Doing so would almost certainly get him disbarred—or worse, land him behind bars.
But what choice did he have?
The lawyer reached over and opened his desk drawer and removed an envelope containing two small glass vials of GHB, which he’d obtained from a client he’d once defended in a date rape case.
Used recreationally in small doses, the colorless and odorless drug caused euphoria. Higher doses between 3,500 to 7,500 milligrams induced nausea, dizziness, and unconsciousness. Amounts over 7,500 milligrams could kill someone.
The lawyer opened the envelope, removed the two vials of GHB, and slid them in the pocket of his pants.
The distance from the lawyer’s office in Atlanta to the prison in Jackson where Wyatt was set to die was precisely 49.7 miles. At night, with no one on the roads, the drive would take less than an hour.
3:56 A.M. EST
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
STAN LEE PULLED THE CATERING TRUCK to the curb behind his white van, where he’d parked it the night before. It felt like a lifetime ago, though it had only been ten hours.
The street was deserted due to the early hour and the weather. He was glad.
Stan Lee opened the rear door of the van and then went to the catering truck and started transferring the boxes of belongings he’d taken from the house. Last, but not least, Stan Lee retrieved the cylindrical glass jar containing Juniper Cole’s severed legs.
Stan Lee looked in both directions to make sure no one was coming and transferred them to the van, using bungee cords to secure the container, and locked the vehicle.
The question now was, what to do with the catering truck? The police would be looking for it once it was reported stolen—if they weren’t looking for it already.
Stan Lee had given the question some thought and had come up with what he considered a good plan.
“Well?” Stan Lee said in the direction of the empty passenger seat. “You got an opinion? No?”
Kara did not answer, nor did she show herself.
“So, that’s the way it’s going to be, huh?” Stan Lee said to the empty seat next to him.
Stan Lee started the engine and pulled the catering truck away from the curb. It was obvious Kara did not approve of his plan to trade the catering truck to the drug dealers for ketamine.
4:16 A.M. EST
ROUTE 17, OUTSIDE CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
DOMINGO GUTIERREZ made great time for the first 275 miles of the 290-mile trip from Jackson, Georgia, to the Mulvaney mansion in Charleston.
A few miles from Charleston, however, when Domingo and his cameraman took the 526 South to bypass downtown Charleston, the weather went from clear and in the mid-forties to below freezing with swirling winds and blinding snow.
And when Domingo attempted to call his producer at the station with an update on his estimated time of arrival to schedule a broadcast time, there was no cell signal at all.
They took the exit for Route 17 heading west, and the cameraman slowed the broadcasting van to twenty miles per hour.
“This is ridiculous,” Domingo snapped. “I moved to the South to avoid weather like this.”
“Cool your jets, Dom,” the cameraman said. “We’ll be there in plenty of time for the six o’clock broad—holy shit!”
The cameraman jerked the steering wheel hard to the left, throwing Domingo out of his seat and to the floor, and skidded to a halt in the center of the road.
“Jesus Christ!” Domingo screamed.
“There’s a woman in the middle of the road,” the cameraman said.
“What? Who would be walking out here at—?”
“Not walking. She was on the ground. I think she might be dead. Come on. I’ll show you.”
Domingo followed his cameraman down the road until they reached the body, and he raised his hand to his mouth in shock.
“Oh, my God—is that who I think it is?” the cameraman asked.
“Yep,” Domingo said. “It’s Mika Flagler.”
“How in the—I mean, what are the chances? Isn’t she the chick you threatened to kill?”
“No,” Domingo said. “I mean, yes, it’s Mika Flagler—but I threatened to sue her, not kill her.”
“Thank God! Help!” a woman shrieked from the edge of the road behind them. Domingo yelped in surprise, and both men spun around.
“Who in the hell are you?” Domingo asked, his heart beating out of his chest.
“I’m Beatrice Shaw,” the woman said. “She was hit by my catering truck.”
