Licensed to Thrill: Volume 2

by Diane Capri

  Frank walked in carrying his cell phone. “It’s Mac,” he said. “I told him that Fleming got on the plane, but we haven’t picked him up yet.”

  “Put him on the speaker,” Helen instructed. Jess was present, but it was part of their deal that she would be included in the rest of the evening activities if she agreed to remain at the ranch. “Mac, it’s Helen. Frank and Jess are here with me. What did you find out?”

  Mac hesitated. He obviously didn’t want to share his investigation results with Jess. When he spoke, he reported a strict factual account with none of the opinions he would have given if speaking to Helen and Frank alone.

  “We obtained the search warrants, picked up a toothbrush and hair samples from Fleming’s home, and a couple of used tissues from his office. We also collected a few items likely to have his fingerprints. We took the samples to the lab. The tech performed a quick hair comparison.” The connection crackled, covering up the last words.

  “What?”

  “The hairs were consistent,” he repeated.

  Her heart pounded hard enough to escape her chest at Mac’s confirmation. She’d wanted so desperately to be wrong. Although she’d always sought to protect her son and care for her husband, she’d not only failed the two people she loved most, she’d allowed a cold killer to violate their most private lives. An overwhelming revulsion almost suffocated her. Her public humiliation was nothing compared to her personal failures.

  “Helen?” Mac asked, “Are you there? Have I lost you?”

  She took several deep breaths, trying to get hold of her body’s reactions to the horror she couldn’t control. She needed to get a grip on herself or she would pass out. She took a hit off her inhaler, then another.

  As her airways cleared, she turned to the part of her mind that was as detached as possible, making an effort to compartmentalize her personal feelings from the view of the others in the room.

  Helen cleared her throat and tried to speak twice before she got the words out loud enough for Mac to hear her. “Conclusive DNA?”

  “We should have it to match to the ski-mask by Wednesday. Maybe to the Crawford trace, too. Not before,” he told her. “FDLE will have a full staff, but we can’t ask more people to work on Christmas unless we have to.”

  Helen already knew what the lab results were going to be. They all did. There was no true urgency to confirm.

  “Of course not, Mac. You either. There’s nothing else to be done tonight. You go on home. Tell your family Merry Christmas for me. We’ve done some more work from here, but it can keep. We’ll be fine until Wednesday, too.”

  Helen didn’t trust cell phone transmissions for sensitive information, and she believed what she’d said to Mac. With Ben Fleming stuck inside an airplane and police in New York ready to apprehend him when he disembarked, everything else could wait.

  Practical considerations complete, Helen’s self-recriminations threatened to overwhelm her again.

  No. I won’t let him win again. Ben Fleming would be sorry he’d chosen to terrorize her. The thought of beating him calmed her still-raw nerves.

  That’s it, Helen. Think about something else to get yourself under control.

  She turned her attention to Frank. “I think we can turn in for the night, don’t you?”

  “I’m going to sit up and watch the cameras a bit,” Frank said, meaning the additional security cameras they’d installed around the ranch house exterior in the past two days. “I need to check in with my perimeter teams, too. Prescott and Berger are already snoring. They’ll take the 3:00 a.m. shift and the guys will rotate.”

  With Ben Fleming in New York the plan seemed like overkill but Helen was too tired to argue. “Sounds good,” she said instead.

  As Frank left, Jess walked into the room with two mugs of hot milk. She handed one to Helen.

  “Thanks. Maybe this will help me sleep.”

  Jess smiled. “I’m guessing a double Scotch would work more effectively.”

  “No doubt.” Helen stood and stretched. Jess had been quite a help tonight. She had a good head on her shoulders and she’d continued to research Ben’s past from the data sources available to her magazine. “I’m going back to sit with Oliver and let the resident go home. Want to keep me company?”

  “Sure,” Jess said. The invitation emboldened Jess and as the two women walked toward the door to Helen’s personal life that Jess had yet to traverse, she asked, “Does it feel better? To be able to put a face to the murderer of your son?”

