Murder Is Forever, Volume 1

by James Patterson

  Then, as if in slow motion, she watches the man pull the trigger.

  Chapter 26

  Frank

  The craps dealer looked up at Frank, who’d been on an incredible streak, rolling six sevens in a row. But Frank was looking down at his watch, adjusting for time zones, doing the math in his head.

  It’s eight in Dallas, where the clocks were two hours ahead. That made it nine o’clock in Florida.

  Time to call Nancy.

  “I’ll be right back, babe,” he said to Suzanne, excusing himself from the table.

  “You okay, darling?”

  “I just need some air.”

  It’s a perfect evening in Tahoe. Seventy degrees out, dry as a bone, a slight breeze coming up from the water. Frank had a habit of checking the weather before calling home, just in case Nancy asked what the weather was like wherever it was she thought Frank was. Now his iPhone told him that it’s as hot as a furnace in Tampa.

  He fiddled with the phone some more, paced back and forth on the patio outside the casino.

  There was a part of Frank that was afraid Nancy would pick up the phone when he called.

  Another part of him knew that she wouldn’t.

  And when Frank finally did call his home, the phone rang and rang, then went to voice mail.

  When he called Nancy’s cell phone, it did the same thing.

  Frank did not leave a message.

  Suzanne was waiting for him inside the casino. His new life was waiting there with her. But only if Billie had actually made good on his promise. Billie, and whoever else Billie had picked for the job.

  If there was one thing Frank knew, it was that Billie Earl and his associates had it in them to screw up.

  Frank decided to wait a few minutes, then tried Nancy again.

  His call went straight to her voice mail again. The same chirpy message, and this time, Frank left a message, making sure to sound a little concerned.

  “Babe, I don’t know where you are. But I’m just finishing up for the day. These weekend meetings, I don’t know why the company bothers. But I’ll be home in a few days, and I’ll call you tomorrow. And, Nancy, I love you and miss you.”

  For a moment, he almost believed what he was saying.

  Then that moment passed. Gradually, the look of concern on Frank’s face began to twist into a smile.

  By the time he got back to the craps table where Suzanne was waiting, Frank was grinning from ear to ear.

  Chapter 27

  Nancy

  A few minutes earlier, conscious but covered in blood, Nancy had crawled through her house, praying and pleading with Jesus and leaving a thick, red, bloody trail in her wake as she made her way into the bathroom, pushed herself up against the sink, steadied herself, and looked in the mirror.

  She did not understand what she saw there. For a moment, she did not recognize her own face or remember how she had gotten into the bathroom.

  Then she did remember. She remembered hearing God’s voice: “Get up!” He had told her.

  She remembered getting up.

  Nancy remembered punching the OnStar button in her car, again and again, before she realized that her keys were gone and that without her car keys OnStar wouldn’t work. She remembered punching the security code in on her burglar alarm to shut it off—something that had seemed so sensible when she’d done it but seemed ridiculous now, when she was desperate for help to come.

  She should have let the alarm go off. Now she’d have to get to her kitchen and call 911 on the landline.

  Steadying herself against the walls of her house, smearing them with more blood as she made her way, she finally reached the kitchen. And in the time that it took the 911 dispatcher to answer—time that was no time at all—Nancy recalled even more. She remembered the man with the gun. The determined look in his eyes. The few, simple things he had said. And the blazing pain that had preceded the darkness. Nancy remembered lying on the concrete floor of her garage. She recalled everything that had led up to the moment in which her Savior had told her to wake up. To get up. To live.

  Now it was Nancy’s turn to talk, to tell the 911 dispatcher what had happened, to ask for an ambulance and hold on until help arrived. As she dialed, she prayed for the strength it would take her to do it.

  “Carrollton 911, what’s the emergency?”

  “I’ve been shot!” was all she could say in response.

  Nancy’s tongue felt fat and swollen. There was so much blood in her mouth, she could barely get the words out.

  “Please,” she said. “Oh God, oh God.”

  “What’s the address, ma’am?”

  Upset as Nancy was, it gave her strength to hear the dispatcher’s calm voice.

  “Breathe,” she told herself. “Breathe and try again.”

  Slurring badly, she managed to give her address: “Forty-Five Bluebonnet Way.”

  “Tell me exactly what happened,” the dispatcher said. But she could barely make out Nancy’s answer: something about her garage. Being attacked in her garage?

  Nancy was slurring so badly now the dispatcher couldn’t be sure. Then, much more clearly, she said: “Please help me.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the dispatcher told her—help was already speeding toward Nancy. The trick now was to keep her conscious and talking until help arrived.

  “Just stay on the line, ma’am, and I’m going to get some questions going. How many people was it?”

  Nancy told her, and as she did so, she felt relieved—concentrating on the dispatcher’s questions was so much easier than thinking about the blood and the pain.

  “Just one that I’m aware of,” she said.

  “Did you see him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he white? Black? Hispanic?”

  “He was white. White with a black hat.”

  “How old?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The dispatcher couldn’t make out Nancy’s next set of answers. She sounded fainter now. Groaning for help. Moaning in pain. Fighting for her life, but growing weaker with each passing breath.

