by Diane Capri
Finally, he shrugged. “Okay. I’ll bite. As you know, I’ve already taken every legal step available, including two emergency appeals to the U.S. Supreme Court asking that they stay the execution. They declined. I could keep hitting my head against the wall, but it’s pointless. There’s nothing left to do except try to persuade Helen Sullivan, fine humanitarian that she is, to stay the execution.” He sipped his coffee. “Good luck with that.”
“Then why were you at the hospital?”
“You’re a journalist, Jess. You know as well as I do. If you can’t beat them, document them.”
“So this isn’t about saving Taylor anymore,” she said. “It’s about smearing Sullivan?”
“Hey, short of divine intervention, it’s lights out for Tommy Taylor in, oh,” he glanced up at the old-fashioned clock on the wall above the grill, “about fourteen hours.”
He picked up the sugar dispenser and poured another stream of the white stuff into his cup. Jess remembered him sucking down sugar from the days when she thought he was helping her find her son Peter. Simply watching him made her teeth hurt. If only it had instilled in him a sweeter disposition.
“That’s some compassion you’ve got there,” she said.
He shrugged again. “Must be my mother’s fault. Everything that happens is the mother’s fault, isn’t that what Freud said?”
Though it sounded like an attempt at humor, Jess knew that for Manson it was no joke. Her first inkling had been when Manson turned on her, blaming her for Peter’s disappearance.
“Mothers have one job, and one job only,” was one of Manson’s favorite sayings. “They must, absolutely must, protect their children every minute of every day. No exceptions for any reason. If they can’t do that, they have no business having a child in their care. Ever. Any woman who allows her child to be harmed should be sterilized. I’d say shot, but I don’t believe in killing.”
Looking at him, she wondered, could she really bring herself to help him achieve his goal of saving Tommy Taylor? Manson sought only self-aggrandizement, without concern for anyone or anything. Everything he did was for effect. He had no conscience. Could she ignore his motives, work with the man, and let the ends justify the means?
Again, she asked herself, did she have any other choice?
“What kind of divine intervention would it take?”
He considered her as if examining a laboratory specimen, turning his head this way and that, probably trying to figure her angle.
“Actually,” he said at last, “at this stage Taylor’s beyond even that. It’s almost five o’clock in the morning on the last working day before Christmas. Taylor’s already been run up and down the system so many times, a reprieve is beyond unlikely. The only thing Taylor’s case is good for now is to make a point after he’s dead.”
He picked up the menu and said, “I’m thinking about a waffle. Interested?”
Biting her tongue, Jess picked up her menu, too, and went through the ritual of ordering, and Manson went back through the sugar and coffee routine again. Jess searched her mind for any way to salvage something from this most distasteful of meetings.
“I know you didn’t bring me here to eat waffles, Jessie. What do you think might make a difference to Helen Sullivan or some unlucky judge at this hour? It wouldn’t have anything to do with that nutty redneck Arnold Ward trying to kill me, would it?”
She hated it when anyone called her Jessie, particularly in a tone that suggested she was nothing but a child, and a foolish one. But it was Manson’s remark about Arnold Ward that nearly moved her to violence.
“That man,” she said through clenched teeth, “was the farthest thing from nutty or redneck that I’ve ever known.”
“Actually,” said Manson, ignoring her tone, “I’ve always thought he was the one who really murdered Mattie Crawford. Is that what we’re talking about? Can you prove it? I could get a judge to do the right thing with that.”
Jess could only stare into Manson’s suddenly animated face and take a slow ten count before she trusted herself to respond.
Cold-hearted bastard. Why had she thought she could do this?
“You know, David, I’d forgotten how truly despicable you really are. This was a bad idea. Forget it.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. She scooted out of the booth, threw the twenty on the table and walked out.
She was backing out of the parking space when she glanced up and saw David Manson moving toward the car. She waited until he reached the locked passenger door and pulled fruitlessly on the handle before she lowered the window two inches. “What do you want?”
“Hey.” He gripped the top of the window as if to hold the SUV in place. “I need a ride back to the hospital.”
“Call a cab. And move out of the way. I’d rather not run you over, even if they’d give me a medal for doing it.”
Finally her words sparked the animalistic anger that always hovered beneath Manson’s onion-skin veneer of civility.
“Open this door!” he yelled as he pounded on the window with his right elbow, attempting to break it while he continued to hold on with his left hand. The force of his elbow blows barely wiggled the glass, but she didn’t wait around for him to find something more effective.
She lifted the pressure of her foot off the brake and the SUV moved backward. Manson hopped along with the window for a few steps, screaming obscenities, until the vehicle’s speed forced him to let go. He pulled off his shoe and threw it at the SUV’s front headlamp, shattering the glass.
Jess pressed the accelerator and backed all the way out onto the highway, then shifted into drive and sped off. Far behind, David Manson stood screaming in the parking lot.
“Good bye, David,” she said.
She knew he wouldn’t give up. He had an entire stable of groupies who would have him back to the hospital within minutes. Leaving him there was childish, but it felt good. She only fretted that she’d galvanized an unstable man who was already out to bury her.