“Where’s the truck?” the cameraman asked, looking around.
“I wasn’t driving. The truck was stolen from the party I was catering at the Mulvaney mansion.”
“That’s where we’re headed,” Domingo said.
“You’re going to the Mulvaney mansion?” Beatrice asked. “Why?”
“To interview the governor,” Domingo said.
“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Beatrice said. “There’s a good chance the governor is dead.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The ghosts,” Beatrice said. “I’m pretty sure they got everyone. You might be looking at the only person at the party to have made it out alive.”
4:21 A.M. EST
OUTSIDE THE MULVANEY MANSION
THE PILOT LOWERED the FBI helicopter onto the lawn in front of the Mulvaney mansion, careful to avoid setting down on one of the many dead bodies strewn about the place.
“Wait here,” Pipi Esperanza said from the rear seat.
“You got it,” the pilot said, switching off the engine.
Pipi opened the door and lowered herself to the snow-covered grass, where she was met immediately by Maggie and Newt.
“I tried to reach you,” Pipi said.
“It’s a long story,” Maggie said.
Two agents in blue jackets with FBI stenciled on the back in big yellow letters were waiting at the gate.
“Who’s in charge here?” Pipi asked.
“I am, ma’am. Special Agent Robert James. And this is Special Agent Gregory Bond.”
“Wait. You’re James, and you’re Bond?” Pipi asked. “You’re shitting me, right?”
“No, ma’am,” James said.
Pipi shook her head. “Well, I don’t care if your names are Frick and Frack. All I care about is that you understand two things. First, you’re not in charge anymore. I am. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” both agents said in unison.
“And second, stop calling me ma’am. I’ve got a title, and it sure in hell isn’t ma’am.”
“Yes, Deputy Director Esperanza,” both men said in unison.
“That’s better,” Pipi said. “This is Special Agent Maggie McCord and Special Agent Newt Drystad.”
Maggie turned her head and shot Newt a look. Newt shrugged but didn’t correct her. Pipi either made a slip of the tongue, or he’d just been rehired.
Pipi entered the guard shack and found Olympia seated in a chair holding her shoulder. It was wrapped in gauze from a first-aid kit in the guard shack.
Graeme jumped to his feet.
“Sit down,” Pipi snapped. “Ms. Fudge, is it? I’m Deputy Director Pipi Esperanza with the FBI. I apologize for—”
“Apologize?” Olympia said. “Your jackboots here put a bullet in me for no reason, and you apologize? I’m thinking about suing the federal government for racial bias.”
“I can assure you there was no racial bias,” Agent James said.
“Over a hundred rich white people at a party, and the police put a bullet in the only black person there?”
“She was running toward us with a shotgun,” Agent Bond said.
“It was unloaded,” Graeme said.
“There was no way to know that, ma’am—I mean, Deputy Director,” Agent James said. “We reacted in accordance wi—”
“Stop!” Pipi said loudly. “Were you carrying a shotgun, Ms. Fudge?”
“Yes, but—”
>
“You’re lucky Agent Bond decided to plug you in the shoulder,” Pipi said. “If you had come running down the driveway toward me with a shotgun, I’d have put two in your forehead.”
Pipi turned to the two FBI agents. “Did either of you Einsteins think to call an ambulance?”
“There’s no signal,” Agent James said. “We’re thinking the cell tower is out because of the storm.”
Pipi pulled out her cell phone and saw there was no signal.
Terrific.
“How many agents do we have on scene at present?” Pipi asked.
“Eight,” Maggie said. “We positioned one on each side of the property, two in the back, and two in the front. Plus, James and Bond here.”
Pipi nodded. “What’s the story with the media van over there? Please tell me they haven’t been broadcasting.”
“They tried, but as with the phones, there’s no satellite connection,” Newt said.
“Well, thank God for small favors,” Pipi said.
