Intervention

by Terri Blackstock

  What if they died here? She knew their death would give them an immediate reunion with John … But what about Lance?

  What must he be thinking, if he’d found out that his mother and Emily were together, captives of a crazed doctor? If anything happened to them, he would be left alone. There would be no one for him.

  It was too cruel.

  Aloud, she began to pray for Lance, for his peace, for his safety. She prayed for Greg Leigh, her enemy, that he’d be flooded with compassion, that his evil motives would be foiled, that her plot would work, and that they could escape.

  When she finished praying, her face was wet with tears, like Emily’s. But she saw new strength on her daughter’s face.

  “He’ll answer your prayers, Mom. I know he will.”

  Barbara looked at the stairs again, wishing Leigh would come … They were ready. She hoped he wasn’t.

  “He’s probably going nuts up there,” Emily whispered, “trying to decide what the police know. He thinks of himself as this kind, noble person, doing the right thing.”

  Maybe Leigh wasn’t as rabid as he seemed. Before his daughter died, he may have been a rational man. Barbara closed her eyes and tried to imagine her own bitterness if Emily had died the way Sara did. Maybe she would be insane with rage too. The smashed TV would have been the tip of the iceberg. Maybe she would have been the one to kill Trish Massey.

  After all, she was plotting Leigh’s death now.

  Maybe they weren’t so different, after all.

  sixty-two

  The Dalton PD found no properties owned by Greg Leigh in the entire state of Georgia, other than the one in Atlanta and the vacation cabin here in Dalton. Maybe Leigh had bought another property in the last few days. Kent searched his database for the homes near the shopping center that had sold in the last few days. It would have had to be filed with the tax office, and legal papers would have had to be signed, even if he’d bought it under some alias. On the other hand, there might be some lag time between the purchase and the filing. The tax office was closed, so he couldn’t check to see if they had the paperwork and hadn’t yet made the entry into the computer.

  There was also the possibility that Leigh was renting something, or even that he had broken into a vacant house or building and was using it.

  He had to locate it quickly. Emily’s and Barbara’s lives depended on it.

  “Since his Infiniti’s at the shopping center, he must have moved them in Barbara’s car,” Andy said.

  How had he let that happen? The police should have intercepted Barbara long before Leigh could get to her.

  He drove slowly along the road near the shopping center, the one Emily must have run down to get to the Boutique Square. “Look for a For Sale sign or a neglected yard, anything that says it might have been vacant for a while. And keep an eye out for her car.”

  The thought that Leigh had probably ridden away with Barbara in her own car meant that he was getting desperate, taking risks. At first, Leigh’s only motive for murder seemed to be getting revenge on the person he blamed for his daughter’s death. Even Emily’s kidnapping had a strange logic. But things had turned now, gotten darker, more erratic.

  According to the store clerk, Leigh had been injured. That, along with Emily’s escape and the fact that he was about to be exposed as a murderer and kidnapper, might prompt him to do something drastic.

  As he drove, Kent found himself praying again — that God would keep Leigh from getting rid of his two major problems.

  They followed the road leading up the mountain. How far had Emily run before reaching the shopping center? Some of the houses for sale weren’t visible from the street, but most were close to the road, and they could see the cars in the driveway, the condition of their yards.

  “There. That one,” Andy said. “The yard’s grown up.”

  But there were two cars in the driveway, a bike toppled over. Kent kept driving.

  “Up here, three houses out, there was a house sold two days ago,” Andy said, glancing at his notes. “Slow down.”

  Kent slowed as they passed the house. A U-Haul moving van sat in the driveway, and there were plenty of lights on. “Doubt it’s that one.”

  They drove farther, wishing it were daylight, but they didn’t have the luxury of waiting until then. They went by several more houses, then crossed a small bridge. A small house came into view, sitting back from the street, almost invisible because of the trees. A light was on somewhere inside.

  “This might be it,” Andy said. “Grass is tall.”

