Predator: A Crossbow Novel

by Wilbur Smith

  To Wilkinson’s right was his long-time patient and friend Ronald Bunter, senior partner of the law firm of Bunter and Theobald. He was a small, neat, silver-haired man, whose normally impeccable, even fussy appearance was marred by the deep shadows under his eyes, the gray tinge to his skin and—something Wilkinson had never seen on him before—the heavy creases in his dark gray suit. When Bunter said “Good morning” there was a quaver in his thin, precise voice. He was obviously exhausted and under enormous strain. But he was not the patient Wilkinson was due to be seeing today.

  On the left of the line sat a tall, strongly built, altogether more forceful-looking man in his early forties: Ronald Bunter’s son Bradley. He had thick black hair, swept back from his temples and gelled into a layered, picture-ready perfection that made him look like someone running for office. His eyes were a clear blue and they looked at Dr. Wilkinson with a challenging directness, as if Brad Bunter were forever spoiling for a fight. Even so, the doctor could see that he, too, was suffering considerable fatigue, even if he was more able to hide it than his father. There was, however, nothing wrong with Brad Bunter that a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure.

  The patient whose condition was the reason for the Bunters’ visit to Frank Wilkinson’s office sat between the two men: Ronald’s wife and Bradley’s mother Elizabeth, who was known to everyone as Betty. As a young woman Betty had been an exceptionally beautiful, Grace Kelly blonde, with brains to match. She’d met Ronnie when they were both freshmen at the University of Texas; they had married in their junior year and they’d been together ever since.

  “I don’t know what I did to deserve her,” Ronnie used to say. “Not only is she far too pretty for a guy like me, but she’s far too smart as well. Her grades were way better than mine all the way through U. T. Law. If she hadn’t given it up to marry me, she’d have been the one running the firm.”

  Now, though, she was a shrunken, hunched-up figure. Her hair was disheveled and her immaculate everyday uniform of slim-cut, ankle-length chinos, white blouse, pearls and pastel cashmere cardigans had been replaced by an old purple polo shirt, tucked into baggy gray elasticated slacks over a pair of cheap sneakers. She was holding her purse on her lap and she kept opening it, taking out a tightly folded piece of paper, unfolding it, staring blankly at the handwritten words scrawled across it, folding it up again and putting it back in the bag.

  Dr. Wilkinson watched her go through one complete cycle of the ritual before very gently inquiring, “Do you know why you’re here, Betty?”

  She looked up at him suspiciously. “No, no I don’t,” she said. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “No, you haven’t done anything wrong, Betty.”

  She looked at him with a desperate expression of anguish and bafflement in her eyes. “I just . . . I . . . I . . . I can’t sort it all out . . . all these things. I don’t know . . .” Her voice tailed away as she opened her purse and pulled out the paper again.

  “You are merely suffering from a period of confusion.” Dr. Wilkinson said kindly, trying to cloak the awful truth with the gentlest possible tone of voice. “Do you remember we talked about your diagnosis?”

  “We did no such thing! I don’t remember that at all. And I’m a grown woman in her fifties.” Betty was in fact three weeks shy of her seventy-third birthday. She continued forcefully, “I know what’s what and I remember all the things I need to know, I can assure you of that!”

  “And I believe you,” Dr. Wilkinson said, knowing that it was pointless arguing with an Alzheimer’s patient, or attempting to drag them from their personal reality back into the real world. He looked at her husband: “Now, perhaps you can tell me what happened, Ronnie.”

  “Yes, well, Betty’s been having a lot of trouble sleeping,” Bunter started. He looked at his wife, whose full attention had now reverted to the piece of paper, and went on, his voice tentative and his words very obviously skirting around the full truth: “She became a little confused last night, you know, and she was . . . overwrought, I guess you might say.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Dad!” Brad Bunter exclaimed with an anger born of frustration. “Why don’t you tell Dr. Wilkinson what really happened?”

  His father said nothing.

  “So what do you think happened, Brad?” Dr. Wilkinson asked.

