Jerome set the wine and urn on the coffee table, nodding in agreement as he helped Drake to the couch. “Understandable. Anything you need before I go? I… need to get back to my wife.”
Drake waved him away. “I’m fine, sir. Go, take care of Mrs. Langford. And yourself.”
“Call me if you need anything. Oh, and if you feel up to it next week, we need to get together and discuss the trust, since, well, you know. Things have changed.”
Drake put on his best, fake sad face. “Of course, sir. Whenever you and Mrs. Langford are ready.”
“I’ll be in touch. Goodbye, Drake.”
Drake listened to Jerome walk down the hall. On pins and needles, Drake held his breath until he heard the SUV roar to life, the crunch of the snow and ice under the tires as it left the driveway. He turned his head and watched through the window until the vehicle was gone.
Thank God!
He stood and ambled to the kitchen, straight to the garbage. Leaning against the countertop, Drake’s fingers shook as he removed the lid. Panic tore through his chest as he stared at the empty bin. For a few seconds, he froze, his mind replaying the day. No, he didn’t take the garbage out. He didn’t have time. The Oxytocin worked faster than he’d anticipated. Shaking, afraid he would lose his balance, he tried to scoot toward the chair at the end of the counter. His heart skipped a beat when he saw a piece of lavender paper on the counter.
Mr. Benson,
I sorry about Mrs. Benson and baby. You in my prayers. Clean house at no charge. If still need me, call.
Lupita
Unable to control his pent-up emotions, Drake burst out laughing. The smell of lemon-scented cleaner hit him. Scanning the kitchen, he noticed everything gleamed, including the floor. Of course! Their maid cleaned! No, my maid. No they any more. Just me.
Though he didn’t like the idea of someone else disposing of the evidence, it was gone. One small garbage bag amongst thousands of others at the Pulaski County dump. It was all over. Drake was a free man, and soon, one who would be much wealthier. Grabbing his crutches, he headed toward the study. He had forms to fill out. He’d wait until an appropriate amount of time passed before he sent them in. No need in being greedy.
He had plenty of time, and no one left to nag him about when and how he did things.
“Free at last, free at last!” Drake shouted inside the empty house. Once in the study, he struggled to situate himself behind his desk. After getting comfortable, he opened the drawer and extracted his cell phone. It was dead, so he bent down and grabbed the power cord and plugged it in. No telling how many missed calls, voicemails, texts, e-mails and the like awaited him. Again, he had all the time in the world to sort through it all.
He pulled out the insurance policy and the form to request benefits. Reaching across the desk for his fountain pen, he almost knocked over the picture at the end of the desk. The one of him and Angie on their honeymoon in Jamaica. He stared at it, reliving the memories. Her hair billowed behind her, limbs long and tan, a skimpy bikini barely covering her tits and ass. Picking her as a sugar-momma had been a great idea, for Angie had been hot as a firecracker, even hotter in bed. Made it easier to play like he loved her, for Drake had enjoyed her many perks.
Two hours later, Drake sat at the kitchen table and stared at the graceful urn of silver that housed the remains of his wife and child. He ran his fingers over its smooth curves. The wind howled outside as another winter storm raged as night rolled in.
“Angie, Angie, Angie. I told you I didn’t want children. You know what else I didn’t want? You. I couldn’t stand one more night next to you. Do you have any idea how pissed off I was when I found out you were pregnant? Almost killed you the night you told me. Stared at you in the dark while you slept, pillow at the ready. Know what saved you that night? A thought. A notion. I remembered what happened to your retard sister, and I knew you would too. Jesus, how easy was it to convince you to take out a large insurance policy, in case, gasp, something went wrong during your pregnancy? I’ll tell you: candy-from-a-baby easy.
“I’m a good actor though, don’t you agree? I certainly fooled you. If it’s any consolation, I didn’t plan on having any injuries. Lost my car, my treasured Beamer, and you know how much I loved that car! Guess what? A brand new one is in the wings. Think I’ll name her Angie, in your honor. All of that was a small price to pay and well worth the money. Being able to call myself a millionaire is better than any pain killers.”