  “Lord,” she said once again. “I’ve been shot!”

  “I know, ma’am. I can’t imagine how bad it hurts. I just want you to stay on the phone.”

  The dispatcher glanced at the clock: Less than ninety seconds had passed since the call had come in. But help was still three or four minutes away from the house on Bluebonnet Way.

  At the two-minute mark, the dispatcher asked Nancy her name for the first time.

  At the two-fifteen mark, she asked Nancy where she’d been shot.

  At the three-minute mark, the dispatcher told Nancy that the police would be pulling up any minute.

  Four minutes total had passed without the sound of sirens speeding toward Nancy, who was still moaning and praying to Jesus.

  “If it’s taking your energy to talk, you don’t worry about it, okay?” the dispatcher told her. “I’m just going to sit here and make sure that they get to you.”

  “Please don’t leave me; please don’t go.”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. I’m going to stay on the phone with you until they get there.”

  Of course the dispatcher would stay on the phone. If there was one thing the dispatcher had learned during her career with emergency services, it was that no one ever wanted to die alone—and from the sound of Nancy’s breathing, the dispatcher was afraid that Nancy wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer.

  Finally, at the five-minute mark, help arrived.

  “It’s the police!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the dispatcher said, and then she heard other voices, and Nancy’s voice, saying, “Help me, help me,” over and over again.

  To Nancy, the dispatcher’s voice seemed like the voice of an angel—an angel the Lord had sent to see her through.

  She was still alive, still conscious, still on her feet. She even opened the front door for the two police officers and leaned against the doorjamb, looking like she’d step
ped out of some horror movie as they sprinted up her driveway. But as the police officers ran up to Nancy, they saw something strange: The woman was smiling.

  Looking at them, she saw two more angels. She’d been so scared—by the man, by the sight of her own, bloodied face in the mirror. She’d been praying so hard. All of her life, she had had so much faith. And now the Lord was rewarding her faith with a miracle. Nancy would live through this ordeal; she just knew it.

  The sight of her standing there, bloodied, barely breathing, calling for help, praying to Jesus, and smiling—that was a sight neither of the officers would ever forget.

  Chapter 28

  Frank

  Frank was still at the craps table when his iPhone rang.

  His daughter Ashley was on the line. Her voice sounded strange.

  “Dad,” she said. “Mom’s been shot.”

  Just like that. Matter-of-factly.

  As if she’d been reporting the weather.

  “What? Ashley, what are you talking about?”

  Suzanne looked up at Frank, startled. He shushed her. On the phone, he heard Ashley’s voice crack.

  “Daddy, they shot her in the head!”

  “Oh God,” Frank said.

  After all this time, Billie Earl Johnson had finally come through.

  “Ashley, what are you saying? Where’s Mommy now?”

  “The police called my cell phone. I don’t know why they didn’t call you. But, Daddy, they shot her in the head!”

  “What’s her condition?”

  Frank felt stupid saying the words: What’s her condition? It’s shot in the head. As they said in those lawyer shows Nancy would stay up late to watch: “Asked and answered.” So Frank was surprised, even shocked, to hear what Ashley had to say next: “She’s alive, Dad. The police say that she was conscious and on her feet when the ambulance arrived.”

  All of a sudden, Frank felt his world shift on its axis.

  Alive!

  Frank didn’t know what to make of it. Billie Earl had told him that this plan was foolproof. But what were the odds that a woman who had been shot in the head would survive? It was something no one could have predicted.

  There was a chance that Nancy would die in the night, before he could even get back to Texas. But Frank had to brace himself for worse scenarios.

  If Nancy died, there’d be nothing to tie him to the shooting. That had been the whole point of hiring Billie Earl Johnson. But if Nancy lived, and identified the shooter, there was no telling where the police investigation might lead.

  And even if that investigation went nowhere, Nancy would still be there. One shooting could have been considered a one-off. A case of mistaken identity. Or a burglary gone wrong. But there was no way that Billie Earl, or anyone else, would ever get away with another attempt on Nancy’s life.

  Poison would have been the way to go. A car accident. A trip and a fall, maybe off the side of a mountain while hiking on some remote and romantic getaway.

  Frank didn’t know if he could have gone through with something like that. He didn’t think he’d have been capable of hurting Nancy with his own hands. But anything—anything—would have been better than this.

  Now he would still have to deal with Suzanne in California. With her tears, and the fact that whatever happened, it looked like he couldn’t be with her full-time for a while now.

  And back home, he’d have to deal with Nancy. He’d have to look her in the eyes and lie, once again, about how much he loved her. About how sorry he was. But all he was really sorry about, at the moment, was that Billie Earl had screwed up so royally.

  Frank had never been as sorry about anything in his whole life.

  Chapter 29

  Nancy

  While Frank was thinking about looking Nancy in the eyes and lying, Nancy was lying in the ICU at Parkland Memorial Hospital in Dallas.

  She didn’t even have eyes anymore. What Nancy had now was one eye and a gaping wound where the other one had been. She had shunts, bandages, tubes, and wires running every which way down her body.