  “OK.” Brad gave a heavy sigh, collected his thoughts and then began, “Seven o’clock yesterday evening, I’m still at the office and I get a call from Dad. He’s at home—these days he likes to be home by five, to look after Mom—and he needs help because Mom’s packed a case and she’s trying to get out of the house. See, she doesn’t believe it actually is her house any more. And Dad’s on the ragged edge because she’s been shouting at him, and kicking and punching him . . .”

  Ronald Bunter winced as if the words had hurt him more than his wife’s fists or feet ever could. Betty still seemed oblivious to what was being said.

  Brad kept going. “And she’s having crying jags. I mean, I can hear her sobbing in the background as I’m talking to him. So I go over and I try to get her calm enough to at least eat something, right? Because she doesn’t eat any more, doctor, not unless you make her. Then I get home about quarter of nine, to see my own wife and kids, except Brianne’s already put the kids to bed, so we watch some TV, go to bed.”

  “Uh-huh,” Wilkinson murmured. He wrote a couple of words on his notes. “Was that the final disturbance last night?”

  “Hell no. Two o’clock in the morning the phone goes again. It’s Dad. Same thing. Can I come over? Mom’s out of control. I’ll be honest, I felt like saying, you want help in the middle of the night, call an ambulance. But, you know, she is my mom, so I go over again, same story, except this time—and I’m sorry, Dad, but Dr. Wilkinson needs to know this, she’s walking around stark naked, babbling God knows what nonsense . . . and she’s got no modesty or embarrassment at all about it.”

  “There’s nothing embarrassing about the human body, Brad,” Wilkinson said.

  “Well, just you remember that the next time one of your parents turns your home into a nudist colony.”

  “Excuse Brad please, Dr. Wilkinson. You know that he can be a little abrupt sometimes,” said Ronald with exaggerated politeness that failed to hide his anger.

  “No, Dad, I just tell it like it is. This can’t go on, doctor. My parents need help. Even if they say they don’t want it, they need it.”

  “Hmm . . .” Wilkinson nodded thoughtfully. “From what you say, it certainly sounds like we’re reaching a crisis point. But I don’t want to rush to any conclusions. Sometimes there’s a physiological cause for a series of episodes like the one you describe. I have to say, I doubt that in this case, but it pays to make sure, just in case there’s a little infection or something going on. So, Betty, if you don’t mind I’m going to do a few tests.”

  Now she perked up again. “I’m certainly not sick. I know I’m not sick. Never felt better in my life.”

  “Well, that’s great to hear, Betty. And don’t you worry, I won’t be doing anything too serious at all, just checking your blood pressure, listening to your chest, simple stuff like that. Are you happy for me to do that, Betty?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Ronald patted her arm. “You’ll be fine, Betsy-Boo. I’ll be right here watching over you.”

  From nowhere, like a sudden ray of sunshine on a cloudy day, Betty Bunter produced a dazzling smile that just for a moment brought all the life and beauty back to her face. “Thank you, sweetheart,” she said.

  It took Wilkinson less than five minutes to go through his tests. When he’d finished he sat back in his chair and said, “OK, well, as I suspected, there are no physiological problems to report. So what I’m going to do is prescribe something for Betty to help calm her at moments of particularly acute anxiety. Ron, if you or Brad can make sure Betty takes half of one of these pills whenever you feel things are taking a turn for the worse that should help a lot, but no mo
re than two of those halves in any one day.”

  He looked around to make sure that the two Bunter men had taken in what he’d just said, then he continued, “We have an established crisis-management procedure for cases like this, to make sure we can get our patients effective care. I’m going to make a few calls this morning and try to work out something for you guys by the end of the day. Brad, I wonder if you could take Betty out to the waiting room for a moment. I just want a quick word with your dad . . . because he’s my patient too, after all.”

  “That sounds alarming. Should I be worried?” Ronnie asked.

  Wilkinson gave the kind of chuckle that’s intended to reassure, though seldom does. “No, I simply want a chance to talk, on a doctor–patient basis.”

  No more words were exchanged until Brad had led his mother out of the room; then Ronnie Bunter asked, “So, what’s this all about, Frank?”

  “It’s about the fact that Betty isn’t the only one I’m worried about,” Wilkinson replied. “You’re exhausted, Ron. You’ve got to get more help. At this stage, Betty really needs around-the-clock care.”