  Helen didn’t flinch away from the question, but neither did she respond. They walked through the heavy door. Helen closed it behind them and threw the dead bolt. Jess looked at her inquiringly.

  “Force of habit, I guess,” Helen said. “This wing of the house is newer than the rest. This is a security door. When I throw the bolt, it triggers the alarm system.”

  Helen didn’t return to their discussion, but Jess did. “I wish I knew who took Peter. Even if he’s . . . ” she stopped, unable to voice the idea that Peter might be dead.

  Helen had noticed her failure to say those words before, and understood Jess’s hesitation. Until Jess accepted Peter’s death, he remained alive for her.

  “Get some kind of closure, you mean?” Helen asked, her visceral responses to the confirmation of Ben Fleming’s guilt still too close to the surface, too raw.

  “Yeah,” Jess replied. “To know. For sure.”

  Helen felt the pins and needles in her legs, feet, arms again. Her heartbeat elevated. Through force of will, she overpowered the feelings.

  “Before tonight, I would have said certainty was a good thing, Jess. I’ve said it myself to too many survivors of violent crime. We created a program in Florida using DNA to identify the bodies of long-deceased crime victims to provide that closure.”

  “But now you feel differently?” Jess’s voice was quiet. She knew about the unidentified victim database, but was reluctant to use it for herself.

  Helen sighed. “Maybe it’s too soon. I just know that what I feel isn’t peaceful acceptance. It’s more like overflowing lava from a molten place in my core. If Ben Fleming was standing in front of me right now—” she stopped.

  After a few moments of silence, Jess asked, “What?”

  Helen’s voice was hard. “I told you once that I didn’t believe in the death penalty. Let’s just say I’ve changed my mind. Maybe I understand a little bit better how Arnold Ward must have felt when Tommy Taylor was released and why all those years he kept the evidence secret that would have exonerated Taylor.”

  “He had the ability to make sure Taylor never killed again,” Jess said. “I totally understand that, too. I’ve understood that much for a long time. But he was wrong, Helen. Arnold had no right to do what he did.”

  They’d reached Oliver’s room and the door was open. Helen talked briefly with the resident and let him leave through the back entrance. She locked the door behind him and pressed the deadbolt to trigger the security systems.

  When she returned to the room, Jess stood at Oliver’s left side. His eyes were open and he seemed to be looking at her, but revealed no sign he knew she was there.

  “Oliver,” Helen said, as if he was as lucid as anyone else, “this is Jess Kimball. She’s going to sit with me for a while. You go ahead and rest. We’ll be fine.”

  His expression did not change. She kissed his motionless lips and waved Jess to a recliner nearest the closet, facing Oliver’s hospital bed. Helen took the second recliner and leaned back, putting her feet up.

  Jess wriggled around a bit, evidently feeling some discomfort in her seat. She pulled a small pistol from her waistband. A .38 special, if Helen wasn’t mistaken. Jess rested it on her lap before putting her feet up, too.

  Helen didn’t comment. She hadn’t known Jess was carrying, but she wasn’t surprised and didn’t mind. Helen had lived on a ranch her entire life and she’d shot more than one snake. She’d spent much of her professional life picking up the pie
ces of lives shattered by criminals and trained to protect herself. Guns were second nature to her. There were at least two in the room that she could reach quickly should the need arise.

  Helen understood the feeling of security that firearm competence provided, particularly for a woman, and especially one as petite as Jess. No matter how far women came in achieving gender parity, they would always be at a physical disadvantage against a man. Helen believed in allowing women an equalizer.

  The room was dimly lit by the small bedside lamp on the opposite side of Oliver’s bed and the ambient light emanating from various medical equipment. Helen and Jess were cast in semi-darkness. The late hour, their shared mission, and the room’s intimacy led to quiet confidences.

  “I’ve wondered since we met at your office,” Jess said. “How do you do it?”

  “Do what?” Helen had closed her eyes for a minute and felt herself beginning to slip into sleep.