He drained the glass of wine, his second, and reached for his crutches. Needed to piss before he was too drunk to hobble to the bathroom. Between the Percocet and wine, he was soaring high.
After relieving himself, the large, Jacuzzi bathtub beckoned to him. It would be difficult, but he’d manage. The hot water would help warm his stiff, sore body. Scooting to the edge of the tub, he turned the water on and undressed. A bit afraid of being in too much water, he shut the spout off after only a few inches covered the bottom. He slid inside the warm water, careful to keep his leg propped up.
Ah, it feels so good to be King.
Drake took his time maneuvering across the slick hardwood floors. Lupita had outdone herself–they sparkled more than they ever had. When he reentered the kitchen after his glorious, warm bath, he noticed it wasn’t just cold, it was frigid. He glanced over to the sliding glass doors. His mouth went dry when he realized they were open. Wet, snow–covered footprints went from the entrance over to the table then toward the living room. His stomach did a weird little flip-flop.
The urn was gone.
“Who’s there?” Drake whispered. He cleared his throat and tried again, louder. “Jerome?”
“Wrong Langford. Try again.”
Drake froze at the sound of his wife’s voice from the living room. He shook his head thinking he must be hearing things, or his doped-up mind was playing tricks on him.
“Guess what, darling husband? You helped prove a theory that’s been argued about for centuries. Coma patients can hear while lost inside their minds. And I heard everything you whispered in my ear. When I woke up and told my father, we decided to not involve the police.”
Drake’s body shook with terror and rage when Angie appeared in the doorway, holding the urn against her significantly smaller stomach. In her other hand, she held a gun and it was trained on Drake’s chest. Get a grip. You’re imaging this. The pills and booze are making you hallucinate.
“I’m still not quite sure if your chats with me were said to clear your conscious or break my will to live. Either way, it doesn’t matter. What matters is I heard you. Every word. Including how you let our child die and urged me to join her.”
It hit Drake then, like the proverbial ton of bricks. The black outfit. The black veil. Oh, shit, it was her at the funeral, not Annette! Drake backpedaled as Angie made her way toward him, her steps slow, methodic. She stopped at the table and set the urn down, simultaneously reaching into her pocket. Fear spread through Drake’s chest when she pulled out a syringe. His heart nearly stopped beating when he realized Angie was wearing surgical gloves. Think! Keep her talking until you can reach the knives.
“Angie, honey, I… oh, God, you’re alive! Thank goodness. I was hoping all this was just a horrid dream! It’s so good to see you! Please, come here. Let me hold you so I’ll know this is real!”
“Wow, every word out of your mouth is a lie. You’re good, I’ll give you that. A-list actor. Oscar-worthy performance of a lifetime! Oh, and one that’s lasted over ten years. I should’ve heeded the advice of my parents and not married you. Except I was young, naïve, and in love. Blinded by your charms. Thanks to your words, I’m not anymore.”
Angie’s voice was hard, distant. Nothing remotely close to the woman Drake married. The harsh edge made his stomach roll. He needed to say something to knock her off balance, make her mind cloud with grief. Insanity danced behind her eyes. “You set me up. Must say, I’m impressed by your will to live. Too bad you didn’t wake up sooner, or you coul
d have saved your retard daughter. It wasn’t my idea to…”
Angie stopped Drake’s words by clicking the hammer on the gun. “Uh-uh, Drake. Not another word. You really believe that, don’t you? You’re a typical sociopath. Nothing is ever your fault. A monster like you doesn’t deserve to be judged by a jury of your peers. Father and I judged you. I’m sorry to say the verdict was guilty and the penalty is death.”
Locking gazes with his formerly dead wife, Drake saw the madness behind her eyes. They pulsed with fury. Her crazed look sent chills of terror up his spine. Drake had never been more frightened in his life. He would kick himself later for the asinine mistake of talking to Angie when she was unconscious. Right now, he had to figure out a way to survive. Needed a weapon. Drake felt the edge of the counter against his back. He lunged for the cutlery, but the crutches slid out from under him. He fell, his head slamming into the edge of the countertop before he tumbled face-first onto the floor.