“The media guys also have a woman with them,” Agent James said, opening his notebook. “A local caterer named Beatrice Shaw, who they picked up by the side of the road where Ms. Flagler was struck and killed with Ms. Shaw’s catering truck.”
“She was at the party,” Olympia said.
“Well, she’s not partying anymore,” Agent Bond said. “We saw her dead in the middle of the road on the way here.”
“Jesus, this keeps getting worse and worse,” Pipi muttered. “This woman, Beatrice Shaw—she was inside the house when the attack took place?”
“That’s what she says,” Agent James said.
“And did she say who perpetrated the attack?” Pipi asked.
“I’ll tell you who perpetrated the attack,” Olympia said. “Ghosts. That’s who. Ghosts—lots of them.”
“Ghosts?” Agent James said. “You’re saying the attack was the result of paranormal activity?”
“Paranormal activity?” Olympia repeated and burst out laughing. “Uh, yeah—if you call a hundred ghosts coming to a party uninvited through a mirror and then sucking the life out of everyone in sight paranormal activity, then yes—there was a bit of paranormal activity.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Agent Bond said.
“No, she’s telling the truth,” Graeme said. “They came in a few minutes after Declan Mulvaney was stabbed.”
Newt looked over at Maggie and raised his eyebrows.
“Wait, what?” Maggie said. “Someone stabbed Declan Mulvaney?”
“Does anyone know Mr. Mulvaney’s status?” Pipi asked.
“Yeah,” Olympia said. “His status is he got his ass stabbed by Colonel frickin’ Sanders.”
“The Southern Gentleman?” Newt asked.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Graeme said.
“And no one’s been inside yet?” Pipi asked.
“We weren’t comfortable doing anything until we determined what caused the explosion,” Agent James said. “Blew out every window in the place.”
“There was an explosion?” Pipi asked. “When?”
“Right after the light appeared,” Agent Bond said. “About an hour ago.”
Pipi shook her head. “Ms. Fudge, how many people would you say are inside the house still?”
“Dead or alive?”
“Both.”
“Dead? I’d say twenty, maybe thirty,” Olympia said. “Plus, another ten or so inside the panic room.”
“Okay, that’s good to know,” Pipi said. “Exactly who is inside the safe room?”
“Bruce and Koda Mulvaney are in there, plus a few others,” Olympia said. “I don’t know who some of them are. Oh, and the governor of Georgia.”
“The governor of Georgia is in the safe room?” Maggie asked in disbelief.
“Didn’t I just say that?” Olympia said.
“Jesus,” Pipi said.
“Do you know if there is a time lock on the door?” Newt asked.
“Bruce said something about the place being locked up for four hours, but what do I know?” Olympia said. “I wasn’t inside when they locked it, was I? I was out here getting my ass shot up by you all.”
“For the record, we’ve also got a guy handcuffed in the back seat of the Chrysler LeBaron over there under arrest for murder,” Newt said.
“Murder?” Pipi said.
“A store clerk in Pamplico,” Maggie said. “It’s a long story.”
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” Pipi said. “Agent Bond, since the phones are out, I want you to drive to Charleston and find out the status on Declan Mulvaney’s condition. Take Ms. Fudge here with you for whatever additional medical attention she might need. Understood?”
Bond nodded.
“I’ll go with them too,” Graeme said.
“Fine,” Pipi said.
“Agent James, you take the perp from the back of the LeBaron over there and drop him off somewhere.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Pipi said. “County jail, the local sheriff, Dunkin’ frickin’ Donuts, wherever—just get him the hell out of here. And we’re going to need the SWAT team.”
“Information about Declan Mulvaney being stabbed is bound to leak to the media, if it hasn’t already,” Newt said.
Pipi nodded. “Maggie, you’re in charge of shutting the media down when they get here.”
Maggie nodded.
Then Pipi turned to Newt. “Newt, we need to talk.”
