Dying Declaration

by Randy Singer

  Using her small penlight, she started afresh through the financial files. She had given this a lot of thought. An unusual liaison between the Barracuda and Armistead, the perjured testimony of Armistead in the Hammond case, and the payment of four hundred thousand dollars to somebody shortly after Erica Armistead’s death. All these factors led to only one conclusion: Armistead and the Barracuda were having an affair. Erica must have found out and threatened to divorce Sean, threatening his interest in her million-dollar trust account. Sean must have paid someone to take out his wife, freeing him to carry on with the Barracuda and making him a very wealthy man.

  The Barracuda had been a broker for the hit—a go-between for murder.

  But Nikki needed proof. She thumbed furiously through the financial files, looking for something she had missed before. The cell phone bill held some promise. Armistead was apparently on one of those plans that limited his minutes, and the bill listed every number he had called together with how long the call lasted. Last time she had copied down every long-distance number; this time she would focus on local calls. There was one number in particular that Sean Armistead had called more than any other. Nikki was willing to bet it was the Barracuda’s cell phone. She would call it on her own cell phone as soon as she got back to her car. She folded up the phone bills for the last three months and stuffed them in her pockets.

  It was now 10:28. Nikki’s heart seemed to pound faster with each passing minute. She had illegally broken into Armistead’s house; now she had committed petty larceny by taking the phone bills.

  Another twenty minutes in the financial files revealed nothing new. Time to check some other hiding places. She would avoid the family room in the back because it was too well lit. Though you would have to be in Armistead’s back lawn to see in, Nikki wasn’t taking any chances. She climbed the front steps, walking as lightly as possible, and headed straight for the master bedroom.

  Using only the small beam from her penlight, she searched quickly through sock and underwear drawers, between mattresses, and in every nook and cranny of the dresser. She closed a drawer and accidentally knocked something off the dresser. As she bent to pick it up, she heard another noise. Is it the sound of tires on asphalt? She turned the penlight off and went to the window that overlooked the front driveway. She slowly twisted the rod that opened the plantation shutters.

  She stood stone still, breathlessly waiting. No car. No further sounds. 10:58. Settle down, girl; you’re making yourself crazy. She stepped into the master closet—a huge walk-in room filled with clothes, shoes, and storage items. She looked around and realized that none of Sean’s stuff was in there. They must have been sleeping in separate rooms. Erica’s stuff was jammed everywhere. She was a little surprised that Sean had not yet cleaned it out, given his compulsive personality, but then again it had just been a few weeks. She knew that it typically took months before a spouse would remove the personal effects of a spouse who had passed away. And in this case, Sean would probably not feel right about sleeping in the bedroom that had belonged to Erica. Nikki would not be surprised to see the house on the market in a few months.

  As she surveyed the closet, she spotted a dozen purses, some stuffed with junk. She immediately grabbed them and started searching through the contents.

  One was a plain beige cloth purse bulging with brushes, papers, photos, hygiene products, and a wallet. The wallet overflowed with credit cards, receipts, and other valuables. Nikki began shuffling through the papers, awkwardly holding the small penlight under her chin. “Yes!” she whispered. It was a small scrap of paper with the name and address for Rebecca Crawford. It looked like a woman’s handwriting. With a handwriting expert, it could be strong proof that Erica had found out about the affair.

  Nikki jammed the paper into her pocket and replaced the purse. She still wanted to check a few places downstairs and the glove compartments of the cars in the garage. She checked her watch again. 11:10. She was pushing it. At most she would have another five or ten minutes.

  Another noise. Relax! She took a deep breath. The silence seemed to pulsate through her temples, throb against her brain.

  She walked slowly and quietly out of the closet and into the master bedroom. She glanced around, saw nothing else of value to her investigation, and prepared to leave the bedroom. Another noise rumbled in the distance, no mistaking it this time, and it was followed immediately by a flash of light—high beams shooting through the shutters of the second-story window. A car in the driveway! Nikki instinctively jumped back away from the window, then flattened herself against the wall and started inching toward the window to peer out.

  She moved her head slowly around the frame of the window and glanced through the shutters. The car stopped, and the driver killed the engine. The headlights remained on momentarily, probably operating under some type of delay. She waited for the car to beep, the sign the driver had hit the remote lock, but she heard nothing. She stared without blinking into the night and gasped. There, walking up the steps to the house, was the shadowy figure of Sean Armistead, still wearing his white lab coat.

  Nikki’s heart pounded so loud in her ears she couldn’t think straight. She checked her watch again. How could this be? He was home earlier than she had planned! She was trapped in the master bedroom!