Exhaustion crowded her. She closed her eyes briefly, feeling her lids scratch against her corneas. How long had it been since she’d really slept? Years. She was so tired.
But everything depended on her, and one thing had become clear: Short of finding the Wards’ evidence, she would never know the truth. She had to do the job, do it now, and do it right. She squared her shoulders, sat up straight, and took a deep breath.
And as she did so, she imagined Mattie Crawford’s real killer walking along a sidewalk, paying for his breakfast at the Waffle House, driving down the highway. Finding him, stopping him, depended on her.
But what if she failed?
Chapter Nineteen
Tampa, Florida
Friday 5:00 a.m.
HE’D TURNED OFF THE LIGHTS in the ICU waiting room because he could think better in the dark. Even hospitals were quiet in the wee hours.
But the silent darkness invited covert plans. He felt cornered, vulnerable, and he saw only one solution. As soon as he explained what he wanted to do, the questions began.
Why do you need to kill him? He’s still unconscious?
He thought he’d already explained his reasoning, but perhaps he hadn’t. He said it again with patience, in slightly different words, seeking to evoke comprehension. Because he saw me at the barn. When he wakes up, he’ll tell Helen that I started the fire.
Then they’ll know you killed Todd Dale too, I suppose.
His anger flared. Todd killed himself.
So you said. But you don’t mean that literally, do you?
He glanced up at the clock, felt the tension of time’s short fuse. Arnold Ward had underestimated how much time he had to jump from his truck before the explosion yesterday. Fleming didn’t want to make the same mistake.
The problem only seemed insurmountable, he told himself.
Your greatest strength is your analytical skill. You can figure this out. Talk it through.
He sighed. Why not? Oliver
’s unconscious and constantly monitored by the intensive care unit staff. He’s protected by a security team. And Helen is asleep in her room down the hall.
So what? You’ve performed more difficult tasks under tighter circumstances, haven’t you?
One secret to his success had been absorbed years ago: never assume you’re safe. He had much work left to do in the world. He didn’t intend to end his career with Helen Sullivan.
Obviously. It’s grow or die. Success is the progressive achievement of worthy goals in the pursuit of happiness. All humans are happiest when engaged in goal-directed behavior.
True. His goal for some time, for years, had been to best Helen Sullivan, The Iron Cowgirl herself.
The first time he’d seen Helen was on television. The way she handled herself, her rigid posture, contemplative expression, and decisive nature revealed her self-concept to his practiced eye. She believed herself a woman with a bright future who had everything going for her.
At that moment, he’d settled on her as the necessary next step in his own evolution.
Look, you set out merely to prove you could reach the unreachable Helen Sullivan, and she was vulnerable. You planned to create her grief by hitting her hard in the gut and then to cure her, molding her into a newer, greater version of herself, right?
The precise recitation of his life’s purpose puffed his ego as he knew it was designed to do.
Eric’s death worked. It was the perfect hit. Knocked the swagger out of her. Brought her down to the level normal people live on every day.
Right. I did what I set out to do.
But then you were disappointed when she didn’t linger in despair, weren’t you?
An unwelcome reminder of his too-brief satisfaction following his initial skirmish with Helen. He’d underestimated her, a mistake.
But while Helen proved more resilient than he’d expected, the compensating benefit had been Oliver. When Milton Jones shot Oliver, the unanticipated blow struck Helen every bit as hard. And then came Oliver’s ensuing stroke, a, well, stroke of good fortune.
Last night’s work had been risky. He’d known that in advance. But he had never anticipated failing so dramatically, leaving Oliver himself as a live witness to identify him.
Part of the game is the challenge. You will never know all the consequences in advance.
He snorted his derision. A lot of good that does me now.
So? It’s time to adjust your plan. Or—
What?
Or you move on. Perfect your skills elsewhere.
Quit, you mean? While she’s ahead? Relocate again? Start over again? His heart pounded with fury.
No! I’m not ready to retire yet. When Oliver dies, it will finally be over. Helen will no longer feel loved, strong or protected. She’ll withdraw from public life and finally, really know the full measure of her humanity through her grief.
It sounds like you’ve made up your mind, then. But don’t forget: Each time you strike her, you increase your risk of both failure and discovery. Are you prepared for that?
Fleming stood and turned on the waiting-room light. He felt renewed energy for the project and encouraged that he would win again. All he needed was a fresh approach, as simple as possible.
After pondering the possibilities for a few minutes, he realized that every potential solution had at least one serious flaw. Time to stop considering the flaws and go back over the elements he’d already resolved.
Getting into Oliver’s room to kill him would not be difficult. There was a guard posted at the door, but the guard was friendly. They’d already spoken a few times. The guard wouldn’t stop him from entering the room and getting close enough to Oliver to kill him. And maybe the guard wouldn’t even be sitting there. He’d noticed the guard flirting with the pretty young nurse. What was her name? Lydia? The two of them might be off in a corner somewhere, if he was lucky. Afterward, he would talk to the guard or one of the nurses to establish his alibi.
The security cameras in the corridors would record his presence at the critical time. He didn’t want to disable them because even that would leave clues to his identity that he wanted to avoid. What he needed was an alibi, so that his entry into Oliver’s room wouldn’t be a problem. He’d already figured out how to handle that.