Angie was on top of him before he could scramble back up. Her knees ground into his back. The full weight of her body pushed the air from his lungs, his cracked ribs sent shards of white-hot pain through him. Disoriented, he tried to move, but couldn’t. His arms were pinned beneath his torso. He felt Angie grab a handful of his hair, jerking his neck. The needle stung as it slipped into the skin. He tried to yank his arms free, but they were stuck. Gasping for air, he tried to kick her with his other leg and missed. Suddenly, he could breathe, and he knew Angie was no longer on top of him. He pulled in a lungful of air, determined to get to his feet and beat her to a bloody pulp. His plans disappeared as intense pain burned through his body. He couldn’t stop his entire body from trembling.
“Potassium chloride. A gift from my father. A quick yet painful death. Then a trip to the crematorium. Cousin Kevin enjoyed helping us fake my death. Oh, and he’s a pretty good actor, too, don’t you agree? Pulled off the whole Dr. William Hope role. Guess what?” Angie growled, moving away from Drake. “He can’t wait to send you to eternity as a pile of ashes in the urn meant for me and our daughter. It’s going to be such a sad crime scene. The poor, distraught husband has a heart attack after the stress of attending the memorial service for his wife and child. And true to your narcissistic nature, you added your own little twist! That bump on your head adds even more credence to your tragic ending.”
Drake’s body was wracked with pain as the convulsions set in. He tried to speak, to plead for help, but it was no use. His chest tightened, and he could feel his heart beat erratically. He heard Angie’s voice, but it was distant, muffled.
“Don’t worry about the money. Since my parents were listed as alternate beneficiaries, I’m sure they will enjoy the new condo they’ve been looking at in Costa Rica. You know…a beautiful place to escape to and heal after the death of their daughter and grandchild. Plenty left over to pay for a full-time, live-in housekeeper when they aren’t there. Enjoy your permanent vacation in Hell, you fucker.”
It was the last thing Drake heard before he took his last, gurgling breath.
Where did I go wrong?
10
Plan B
Angie watched her traitorous husband writhe and jerk on the floor until he took his last gulp of air. She waited until his bowels evacuated to motion to her father. He appeared from the hallway, his face whiter than the snow outside. He bent down and checked for a pulse. For a full minute, neither of them said a word. She busied her hands by refilling the syringe. Watched her father as he kept his focus on her dead husband. Finally, he stood and shook his head, a sick, twisted smile on his face.
Ding-dong the dick is dead.
Moving past her father, Angie picked up the urn from the table and held it close to her chest. My baby…Mommy’s getting justice. Almost finished.
Angie watched her father pull his cell from his pocket. “Wait, Dad. We need to make sure he’s too far gone, so no matter how hard they try, the paramedics can’t revive him. Oh, and remember, you need to make it look like you tried first. You know, the heroic father-in-law performed CPR to save his son-in-law after stopping by to check on him, but was too late.”
“Oh, that’s right. Sorry, I’m sort of flying blind here. First murder and all,” Jerome muttered.
“Need to get something from the study. Be right back. Go ahead and start,” Angie said over her shoulder as she walked past him. Angie heard the hitch in his voice as he tried to play off his fears. She was actually surprised he’d not only agreed to take part in the epic plan for revenge but did so without much prodding. Why are you surprised? You know he’s killed before.
She waited until he was situated next to Drake and was struggling to turn Drake over. “Sorry I can’t help you, but don’t want to contaminate the scene, right?”
“Right,” Jerome replied, out of breath. He grimaced as he pinched Drake’s nose, yanking his mouth open. As Jerome performed CPR, in seconds his hands and shirt were covered in blood from the nasty gash on Drake’s forehead. He was breathing hard.
Angie could see his shoulders sag with the effort of performing chest compressions. Her strides were quick and purposeful as she walked down the hallway to the study and over to the desk. Idiot didn’t even try to hide the insurance papers. They were in plain view on the desk, filled out with his meticulous penmanship, neatly stacked in the middle of the desk. Scooping them up, Angie turned and left Drake’s den of iniquity without another look.
It was time to initiate Plan B. As she walked down the hallway back to the kitchen, Angie could hear the labored grunts as her father continued to perform CPR on a dead corpse.