  “And I’m doing my damnedest to give it to her. I swore an oath, Frank: ‘in sickness and in health.’ And in my business, oaths matter. You don’t break ’em.”

  “Nor in my business, either, but you’re not being a smart husband to Betty if you make yourself sick trying to look after her. Caring for someone with a severe psychological and neurological condition like Alzheimer’s is a tough, tough job. It’s non-stop. You look exhausted, Ron, and you’ve lost weight, too. Are you eating properly?”

  “When I can,” Bunter said. “It’s not like we’re sitting down at the dinner table for a three-course meal. That’s for sure.”

  “How about work?”

  “Well, I try to go into the office most days, and my staff all know I’m always on call, my clients too.”

  Wilkinson laid down his pen, leaned back in his chair with his arms folded and looked his old friend straight in the eye. “So you’re trying to look after Betty, day and night, and the phone keeps ringing with people asking for legal advice. Tell me, do you think you’re giving your clients the best counsel they could get for their money? Because I know for sure I couldn’t treat my patients properly if I were going through the same things as you are now.”

  Bunter’s shoulders sagged a little. “It’s hard, I’ll give you that. And yeah, there are times I put the phone down and think, Shoot! I just forgot something, or I realize I got a point of law wrong. And it’s not because I don’t know the right answer, I’m just so darn tired.”

  “Right, so now I’m going to give you a prescription, and you’re not going to like it.”

  “Do I have to take it?”

  “If you’ve got any sense left in you at all, buddy, yeah, you do.”

  “OK then, doc, tell it to me straight,” Bunter said, making Wilkinson smile with his attempt at portraying a character in an old cowboy movie.

  “Right, first thing I’m telling you is that you have to get Betty the best around-the-clock care that you and your insurance plan can afford.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Ron . . .” Wilkinson insisted.

  “OK, OK, I’ll do it. Anything else?”

  “Yes. I want you to cut right back on your work. You’ve got good people at your firm, right?”

  “The best.”

  “Then they can take over your clients. And Brad can run the business day-to-day. If you want to call yourself by some fancy title that means you’re still the top dog, even though you don’t bark any more, that’s fine by me. But I don’t want you setting foot in the office more than once a week, preferably once a month. Let Brad do all the heavy lifting.”

  “I’m just not sure he’s ready for it.”

  “Bet that’s what your old man said about you, too, but you showed him.”

  “And there’s . . .” Bunter grimaced. “Well, I hate to say this about my own son, but there are character issues. You heard Brad today. He can be abrasive sometimes, confrontational.”

  “So are many of the world’s greatest litigators.”

  “But it’s not the style I like to encourage at Bunter and Theobald. The best deals, the ones that last and don’t end in bitterness and acrimony, are the ones where both sides feel like they did OK. That means we get what our client wants, or at least what he needs, while still respecting the other side and acknowledging the merits of their position, not beating them into the ground.”

  “Well, Ronnie, I’m not going to tell you how to run your firm, but I didn’t hear a son who was abrasive or confrontational today. I heard a son who’s very aware of how bad things have gotten, who’s worried, just like I am, about the both of you, and who wants to get the situation, if not fixed—because there is no fix for Alzheimer’s—then at least made as tolerable as it can possibly be.”

  Bunter frowned anxiously. “You really think I need to get help, leave work, huh?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “So then what am I going to do?”

  “Take it easy. Spend quality time with Betty while you still can. Listen, Ronnie, it won’t be long—less than a year, maybe less than six months—before Betty’s reached the point where she doesn’t recognize you, can’t hold any kind of a conversation, not even a rambling one, and there’s no trace left of the woman you fell in love with.”

  Bunter’s face crumpled: “Don’t . . . that’s awful . . .”

  “But it’s true. So make the best of the time you have. Look after yourself so you can still look after her. Promise me you’ll think about that, at least.”

  “Yeah, OK, I’ll promise you that.”

  “You’re a good man, Ron, one of the very best. Betty’s lucky to have you.”

  “Not half as lucky as I’ve been to have her. And now I’m losing her . . .”