The nurses at the station nearby typically kept busy attending to other patients; after all, the conscious patients tended to complain, unlike Oliver. Fleming could easily avoid arousing suspicion by stopping at the nurses’ to let them know he was going in. They wouldn’t object.
Timing would be important, but then, precision was always necessary in his work. With the curtains drawn around the glass walls that enclosed Oliver’s bed, he’d be able to do what he needed to do fairly quickly without being thwarted.
The bigger problem was Oliver’s monitors that reported his condition to the nurse’s station. If one of those monitors either stopped working or alarmed, someone would rush into Oliver’s room. So he needed a solution that wouldn’t interrupt the monitors or cause Oliver’s heart to stop beating before he made his exit and established his alibi.
What method could he use? Suffocation was out because he’d have to stay with the body until the heart stopped. The same flaw applied to strangulation. He could slit one of Oliver’s major arteries fairly quickly and escape, but the blood pumping out all over the body and the room was not aesthetically pleasing. It lacked finesse.
No, ideally he’d administer some kind of injection that would work slowly, allowing him to escape nonchalantly and establish an alibi.
As he thought more about it, he liked the symmetry of killing Oliver by lethal injection on the same day Helen would kill Tommy Taylor by the same means. Helen might even make the connection someday down the road exacerbating her grief.
The down-side was that he had to inject Oliver tonight, which didn’t allow time for researching and locating the right pharmaceuticals.
He continued to turn the problem over and over in his mind without reaching an effective solution. Finally, he realized he couldn’t grab the solution from his conscious mind. It was too elusive. He was blocking his own progress somehow. This had happened to him many times before. There was only one method left to try.
He settled more deeply into the chair and gazed at the clock across the room. He stared without seeing, allowing his eyes to slightly lose their piercing focus, and turned to the meditation that never failed him: “What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger,” he repeated in his head, followed by, “I can do it. I can do it,” then, “What am I missing?”
Within twenty minutes, his subconscious delivered his solution. His eyes popped open and he sat up straight in the chair. The easy way was always the best. He knew that. He had been making it too complicated.
He’d deliver the injection via one of Oliver’s IVs already in place. Within a minute or two, Oliver would simply fall deeper into his coma, something the nurses would not even notice.
Later this morning or tomorrow, the neurosurgeons would drain the hematoma, but Oliver wouldn’t respond as they expected.
Delivering the right dosage would be a little tricky, but he didn’t anticipate a problem.
Now that he had the method, he’d have to look around for the means: insulin, an almost embarrassingly easy substance to find in a hospital.
He almost whistled as he rested his hands in his trouser pockets and walked into the corridor.
With his luck, Oliver would be dead in less than an hour.
Chapter Twenty
Tampa, Florida
Friday 5:30 a.m.
OLIVER FELT VAGUELY ANXIOUS as he hovered between here and there, not quite sleeping, not quite awake. The feeling wasn’t new. He knew how to deal with it. He allowed himself to sink into light sleep again, or perhaps a state closer to self-hypnosis, lucid dreaming, a technique he’d learned from his grief counselor.
He could call up Dr. Fleming and relive their sessions to calm himself when Dr. Fleming wasn�
�t with him.
“You’re improving exponentially,” Ben told Oliver in a recent session. “It’s amazing how much progress you’ve made.”
Oliver had been skeptical then, and still was. He felt sad all the time, cried easily, had no appetite. He missed Eric. He obsessed over Eric’s drunk driving. He felt totally responsible for the deaths of Ryan and Milton Jones. He pushed those negative memories aside and floated to a better, more cathartic session.
“Let’s go over it one more time,” Ben said, his deep, soothing tones almost like a lullaby. “Tell me everything. Leave nothing out. Really feel absolutely every nuance you suffered from the time Eric fell out of the tree until Milton Jones shot you.”
Unlike reality, in his dream Oliver resisted Ben’s suggestion. He’d begun to think that reliving his nightmares wasn’t helping him. They’d tried several forms of therapy over the years. Art and music therapy had never appealed to Oliver. Journaling helped, but he’d done that for years.
Helen seemed to have moved on with life and she never wallowed in misery, although Oliver knew she felt deep sorrow, too.
Maybe it was time to stop working with Ben. That’s what Helen had done long ago. Maybe he should try something else, another plan might work better.
Oliver rolled over onto his side and snuggled deeper into the down duvet. His face was cold, but the rest of his body felt comfortably warm. December could be one of Thornberry’s chilliest months, but Oliver enjoyed the traditional holiday weather. He wore sweaters and ancient boots and his favorite jeans every day as he performed the chores that connected him to his land.
Today, he’d planned to clear out the brush around Jake’s barn. All of Florida had been experiencing a long drought for the past couple of years. Keeping the ground fuel under control was an important part of ranching. He and Todd Dale would do it together, but they didn’t have to start for a couple of hours yet. Still time to catch a few more winks.
Something stirred Oliver from the depths of his dream. A familiar sound—the voice of Ben Fleming speaking close to his ear—even if he couldn’t make sense of the words.