  “Keep going. Your son was murdered, your husband shot, and you continued your job, one of the most difficult jobs in the country, no doubt. Then another attack on your husband’s life and all of these hours since.” Jess’s tone was quiet, but her sincerity shone through. “How do you keep doing the work, showing up, making the tough decisions? What’s your secret? I’d really like to know.”

  Helen didn’t answer at first. The wind rattled the window panes and she heard the trees rustling outside. The electricity had flickered several times tonight and it flickered again. If it went out, which happened fairly often out here in the flat land, the propane-powered backup generators would kick on after sixty seconds.

  Perhaps it was the stormy night and intermittent darkness that increased the sense of intimacy between them. Whatever the reason, for the first time in years, Helen found herself revealing personal information that she would normally never share with anyone, let alone a woman she’d known only a few days.

  Maybe she could help Jess let go of her own guilt over Peter, to move on with her life the best way a grieving mother can. Jess had so much to offer and the years were passing her by. Helen didn’t want to sound trite, but she had come to realize that physical, mental, and emotional health were the most important attributes of life.

  Helen shrugged. “I just do it, Jess. It’s all I’ve ever done, all I know to do. Put one foot in front of the other and keep going. My parents were ranchers and their parents were ranchers. It’s never been an easy life, or one without tragedy. Dad used to tell me what I told Mac tonight, ‘Be strong, Helen,’ he’d say whenever something happened that might have hurt me terribly.”

  She sipped more of the warm milk and it indeed made her sleepier. “I had a strong foundation of ethics and religion, too. I think that makes a difference. And I believe in the American creed. I’m guessing you do, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That we Americans believe in self-reliance, stoicism, courage, excellence, problem-solving, and achievement. I think that’s true, and I’ve certainly tried to live my life that way.”

  “I’d say it’s served you fairly well, then. I’ve known women who were crushed by much less than you’ve endured,” Jess said, sounding as if she was still wide awake and Helen wondered how that could be so.

  Helen drained the last of her milk as the lights flickered and went out. “You, too, Jess,” she murmured in the dark. “You’re stronger than you think.” Helen squeezed Jess’s arm and waited for the generator to kick on and the lights to come back up.

  But the inky darkness continued. The whirring sound of the fan on the forced air furnace had stopped as did the small noises of Oliver’s medical monitoring equipment.

  “How long does it take for the generators to start everything again?” Jess asked.

  “Should’ve happened by now. Hang on, I’ve got a flashlight over here in the drawer. Let me get it.”

  In the silent darkness, Helen heard a distinctive noise that she’d heard too recently to forget. The crackling crescendo of a raging fire.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Thornberry, Florida

  Monday 1:00 a.m.

  BEN’S LUCK HELD STEADY. He took one last look around. He saw no lights on inside the house. He set to work.

  Within minutes, the combination of accelerants, high winds, arid weather conditions, and the fuel of the building’s construction ignited most satisfactorily. The old wooden roof and the north side walls were aflame.

  Executing his plan, he opened the main natural gas valve, then the propane storage tank. He used all of his body weight to break the valve with the heel of his boot, speeding the gas leak until the fire reached it. There was no time to waste.

  At the back entrance to Oliver’s wing of the house, Sig in front of his body, he pulled out the key that he’d stolen from the house when he visited Oliver on Saturday, slipped it first into the deadbolt and then the door’s secondary mechanism. Both unlocked easily.

  As he pocketed the key and prepared to open the door, Ben felt an iron grip twist his left arm back and up behind his back. Pain shot through his shoulder all the way to his wrist. He glanced down and recognized the vaguely darker shape of another man’s shoes. He felt a cold, round pressure on the back of his head which he recognized as the barrel of a service weapon held in Frank Temple’s hand.

  Adrenaline flooded Ben’s veins, heightening his senses, charging his animalistic instincts with power. He prepared to die.

  “Make one wrong move and I’ll kill you,” Frank said like something out of a bad western movie.