4:29 A.M. EST
INSIDE THE PANIC ROOM
HALF OF THE people in the panic room—Bruce, Quinn, Bunny, Simon, and the governor—had finally dozed off, the events of the evening exhausting them. The remaining five—Koda, Alec, Krissy, Noah, and Stormy—sat around quietly.
Finally, Alec broke the silence. “You called me a douche bag earlier,” he said to Krissy. When she didn’t respond, Alec reached his foot out and kicked her in the leg.
Krissy removed her earbuds and looked up. “What?”
“You called me a douche bag earlier,” Alec repeated. “Why?”
“Because you are.”
“Yes, I know you think that,” Alec said. “I want to know why. It’s not all that often I get to meet with people who hate me up close. Tell me why I’m a douche. I’m interested.”
“Okay. Because of how you treat people,” Krissy said. “The things you’ve done to people are disgusting.”
“Like?”
“Like what you did to Casey Bling at the Chateau Marmont hotel after the Grammys,” Krissy said.
“What did I do?”
“You don’t remember? You kicked her out of your room, naked, with nothing but a dessert plate to cover herself,” Krissy hissed. “And how you dragged the valet attendant behind your car half a mile down Sunset?”
“Those are great stories,” Alec said. “I’d hate me too—if any of what you just described had happened.”
“Of course it happened,” Krissy said.
“Really? Why, because you read it?” Alec asked. “Last week I read they found survivors living in a pocket of air on the Titanic, and that John Gotti’s ghost was running the mafia—though, after tonight, I’m thinking that one could be true.”
Krissy went silent.
“The only thing the tabs care about is making money from gullible people like you, giving you sensationalism and sex. No one wants to read about my real life. It’s boring. So they just make shit up.”
“He’s right,” Koda said from the other side of the panic room. “After my accident, one of the tabloids said I died and was replaced by a robot clone.”
“You mean you’re not a robot clone?” Noah asked.
“I don’t mind people hating me,” Alec said. “And I’ve done some shitty things in my life, trust me. But it would be nice if, just once, people hated me over things that I’d actually done.”
“You mean like extorting $2 million from a frightened woman so she could have a gas mask to save her lif
e?” Krissy asked.
“Oh, yeah, about that,” Alec said, pulling the check from his pocket and handing it to Koda. “Here, this is for you.”
“For me?”
“For Mulvaney House,” Alec said.
“Oh, my God—I just figured it out,” Koda said. “That’s why you agreed to perform tonight at no charge. You’re a Mulvaney House kid.”
Alec nodded. “Mulvaney House number three, Portland.”
“I’m sorry,” Krissy said. “I had no idea. What happened to—?”
“Car accident,” Alec said. “I was nine. If it weren’t for Declan Mulvaney, I’d have grown up a ward of the state. Declan was like a father to me. He believed in me, told me I’d be a great person someday—stayed in contact even after I turned eighteen. Supported my career in music.”
Noah leaned toward Alec. “Is that where you—?”
“—got the money for the band’s demo? Yeah. I called Declan, and he sent me a check for $25,000, no questions asked. So when he called and asked me to come tonight, of course I said yes.”
“Turns out I’m the ass,” Krissy said.
“Don’t worry about it,” Alec said and reached for his guitar. “So now that you know I’m not a total douche, what’s your favorite song of mine?”
“I like ‘Noah’s Gone,’” Krissy said.
Alec looked over at Noah. “I don’t play that one anymore. What else?”
“How about ‘Nothing Left to Lose,’” Krissy said.
“Good choice,” Koda said.
“Want to hear the acoustic version of the song?” Alec asked. “The way it was originally written before I put my punk-rock spin on it?”
“Yeah, that would be cool,” Krissy said.
Alec held the guitar out toward Noah. “Well, here’s the guy who wrote it. Ladies and gentlemen, all the way from Crimson Peak, Oregon. Give it up for Noah Ashley.”
“Crimson Cove,” Noah said, taking the guitar and dropping the strap over his head.
“You mean you’re that Noah?” Krissy said.
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