  But she was alive. She had to thank God for that. And her kids were there, in the next room, talking to a doctor who’d put a few scans of Nancy’s brain up on the light board.

  The bullet had entered just above Nancy’s left eye, the doctor was saying. But instead of traveling straight through to her brain, it had taken a detour and traveled down her sinus cavity and throat before lodging in her right lung.

  The lung had collapsed. The bullet was still there and would remain there for the foreseeable future. She’d be on a ventilator for a couple days, at least. Nancy’s left eye was gone. Her throat was torn. She had extensive nerve damage.

  That was the bad news. The good news was there was every indication that Nancy would live.

  There was no brain damage—none at all.

  Somebody had certainly been watching out for her. That was all Nancy needed to know at the moment—that, and the fact that she was alive. But other thoughts kept crowding her imagination. Time and again, she replayed her encounter with the man in the black baseball hat. Had she angered the man by handing him the takeout bag instead of her purse? Had she somehow brought the disaster upon herself?

  Or was it something more than a disaster? Could the shooting have been a test, which Nancy’s faith had allowed her to pass? Nancy didn’t know why she’d been shot. But that didn’t mean the shooting was senseless. Yes, it was a mystery. And Nancy knew mysteries could be full of meaning.

  The Lord had spared her, and that was a miracle. After all, it had been His voice that had pulled her through. But what had He spared her for? That was the real mystery that Nancy would have to solve for herself. If she was going to walk away from this shooting, what was the lesson she would take with her?

  Nancy wished that she could talk to Frank about it. Her husband, who had grown up in the church and had a gift for divining the good Lord’s intentions.

  Nancy’s kids had assured her that Frank was on his way.

  The last thing she thought before drifting off into a very deep sleep was “Florida’s not so far away. He’ll be on the first flight. We’ll get through this together—just like we’re meant to.”

  Chapter 30

  Frank and Nancy

  On Frank’s first visit to the hospital, Nancy had a tube down her throat. But Frank stayed for a long time, holding her hand, comforting his children.

  “Your mother’s alive,” he told the children. “Nothing else matters. Her shattered face can be reconstructed. Her body will heal.”

  The words felt surreal as he said them. The sound of his own voice was like something straight out of a dream. But what else could Frank have said? Ever since his affair—ever since he had started embezzling from his boss, Richard Raley—he’d been afraid of getting tangled up in his own lies. That’s what had driven him toward Billie Earl Johnson. But Billie had failed, and the fear that Frank felt now cut more deeply. The more he talked, the more overwhelmed he became. It was as if he’d been swept overboard in some storm, and it was all he could do to tread water—keep his head above the surface until help arrived.

  What help would look like, Frank didn’t know. All he could do was keep lying for now.

  “I’ll stay right here by your mother’s side,” Frank said. “There’s nowhere else I’d want to be.”

  For the next twenty minutes, Frank did his best to convey the notion that nothing could tear him and Nancy apart. That nothing ever had, or would. He’d gone home earlier that day, fetched his things, had all that he needed right there at the hospital. Now he would sleep in the armchair right at Nancy’s feet, holding her hand for however long it took until the doctors told him they were out of the woods.

  But just outside of Nancy’s room, on his way to the bathroom, Frank found himself face-to-face with a Carrollton police officer. Startled, he couldn’t help but take a step back. The police officer looked startled too. The Howards were friends of his, fellow parishioners
at First Baptist Church.

  How could this have happened to them?

  Frank didn’t know. Couldn’t know. But, of course, he understood that the officer did have to ask him some questions. Nancy had finally fallen back asleep again, and if there was anything at all the officer thought Frank could help with, well then, he would bend over backward to help.

  “Basic questions,” the officer explained. “Anything you might have seen or heard around the neighborhood. Suspicious characters. That sort of thing.”

  “There’s nothing,” Frank said. “Nothing I can think of that would have led to this.”

  “Any break-ins that you’re aware of?”

  “There was that break-in over on Fairfield Drive, by the Parkway. But you know about that. And I don’t know what that would have to do with Nancy. You’re saying that none of the neighbors heard or saw anything at all?”

  “It was raining pretty hard, Frank. Everyone was inside. Maybe someone will come forward. But at the moment it doesn’t look like much more than an aggravated assault.”

  “Aggravated assault?” Frank asked, arching his eyebrows. Trying his best to look puzzled, he hoped the officer hadn’t noticed his lips curl up into a smile. Anything that pointed the police away from him was a good thing, Frank reasoned.

  “A botched robbery attempt or something of that nature. Maybe she came home and startled a burglar.”

  “Jesus. You saw what they did to her?”

  “I wasn’t there on the scene, Frank. But I want you to know that we’re going to catch whoever did this. Now, I’m sorry to have to ask, but is there anything you can think of that Nancy herself could have done…”

  “You know how Nancy is. She’s so kindhearted, who knows who she might have answered the door for.”

  Frank’s friend, the officer, nodded thoughtfully. Then, almost as an afterthought, and just for procedure’s sake, he asked one last question: