by B. J Daniels
When she’d failed to kill Sheriff Frank Curry as her mother had instructed her to do from the time she was ten, she’d quit drawing. At the mental hospital, they encouraged her during arts and crafts hour. She couldn’t bear to draw.
Instead, she’d sat cutting paper into tiny pieces with the dull rounded scissors that made her feel like a kindergartner.
All that was behind her now, she told herself as she parked a half mile from the ranch. Before her attempt on Frank’s life, she’d spent a lot of time around the ranch when he was gone. She could find her way, even in the dark.
Taking the shortcut across a pasture, she reached the trees. Several of the horses in the pasture near the house picked up her scent and began to snort, ears raised, as they moved away.
The house was a ranchette and only one story. Frank’s bedroom was at one end. She hadn’t been here since he’d married Nettie. She was assuming they would be together since they’d fought so hard to be that way. Seemed fitting that they should die together.
His patrol SUV was parked in front of the house beside the smaller SUV that Nettie drove. Tiffany felt as if she knew Frank well enough that they could have been father and daughter. She wished it had been true. He’d been kind to her. Something inside her ached at the memory of riding horses with him.
Unfortunately, he’d been the man who’d broken her mother’s heart. Frank had always been in love with Nettie, her mother had told her—even when he was married to her. That was what had broken Pam Chandler Curry’s heart. She’d known she hadn’t been his first choice and couldn’t live with that.
But she’d also known that he was still in love with Nettie and that he could never love her as much as he had his first love. That’s when she’d decided he had to die and that it would be her daughter who killed him.
“What mother brainwashes her daughter into being a murderer?” Frank had often demanded on his visits to the mental hospital before he’d realized she wasn’t his daughter. “Pam was a monster who used you. Tiffany, work with the doctors. You deserve a life, not to be used in some horrible revenge scheme.”
Clearly, he didn’t understand. He thought that when Pam died that she wouldn’t come around anymore. He didn’t know that she would never be free of her mother—even in death. Frank just never knew what Pam was capable of, otherwise he would have known from the beginning that Tiffany wasn’t his.
That’s why she had to finish this. She couldn’t bear waking in the middle of the night to find her dead mother standing over her bed, her face filled with hatred and telling her what she was going to do to her if she didn’t finish what they’d started.
Frank Curry didn’t know what it was like being that terrified.
Better to finish this even knowing that her mother would make her kill herself once it was done.
As she neared the patrol SUV, she knew it would be locked. Just as she knew the front door of the house would be as well. Frank knew she was coming. He hadn’t known when or exactly how she would pull it off, but he would be ready.
She also knew that he would underestimate her.
She worked her way down the side of the house to where she had hidden the key. Getting copies of his keys had been child’s play. That was back when she had the run of the place; back when Frank thought his love could heal anything Pam had done to her.
Fortunately, the patrol SUV was the same one Frank had been driving when she’d been sent to the mental hospital. She took the key she’d had made and moved toward the vehicle. She knew exactly where she would find what she needed.
From the telephone line, one of the crows roused and let out a squawk. Frank had told her stories about crows. He swore that crows recognized people, people they liked, people they hated. Also that the birds passed that information on to other crows.
She wasn’t sure she believed they would remember her, but she wasn’t taking any chances since the last time she was here she’d killed one of them. She now had her head covered with an old towel she’d found in the back of Dr. Iverson’s car. Keeping the towel’s edges so the birds couldn’t see her face, she unlocked the patrol car.
Another squawk from the telephone line. “Shut up you stupid bird,” she muttered under her breath. She couldn’t wait to kill the whole bunch of them.
* * *
JOE LANDON SLAMMED his fist into the wall. He’d never been so furious.
“I handled it,” Doc said on the phone. “Isn’t that why you pay me the big bucks?”
The old man’s sarcasm was irritation enough. “You don’t have the authority to take things into your own hands. Those two young people are a liability. I want them both killed.” That would show Sarah just how serious he was.
“Haven’t we had enough bodies as it is?” Doc questioned. “Let’s not forget that we lost John Carter and Warren is now in jail awaiting trial. Do you really want to call more attention to us right now, especially when we are this close to our objective?”
He hated how reasonable Doc sounded. When this was over... “What if they remember everything and go to the authorities?”
“They won’t. If that becomes the case, though, I will personally see that they never reach the authorities. You have my assurance.”
Joe scoffed at that now as he hung up. He was the leader, not that old man. How dare he take things into his own hands? “If I want those two killed, by damned they will be killed if I have to do it myself,” he said to the empty room.
Doc had told him that the two were headed for the clinic in Houston. Joe picked up the phone. Unlike Martin, he didn’t have a private jet. But he still could get to Houston before either of them left the clinic.
The thought of Martin made him even more angry. He’d given the man an order and he’d blown it. He shouldn’t have let his son get involved.
The idea had been to blend into society and wait. That meant acting normal. Normal for most of the others was getting a job, finding a wife, having children. But a wife and children had proved to be a problem. Wives become suspicious and had to be dealt with, like Martin’s wife.
And children... Well, they grew up. They asked questions. They noticed things. Simply put, they couldn’t be trusted.
That was one reason he was so furious with Sarah. Six children? What had she been thinking? Worse, she’d fallen for Buckmaster, fallen for that “fake” life.
Well, he would deal with her when the time came. Right now, he thought, as he threw a few things into a suitcase, he had to deal with her daughter and Martin’s son. He would show them all who was in charge of The Prophecy. It would be a lesson he knew at least Sarah wouldn’t forget.
* * *
THE TASER FELT light as a feather in Tiffany’s hand. She’d spent time online studying how Tasers worked. If one of the staff happened by, she would switch to Pinterest and pretend to look at hairstyles. Frank’s Taser gun was ready to go.
She’d also taken his extra Glock. She’d put both the handgun, fully loaded, and the knife with the now-dried blood in Dr. Iverson’s backpack she’d discovered in the rear of his SUV. She’d bought the duct tape with the ten dollars the waitress had given her.
“Some things are meant to be,” she’d said to herself when she’d discovered the coat, towel and the backpack after a potty break at a gas station. “Thank you, Dr. Iverson,” she’d said with a laugh.
Now, as she crept back to the side of the house, she feared things were almost going too well. The crows were watching her through the ambient glow of the large old yard light. She pulled the towel across most of her face. Was it possible they recognized the way she moved? The one with the loud mouth let out another squawk.
“I’ll be back for you,” she said under her breath as she rounded the corner into the darkness that hunkered behind the house.
The night felt colder back here away from the li
ght. She shivered, adjusted the backpack she had slung over one shoulder and stuffed the towel into it. Standing perfectly still, she listened. The only sound was the breeze in the nearby pine trees. It sighed almost impatiently as if saying, “Get on with it.”
Scuttling along the back of the house, Tiffany stayed in the deepest of the shadows until she reached the back door. She’d learned from experience that people in these parts, especially rural residents, didn’t lock their doors. Half of them couldn’t even remember where the keys were for their houses.
She also had a duplicate of that key. Her mother had taught her to always be prepared. As she pulled it out, though, she hesitated. Frank hadn’t changed the key for his patrol SUV since he didn’t know that she’d copied his extra key he kept in a drawer in the house. But what if he’d had the locks changed on the house?
Suddenly, she feared that he might be one step ahead of her. After all, everyone knew Frank had a crazy daughter by his first marriage who would give most anyone nightmares—and reason to have their locks changed.
Then again, as far as anyone knew, poor sick Tiffany was locked up in the criminally insane ward of the state mental hospital with no chance of ever getting out.
She stood for a moment before she reached for the doorknob and tried her key. It fit into the lock. She turned it. There was a soft click. As she turned the knob, the door swung in. She stepped into the quiet predawn darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE SUN WAS just coming up over Texas. Martin rode in the ambulance that took them to the back entrance of the clinic, where Jack and Cassidy were put on stretchers and wheeled to separate rooms.
“There is nothing more for you to do here,” the head nurse, a stout older woman with short gray hair, informed him. “Come back during visiting hours.”
He felt at loose ends as he exited the clinic to where his car and driver were waiting behind the ambulance. Getting in, he told himself he was too anxious to go about his day as if nothing was happening. What would Jack remember when he woke up? Would he wake up?
Both Cassidy and Jack had looked like death warmed over. He realized how close he’d come to losing his only son. It had shaken him more than he had wanted to admit to Sarah. And it wasn’t over. If Jack remembered—
He shoved that thought away. The best thing he could do was go to work. Business as usual. Until he got the call from the hospital, then he would charge down there, praying that whatever Doc had done had worked.
He thought of his wife and felt tears fill his eyes. He told himself he was exhausted and yet his hands shook as he tried to pull out his cell phone to call his secretary at the office.
Maybe Sarah was right. Maybe there was something deeply wrong with them. Did he even still believe in this cause that he’d given his life to? He’d been so busy protecting The Prophecy, so busy making money to keep the cause going, so busy hiding behind the mask of Tom Durand, did he even know who he was anymore?
“Where to, boss?” his driver asked, dragging him from his thoughts.
“My office,” he said and leaned back as the luxury car purred away from the clinic. Out the window, he could see the Houston skyline in the distance. This was his city, his life, if not his dream. He’d always wanted to make a mark on the world. He had rebelled at the thought of being a car salesman like his father. A nobody. He had wanted to accomplish something. He couldn’t bear the thought of dying like his father and no one would remember him except someone he’d once sold a car to.
He was still looking out the window when a car whizzed past them. All he saw was a glimpse of a familiar face—and a flash of white against black.
Turning in his seat, he craned his neck to watch the car turn into the front entrance of the clinic.
“Stop!” he yelled at his driver. “Go back. Hurry.”
* * *
THE SHERIFF WOKE with a start. He lay in bed listening, unsure what had brought him out of his nightmare so suddenly. He didn’t move, afraid he would wake Lynette, as he tried to still his racing heart and calm his breathing. He was perspiring heavily, his pajama top drenched, making him aware that he’d had the same nightmare again.