Much more effort than you gave to poor Amelia.
She walked past him and tossed the insurance papers on the counter. They landed with a soft thump, some of the pages slid off the slick surface and onto the floor. Satisfied it looked like a scuffle occurred, she withdrew the gun and syringe from her pocket. “Dad, you know when I said I heard everything Drake said to me while unconscious?”
“Uh-huh,” Jerome replied, his voice barely audible as he pushed.
“Well, that’s not all I heard. Or remembered,” Angie paused, waiting for a reaction. In mid-pump, her father froze. “And you know what? Seeing you try to revive a dead person brings back a very disturbing memory from my childhood. One I suppressed for years. Guess getting my bell rung released it.”
Jerome didn’t turn around to face his daughter. Instead, he let his arms fall to his sides, his head hung low. “You… know, don’t you?”
It almost looked like he was praying, which Angie knew he wasn’t. Dr. Jerome Arthur Langford would never waste his precious time praying to any deity. He didn’t need to, for he worshiped himself. Through Angie’s clenched jaws, she muttered, “Yes. Everything. You killed Amelia. Smothered her to death in the middle of the night. Her crying woke me up, but by the time I crept out of bed and made it to her room, it was too late. You’d already killed her. The pillow was still in your hands. I must have blocked it out. Why wouldn’t I? I mean, what kid wants to keep the memory of watching her own father do such a reprehensible thing?”
Jerome turned his face toward Angie, tears streaming down his cheeks. His shoulders bobbed up and down as he sobbed. “She wasn’t right, Angie! She never would be, either. Ever. We would be taking care of an infant for years. You know how fragile your mother is–she couldn’t handle caring for a child with special needs. I wanted to send her away, to a home so she’d have round-the-clock care, but your mother…”
Angie growled, moving closer, the gun aimed at the center of his forehead. “My mother loved Amelia, just like I did. We didn’t care about her issues! Didn’t love her any less because she was special. Just like I wouldn’t have loved mine any less. But no, you took advantage of the situation, had my blood tested while I was out cold. When the results came back, you convinced Drake to not let Dr. Randolph stop the contractions or resuscitate her if she stopped breathing. Waited until I delivered my special little girl and didn’t even try to revive her
! Then you had the nerve to tell me it was for the best! I heard every fucking word!”
Holding his hands up in a desperate attempt to calm his mentally disturbed daughter, Jerome pleaded, “Oh, Angie, it was for the best! You don’t know what kind of burden it would have been on you! I do. And, look what happened with Drake. I didn’t know what he did to you, the baby when the decision was made! What if she would have lived? You would have the burden of raising her, plus try to deal with the fact your husband tried to kill you! Please, stop this nonsense. Put the past to rest just like I’ve done all these years. If you don’t, you’ll end up just like your mother.”
Rage blinded her and Angie lunged, kicking Jerome so hard in the abdomen he doubled over. He rolled on his side on the floor, the air knocked from his lungs. In a flash, she knelt next to Drake, grabbed his right hand and wrapped it around the gun. Her father was weak from performing CPR and was struggling for air, unmoving. Forcing Drake’s dead hand up with her own, she aimed the gun at her father’s chest.
For Amelia. For Mom.
Angie pulled the trigger, letting the gun clatter to the floor after the bullet ripped through the good doctor’s torso. For a few seconds, stunned by what she’d done, she just stood and stared at him, her breath coming in heavy rasps. The smell of gunpowder filled the kitchen. Blood covered the cabinet and floor. His body crumpled mere inches away from Drake’s.
“You destroyed Mom’s mind, you bastard. Weren’t there for her when she needed you the most, and now she’s gone. Did you even cry when you found out your wife was dead? I certainly never saw a tear. Oh, and you almost destroyed my mind, too. Turned me into a murderer, that’s what you did. Drake? Nah, I would have just let the police handle him. But your words and what you did to our little family, broke me. Broke her. You killed your own child, watched your wife fall apart all because you were incapable of love. True, real love. Even years later, you let your wife down when you should have been there, by her side.”
Whispered Pain Page 7
