice had a quaver but came out strong. Nixon and Reagan ignored him.
    “This is a court of law, and these are the people of the State of California. Let them go,” Wieland said.
    Rory’s throat tightened. Wieland hadn’t lost his composure. He was acting like the captain of a ship, trying to hang on to the tiller and get people to the life rafts as water poured over the decks.
    She recalled the Marin County Courthouse attack in the seventies. Black-and-white photos: the judge with a sawed-off shotgun duct-taped to his neck. He was taken hostage by radicals seeking to break the Soledad Brothers out of prison. It was a spasm of “revolutionary” violence, terrifying and pointless. The judge had been shot dead.
    “Shut your mouth,” Nixon said. “Keep it shut.”
    What did these men want?
    Nixon nodded at the jury box, at Frankie. “Throw that thing here. Hands in the air.”
    Frankie shook his head and gripped the inhaler. “I can’t…”
    Nixon lunged forward. People screamed and climbed over each other, fighting to get out of the aim of the shotgun. Frankie shrank back and raised his hands but held on to the inhaler.
    Rory shouted at Nixon, “No.”
    She pulled Frankie against her. Yanked him almost onto her lap, gripping his sweatshirt, and tried to get both of them onto the floor.
    “Shut up and hold still, everybody.” Nixon held poised right in front of the jury box. His chest rose and fell. His gloved hands gripped the gleaming barrel of the gun.
    Frankie shuddered. Rory held him. He was hot, he was barely breathing,he was all she had, human connection, maybe the last seconds of a life she thought would be completely different.
    “Out of the jury box, all of you,” Nixon said.
    Motion, clatter. Sunlight poured through the window onto the backs of people streaming out of the jury box.
    Digging her fingers into Frankie’s sweatshirt, Rory stood up. Nixon was staring at her.
    She said, “He has an inhaler.” Her voice cracked. “Asthma. He needs it.”
    The gunman seemed to think about it. Finally, he nodded and indicated the inhaler with the barrel of the gun. “One shot.”
    Jesus, why’d he have to use that expression?
    Frankie’s eyes shone with fear. He looked about to rabbit, to bolt, suicidally, right through the window. He needed air.
    Rory nodded and released Frankie’s arm. His hand flew to his mouth. Gulping, he pumped the inhaler.
    Nixon said, “Toss it here.”
    Shaking, Frankie stole a second pump. Then he tossed the inhaler to the gunman. Nixon caught it and put it in his pocket. Rory could swear that behind the balaclava he was smirking. Bastard.
    She edged down the steps. Her leg ached, the one with the pins in it. She joined the rest of the jurors in front of the bench. Helen Ellis was swaying. Frankie’s wheezing eased.
    At the defense table, Jared Smith and Lucy Elmendorf were bent forward, foreheads on the table, hands locked behind their heads. The gunmen must have instructed them to do it, though Rory hadn’t heard it. The tabletop had been swept clean. No pens or pencils or anything that could be used to stab the gunmen.
    Nixon looked around. “Everybody listen. You will do exactly as we say. You will not hesitate. You will not hold back. You will not scream or cry out for help, and if anybody has held on to a cell phone”—he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small electronic device—“we will find it, and we will punish you.”
    Nixon raised the device like a police officer waving his badge. Reagan held his gun at port arms, aimed at the