  Kent cut off their lights and pulled in, rolled a few yards up the gravel drive. In the moonlight, they could see the tail end of an SUV behind the house.

  “Nail on the head,” Andy said. “Barbara’s rental car.”

  sixty-three

  Greg Leigh thought he heard a car door. He went to the window, cut on the outside light. It only lit the area on the side of his house, and he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe it had been a branch cracking, dropping to the ground … or a deer walking through the yard.

  Or maybe it was the police.

  He had screwed everything up. He should have known better than to leave his car at the shopping center. What had he been thinking? He’d been so determined to get Barbara and Emily back in his grasp that he hadn’t thought things through.

  He turned the porch light back off and strode through the house to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror, startled by his disfigurement. What had he become? He wasn’t a man who committed murder, at least not before his daughter’s death. He was sworn to do no harm … to save lives, not to take them. Hatred, anger, and bitterness had done its terrible work in him, and now it oozed on his face. He thought of his ex-wife, who managed to live on without that sour, fermenting hatred. When he saw her now, her face reflected peace, though grief had not left her eyes.

  But bitterness was eating him from the inside like a slow poison, manifesting in bleeding ulcers, chronic headaches, trembling hands.

  Killing Trish Massey had been intended as an act of justice. An eye for an eye. He’d entrusted his daughter to her, and Sara died. It was only fitting that Trish pay with her life.

  But one murder led to another. Now he had no choice but to kill them both, mother and daughter, to save himself. Then he could start over somewhere in another state, or another country. Maybe Costa Rica or Cabo San Lucas. The waters were especially blue there, and the climate was good. He could buy a boat, and sail up the Mexican coast.

  He heard another sound outside. Was that wind rustling against his house, or people rustling through his yard? He looked out again, saw nothing. He went around to one of the other windows, looked around the dark edges of his unkempt lawn. Trees and bushes swayed in the wind and rain. No one seemed to be there. Not yet.

  The sooner he did this, the better. He got his hammer and went to the basement door, pried off the board he’d nailed across the door’s casing. Then he picked up his revolver. It was heavy in his hand. Cold.

  Maybe he shouldn’t kill both of them yet. Maybe, instead, he should keep one of them alive to use as a shield if the police came. Killing Barbara made sense. Emily was weak, easier to control. If the police came and surrounded him, he could load her into his car at gunpoint, and they’d have to let him go. He could arrange for a chartered plane and kill Emily once they were in the air.

  He would go down into the basement, feigning kindness, asking Barbara and Emily what they wanted to eat, setting them up, putting them off guard.

  He could do this. He had to.

  He opened the door, looked down into the basement room. Emily sat on the floor, her back against the wall. She looked up at him. Lifting the gun, he said, “Where’s your mother?”

  “In the bathroom,” she muttered.

  His gaze went to the bathroom. He’d have to wait until she came out. He took a step down …

  But the stair was gone. His foot went through, and he cursed and dropped the gun, trying to catc
h himself as loose boards tumbled. He bumped and scraped through the opening and hit the concrete beneath it.

  Barbara was waiting there, a plank in her hands poised like a baseball bat. He threw up his arms, blocking her swing. The board rammed into bone, crushing his elbow. He roared in agony.

  Teeth bared, she swung again, hitting the side of his head. “Emily, get the gun!”

  Emily slid behind the staircase and dove for the gun, but Greg flipped over and grabbed it with his left hand. Wincing with pain, he slid back against the wall. “Get back,” he yelled. “Put the board down.”

  Determination glinted in Barbara’s eyes, as she held the board in her hands. “Emily, get behind me.”

  “I said, drop it!” he yelled. “Emily, don’t move or I’ll kill her first.”

  Emily froze, looked at her mother. “Put it down, Mom,” she whispered.

  Biting her lip, Barbara bent, lay the board near her feet, and slowly stood back up.

  “Wouldn’t Sara be proud of you?” Emily dared to say.