He turned down the comforter and sheet only to have the night air coming in through the open window send a chill through him. He got up and closed the window a few inches as quietly as possible. He and Lynette both liked the fresh air. He didn’t want to wake her. She’d be worried about him. Worried that he’d had that nightmare again.
He unbuttoned the pajama top and slipped it off, dropping it beside the bed as he gently pulled his dresser drawer open and pulled out another top. He’d have to remember to pick it up before she saw it in the morning.
So far he’d been able to keep how often he had the nightmare a secret from Lynette—which was no easy task. The woman was a bloodhound if she thought he was keeping something from her.
But he hadn’t wanted her to worry. And she would if she had any idea what haunted him most of his nights. Tiffany. It was always the same. In the nightmare, he woke to find her standing at the end of his bed holding his gun in her hand. He would raise his right hand, try to say something, but before he could, she would pull the trigger.
He rubbed the palm of his right hand, assuring himself there was no bullet hole. Just as he always assured himself there was no Tiffany standing at the foot of his bed when his eyes finally adjusted to the darkness. It was just a bad dream.
Frank almost laughed at that. It was a nightmare like none he’d ever experienced even in his childhood when everyone knew there were bogeymen under their beds.
The worst part of the nightmare was what happened after the first shot. He shook his head, refusing to go back to that part, the part where Tiffany killed the only woman he’d truly loved, his Lynette.
He eased back into bed and closed his eyes, letting the night air chase away the dampness on his skin until he shivered and pulled the sheet up. Turning on his side to face Lynette, he listened to her soft breathing and smiled to himself. As long as she was safe, everything was all right. But if anything ever happened to her...
Not letting his mind go down that particular path, he breathed in the sweet, clean scent of Lynette’s face cream and pictured her putting it on each night before bed. Smiling, he let sleep take him again.
* * *
MARTIN WAS OUT of the car before his driver even brought it to a complete stop. “What are you doing here?” he demanded of the man who was headed for the front door of the clinic.
The priest turned, looking surprised as he cupped one hand against the rising sun to stare at him. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
For just a moment, Martin thought he’d made a mistake. He stepped closer. The priest’s face was in shadow, but now he was near enough that there was no doubt. “Joe.”
The priest’s eyes narrowed to dark blue slits. “Sorry? I don’t know a Joe. My name is Father John David Williams.”
Now that he’d confronted him, Martin wasn’t sure what to do. Joe was still handsome, actually distinguished. He’d always carried himself like a man who knew who he was and where he was going. A man who wasn’t going to let anything stand in his way.
The fact that Joe was here now didn’t bode well. Wasn’t that why Martin had accosted him? One of the rules they’d had when they’d parted all those years ago was that they would keep their “fake” lives separate so there would be no connection. But never in a hundred years would Martin have dreamed that Joe would become a priest.
He thought of his son and Cassidy inside the clinic. “Where are you going, Father?”
“To see some of my parishioners. Do you have a problem with that?”
The contents of his stomach began to roil at the look Joe gave him. It was an are-you-sure-you-really-want-to-do-this look. He reminded himself how dangerous this man was. Don’
t let the priest getup fool you, Martin told himself. This man standing before you would kill you without batting an eyelash.
Martin swallowed. “I can’t let you do whatever it is you’ve come here to do.”
Joe raised an eyebrow and smiled. “I’m curious. How do you intend to stop me?”
“I’m hoping with reason. Doc says he has this covered.”
Joe stepped closer, his priest garb rustling softly and yet it was a sound that sent ice water down Martin’s spine. “Doc isn’t running this show.”
“You got what you wanted. Sarah is back in line. Now it is just a sprint to the finish line. But if the presidential candidate and his wife lose a child...”
Joe’s jaw tightened as he looked away. “And if Doc is wrong?” he asked, turning that laser gaze back on him.
Martin met the man’s eyes with an even more intense look. “Then I will do whatever has to be done.”
With a sigh, Joe said, “You’re out of line here today, Martin. I’m not leaving the city until I am assured this has been contained. Oh, and Martin, never confront me like this again.” He turned on his heel and headed back toward the car he’d arrived in.
Martin stood watching the priest go. His legs quivered under him as he realized that he was a dead man. Joe wouldn’t forget this. He stumbled to a bench along the sidewalk and sat down for a moment as he watched Joe drive away. Joe Landon had become a priest? Somehow that made him even more terrifying.
* * *
THE BEDROOM WAS still dark but Tiffany could see faint light to the east as she stepped in. The sun would be rising soon. She stood listening. Both the people in the bed were snoring softly. It gave her an odd feeling. This peaceful scene felt so normal.
She wondered what it would have been like to have a mother and father growing up. She imagined what it would have been like if Frank had loved Pam more than Nettie. Maybe they would have had a child together. Maybe it would have been her. She shoved that thought away, surprised by the well of sentiment that kept surfacing. Was it because tonight would end it all, she wondered as she stepped to the end of the bed.