  As if certain death kindled his feral impulse, Ben moved without hesitation. In one fluid motion, he swung his hips to the left and raised the pistol in his right hand, aiming blindly back over his shoulder, in the direction of Frank’s voice. Simultaneously ducking away from Frank’s gun barrel, he fired. And fired again.

  Before his next heartbeat, Ben expected to feel the brief pain of Frank’s gunfire to his head and the quick release of death.

  His heart beat once, twice, three times in rapid succession.

  Ben blinked. Suffered the pounding of his heart. Waited.

  The grip on his left arm vanished. His deafened ears registered no sound, but he sensed Frank Temple’s body land behind him, and saw black blood already pooling around his feet.

  Ben exhaled the breath he’d drawn in before firing his gun and noticed his bladder had released. He breathed again to be sure he could keep the oxygen flowing to his lungs before he turned around to look.

  His bullets had hit Frank squarely in the head and neck. He couldn’t have done better if he’d aimed in broad daylight. I’m a Lucky Bastard.

  In truth, he’d never come so close to death before. The exhilaration astounded him. He tucked the knowledge away in his head for later consideration. He had to hurry.

  Ben kicked Frank’s gun away and crouched in the darkness, waiting. No one seemed to respond to the gunshots.

  Ben glanced up at the roof and saw the fire burning over the entire kitchen area and the bottom of the house was engulfed in flames on the north side, too. Much of the house on that side should be filled with toxic gases at this point. If anyone had been sleeping and stood up quickly after they heard the gunshots, they would have died after inhaling a few breaths.

  The fire was mesmerizing. He might have watched for hours if he’d had the time. As it was, he still had to kill Oliver and Helen Sullivan. He couldn’t leave their demise to chance. He’d tried that twice before. This time, he’d be sure to finish the job before he moved on.

  Ben opened the door to the total darkness inside the house. He hustled the short distance to Oliver’s room.

  He pushed the heavy wood door to shut pursuers out, but its old iron hinges squealed loud enough to awaken the embalmed.

  Startled, Ben shoved the door the rest of the way. He tried to slide the privacy deadbolt the Sullivans had installed to keep their young son from walking into the room at an inopportune moment all those years ago. The deadbolt stuck. He couldn’t lock
the door.

  When he turned toward the bed, reached into his pocket for the mini flashlight and shined it into Oliver’s face, Ben was startled to see Oliver’s eyes wide open.

  He raised the gun pointing it directly at Oliver’s head. Without removing the ski mask this time, he said, “Good-bye, Oliver.”

  Oliver made no sound. His body did not move.

  “Hello, Ben,” he heard instead from across the room.

  Keeping the gun trained on Oliver’s head, Ben whipped the beam of the light up toward Helen’s voice. She sat in a recliner with Oliver’s bed between them.

  Ben brought his gun up, following the flashlight.

  Helen didn’t rise from the chair. “You must have killed Frank. Otherwise, you’d be dead. Do you know the penalty for killing an FDLE Special Agent, Ben? You’ve seen enough executions. This time, you’ll star in your own.”

  He’d listened to her for a fraction too long. He heard a shot come from the side, and then a crushing pain in his right leg just before he fell to the floor, dropped the light and grabbed the wound. He whipped his right hand toward the direction of the shot fired and squeezed off a couple of rounds.

  The light rolled under the hospital bed. Helen scrambled to pick it up and send the beam toward Ben’s body. Blinded momentarily, he pulled the trigger again.

  She dropped the light. He heard a loud grunt and something hit the floor. Had he hit her? He couldn’t tell.

  The pain in his thigh overwhelmed him. Sweat ran down his forehead into his eyes. Hot, sticky blood pulsed from the wound in his leg pouring over his left hand. He couldn’t lift or move the leg. It felt as if his femur had been shattered by the bullet. Likely the femoral artery with it. Nausea churned his stomach.

  He was lightheaded, his vision limited by the disorienting darkness.

  Who shot him? How could he get out?