  His rage mushroomed. “Don’t talk to me about my daughter.”

  For a moment, there was silence. He told himself to pull the trigger … just squeeze it and be done with it.

  Emily cut the silence. “You’re not a killer. You were just a dad trying to do the right thing.”

  Yes, just a dad … a grieving dad … trying to get justice for his precious daughter. Righting wrongs.

  Barbara’s voice was hoarse. “If you stand trial, the jury will understand that. But if you shoot us, they’ll just see you as a killer with no regard for life.”

  “I’ve always had regard for life,” he bit out. “I’ve spent my entire career saving people’s lives. But no one was there to save Sara!”

  Anguish drew him tight, and he brought the gun up, held the cool barrel of it against his own forehead.

  Barbara moved closer. “They shouldn’t have let Sara go out alone. They should have watched her, kept her safe.”

  He knew she was going to take the gun … and for a moment he didn’t care. It was all such a waste. The murder, the kidnapping … his life.

  She reached out and he didn’t stop her. She closed her hand over his hand, tried to slip the gun from his fingers.

  He caught himself and jerked the gun away. “Get back,” he said. “Both of you.”

  Barbara backed away.

  “Sit down.” His good eye was swelling where she’d hit him, and he could barely see. “Sit down, I said!”

  Barbara and Emily sat slowly down. Barbara pulled Emily’s head against her, shielding her with both arms.

  He thought of himself shielding Sara when she was small, before life had fallen out from under them. He didn’t want to kill anymore. Sara was dead, and nothing he’d arranged, nothing he’d schemed, nothing he’d hoped had turned out. It was all just a terrible mess.

  He had nothing else to live for.

  He put the gun to his head.

  “Don’t do it.” Barbara’s voice wobbled. “Please. It’ll just bring more pain to your wife. I met her. She still loves you. She prays for you.”

  He began to weep, hating himself and the circumstances that had brought him here.

  “And please … don’t do that in front of Emily.”

  He cocked the gun and looked at the girl. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and her mother was protecting her, holding her face against her shoulder, keeping her from seeing the bloodshed that would come.

  His bloodshed.

  So much death.

  But it was the only noble thing to do. The only thing that would set things right. He thought of his ex-wife’s way out of the crippling grief. She had turned to God. She told him it was never too late for him to turn too.

  But it wasn’t forgiveness he was seeking. It was retribution. And there could never be retribution for Sara’s death.

  He tried to squeeze the trigger … His heart hammered, kicking against his chest. Sweat dripped into his eyes.

  Something crashed upstairs, and he jumped. Footsteps bounded across the floor overhead. They had come for him.

  He’d known they would.

  Suddenly, he wanted to live. He had to save himself. He’d kill Barbara, shield himself with Emily …

  He turned the gun on the mother.

  sixty-four

  Kent reached the basement threshold, saw the broken steps, heard the voices. Through the hole in the staircase, he saw Leigh below him, raising the gun to Barbara.

  Kent lowered his weapon and fired twice. Each bullet hit home, convulsing Leigh’s body. The gun slid to the floor.

  The room echoed with screams.

  “It’s okay,” Kent yelled down, stepping over the broken stairs. “Barbara, it’s me.”

  Racked with terror and clutching her daughter, Barbara looked up. “Oh, dear God, I thought we were going to die.”

  Kent stepped over the broken steps and hurried down, reached the floor, and came around the staircase. Leigh lay dead in a pool of blood.

  “Don’t look, honey,” Barbara was whispering to Emily. “Let’s just go upstairs.”

  Still shielding Emily, Barbara looked at Leigh’s lifeless face as she and her daughter got to their feet.

  So this was Emily. Kent stepped toward her, touched her damp hair, gazed into her terrified face. “Emily, are you all right?” he asked. “Did he hurt you?”

  Trembling, she shook her head. “No … I’m okay. Let’s get out of here, Mom.”