  “I know . . .” Dr. Wilkinson said. “I know.”

  For decades the state of Texas has carried out its executions in the Texas Death House at the Walls Unit, Huntsville. Right up to 1998, that’s where Death Row was located, too. But then condemned men, Johnny Congo included, started finding ways to escape and the Texas Department of Criminal Justice determined that a more secure unit was required. Death Row was moved across to the Polunsky Unit in West Livingston, a supermax, ultra-high-security facility. No one escaped from there. The nigh-on 300 prisoners were held in solitary confinement and ate in their cells from a plate shoved through a “bean slot” in the door. They exercised alone in a caged recreation area. The only physical contact they received was the strip searches they underwent whenever they left their cells. The regime was enough to drive a man crazy and there were some who chose to waive appeal opportunities and face execution early, just to escape from it.

  Johnny Congo’s execution process began at three in the afternoon of 15 November. He was not offered the choice of a condemned man’s final meal, nor would he be at Huntsville: that luxury had long since been abandoned. There was just a hammering on his cell door and a warder shouting, “Time to go, Johnny! Hands through the bean slot.”

  Every aspect of life at the Polunsky Unit was calculated to degrade and dehumanize the inmates. The procedure for leaving a cell was no exception. Johnny walked to the door. He got down on his knees. Then he shuffled around so that he had his back to the door and stretched his arms backward till his hands pushed through the bean slot and emerged into the corridor outside. A pair of handcuffs was slapped around his wrists; then he pulled his arms back through the slot and got to his feet.

  “Step away from the door!” the voice commanded.

  Obediently, Johnny walked back into the middle of the room with his hands now cuffed behind his back. Then he turned around again to face the door as it opened.

  Two warders came into the sixty-square-foot cell. One of them was white and almost as big as Johnny, with crew-cut ginger hair and sunburned skin on his face and forearms. He was carrying a Mossburger shotgun and
there was a tense, jumpy look on his face that suggested he was just looking for a chance to use it.

  Johnny smiled at him. “What’s the point of pointing a gun at me today, ya dumb cracker? I’m already a dead man walking. Blow me away now, you’ll be doing me a favor.”

  Johnny turned his face toward the second warden, a portly, middle-aged African-American, his hair dusted with silver. “Afternoon, Uncle,” he said.

  “Good afternoon to you, too, Johnny,” Uncle said. “This is a hard time for you, I know that. But the calmer we can make it, the easier it will go, y’hear?”

  “Yeah, I hear you.”

  “OK then, what I’m going to do is prepare you for transit to Huntsville. So first I want you to stand with your feet about eighteen inches apart. You were in the service, right?”

  “Damn right, was a gunny sergeant in the Corps.”

  “A Marine, huh? Well, then I guess you know how to stand at ease.”

  Johnny obediently snapped into the position.

  “Thanks, man,” Uncle said. “Now just stand still a minute while I fix these around your ankles.”

  Johnny did as he was told and was equally compliant as a belly chain was secured around his waist. Then his hands were released from their original cuffs and resecured in cuffs that hung from the chain. He was now restricted to the short, shuffling steps that the leg irons allowed and the minimal hand movements afforded him by the links between the handcuffs and the belly chain. As massive, as powerful and as intimidating as he was, Johnny Congo was now entirely helpless. The two warders who had come to his cell were now joined by more of their colleagues as they led him through the Polunsky Unit to the loading bay where his transport awaited him.

  All those years previously when Johnny had escaped from Huntsville, his associate Aleutian Brown had shot a warder called Lucas Heller in cold blood, with a bullet through the back of his skull. Johnny assumed that the warders around him now knew that. He waited for the first punch, or billy-club blow to hit him, knowing that they could do exactly what they wanted with him and he’d be completely unable to resist. But Uncle’s peaceful, civilizing presence must have been enough to inhibit any desire for violent retribution because they got to the loading bay without any disturbance. There wasn’t even any outcry from the other prisoners, giving a final send-off to a fellow inmate who was heading for the Death House. They were all alone in their silent cells, shut away behind the blank steel doors that lined the corridors. They had no idea that Johnny had ever even been in the unit, let alone that he was being taken away to die.