  Barbara held her daughter as they made their way up the stairs together, into the group of police who waited.

  sixty-five

  When they got to the end of the driveway, Barbara saw a dozen or more police cars with blue lights flashing, blocking the road.

  Ambulances were waiting, and while two of the paramedics ran to the dead man, the others surrounded Emily. Barbara’s heart still raced as she stood just outside the vehicle.

  That gun … she’d been sure the discharge had been from Greg’s weapon, that bullets would end hers and Emily’s lives.

  Kent’s appearance had been a miracle.

  She saw him emerge from the house and went toward him. “Thank you, Kent. God used you to save us.”

  Kent met her eyes and smiled. “Imagine that. I’ve never been used by God before.”

  “Where’s Lance?”

  “At the police station. I’ll call and have someone bring him here.”

  “Thank you. Have them tell him we’re all right. I know he’s worried.”

  “I will. He’ll be okay. He’s a good kid. Real strong.”

  She was grateful for that. Kent looked at the ground, then back up. His eyes were soft as they swept across her face. He touched her shoulder and whispered, “So are you.”

  Tenderness for the man who’d come for her calmed her heart. She hoped he wouldn’t just close the case, let her go back to Jefferson City, and forget he ever knew her.

  She wasn’t ready to say good-bye.

  Kent made the call and went back to work inside the house, sorting through the things going through his mind — gratitude that his own prayers had been answered … that he’d gotten there in time … that Barbara was safe … that Emily had been found …

  As he let the CSIs gather the evidence, he watched Barbara through the windows, talking gently with Emily. After a few minutes, a squad car pulled up and Lance jumped out of the backseat. “Mom! Emily!”

  He ran to them, tears on his face, and threw his arms around them. They hugged ferociously.

  Kent walked outside, drawn to the warmth of a family reunited.

  When the hugs were done, Emily sat back in the ambulance. Barbara turned back to Kent and reached up to hug him. He held her longer than he should, but she didn’t push him away.

  She felt so small, so fragile. He wanted to make it his business to protect her, even when she wasn’t in danger. As her cheek touched his, he hoped he would have that chance. Silently, he gave God thanks.

  In the ambulan
ce, he heard Emily talking to the paramedic. “What’s in that IV?”

  “You’re dehydrated. We’re starting some fluids and some medications.”

  “Fluids, yes,” she said, “but no meds.”

  Kent let Barbara go, and they both looked at the girl sitting on the gurney with her brother.

  “Are you sure?” the medic asked.

  “Positive,” Emily said. “I’m a recovering addict, four days sober. I want to stay that way.”

  Lance took her hand. “Go, Sis.”

  Kent watched the smile make its way to Barbara’s moist eyes. As she joined her children in the ambulance, he wondered if there might be any openings for detectives in the Jefferson City Police Department. He dared another silent prayer.

  He hoped God was still listening.

  A Note from the Author

  Years ago, Bob Dylan recorded a song that said, “It may be the devil or it may be the Lord, but you’re gonna have to serve somebody.” I would never realize how true those words were until I got involved in prison ministry and became personally involved with women who were in bondage to chemical substances, alcohol, men, and the government, and that bondage had robbed them of healthy, happy, productive lives of liberty.

  Later, when I learned that my own precious daughter was trapped in the bondage of addiction, I embarked on a journey to set her free. Despair overwhelmed me as never before, and I wondered how she could turn from the banquet feast of God to serve something as dark and all-consuming as drugs.

  The day I drove alone to her house to do the first of our interventions, I trembled and cried and rehearsed what I would say. What magic words were there to convince her to give up this life she had chosen? How could I expect to influence her thinking, when twenty-two years of Christian upbringing hadn’t worked?

  Desperate for a word from God to calm me, I pulled into a parking lot a few blocks from her house and reached for my Bible, which was on the seat next to me. I opened it to Isaiah 49 and looked for a passage that always comforted me. I found it in verse 15: “Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you!”