  To avoid being seen through the window, Nikki got down on her hands and knees and crawled across the room toward the phone on the bed stand. She gently removed the receiver from the cradle just as she heard Armistead insert his key in the front door. It sounded like he locked the door, then unlocked it again. He stepped into the foyer, flipped on a light, and took a few steps, probably toward the alarm panel. She knew the green light would tell him the alarm had already been disarmed.

  She would be busted. It was just a matter of time.

  “What the . . . ? Hey! Is anybody in here?” Armistead yelled. His words echoed through the house.

  Nikki tried to think about an escape. She would wait for Armistead to start up the front steps, giving her a split second to start running down the back steps and into the family room. But that room was lit up, and she was sure the back door was locked from the inside. By the time she got it unlocked, Armistead would be on the catwalk overlooking the family room, and he might get a good glimpse of her.

  She heard Armistead open a closet just off the foyer, and then she heard the tumblers of a lock combination. A few more noises—indecipherable—and then the unmistakable twin clicks of a safety lock being released and a gun hammer cocking into place.

  Armistead was armed.

  Nikki walked quietly toward the door of the bedroom, preparing to make her mad dash. She heard Armistead walk back toward the kitchen, a move that would put him between her and her escape path. He flicked on a few more lights, also bad news, then picked up the phone. Nikki heard him curse, click the receiver a few times, then curse some more. Then he made the one move Nikki was hoping against. He started climbing the back steps—she could actually see his shadow now—gun in hand, swinging and pointing it in all directions. She stood, frozen, just inside the master bedroom door, a mere six feet from the top of the steps.

  Her head pounded until she thought it might explode. She could barely breathe. She willed herself to retreat—quietly, on the balls of her feet—farther inside the room. She headed back toward the master closet, hoping that she could—what? She suddenly realized she had absolutely no plan. She was cornered.

  She slipped inside the closet. The bedroom light popped on. Armistead entered. She retreated a step or two and tried to hide herself among the clothes.

  How long before Armistead would notice the bedroom phone off the hook, replace it, and call the police? How long before he would search the closet, find her, and shoot her in “self-defense”?

  Think!

  Just then the master bedroom went totally dark. For some strange reason Armistead had turned the light off! But then she heard him curse, and it chilled her blood.

  So much for that
theory. Armistead was every bit as surprised as she was. It could mean only one thing.

  They were not alone. Someone else was in the house!

  72

  NIKKI BACKED HERSELF into a corner of the closet and tripped over some shoes. The resulting noise, though small, sounded like an explosion. She waited a second, expecting Armistead to come bolting through the open closet door. Nothing.

  The next noise she heard was the sound of glass breaking in the driveway. She strained to hear more, but only silence followed.

  She reached into her back right pocket, pulled out her switchblade, and flipped it open, nearly slicing her hand. She started working her way toward the closet door. It was pitch-black, so she felt her way along the clothes till she got to the doorframe. The house was as quiet as it was dark. Not a sound came from the bedroom.

  Nikki mustered enough courage to slip out into the master bedroom, hugging the wall. She glanced toward the open door and saw no light from the hallway, no light from downstairs—the entire house was dark. She scanned the room and saw nothing but stationary shadows of unknown objects. Either Armistead had turned off every light in the house, or someone had gotten to the fuse box.

  What could it mean? Perhaps Armistead was hiding in this room, watching her. Or maybe he was standing outside the bedroom door, biding his time, waiting for her to exit so he could blow her away. But then she heard another noise, a few steps that sounded like they were coming from the front foyer. Now was her chance! Bolt through the door, make a sharp left, fly down the flight of back steps, and exit through the back door of the family room.

  There was no more time for indecision. In the darkness Nikki said a desperate little prayer, promising God if He got her out of this mess she would totally change; she would . . . well, she’d think of something important she could do later. Then she darted quickly out the bedroom door and turned hard to the left.

  He grabbed her from behind. With one huge hand he covered her face, digging his fingers into her jaw, and covering her mouth with the palm of his hand. He wrapped his other arm around her chest, pinning her arms to her side, stopping her cold. The strength! She kicked and squirmed, but he had her in a death grip. Her switchblade dropped to the floor.

  He quickly dragged her back into the bedroom, his hot and putrid breath moist on the back of her neck. Her scream became a muffled and pitiful groan. She twisted hard, but he wrenched her closer. She tried biting the hand but could not. He squeezed her tighter still, constricting her breath.

  She trembled.

  “Shut up!” he whispered, coarse and deep. Her eyes grew wide with fear. He dragged her toward the closet, overpowering her efforts to resist.

  She felt nauseous and terrified, ready to pass out because he was squeezing her so hard. But something wasn’t right. She had been so scared at first, she hadn’t noticed. The course and powerful hands, the deep baritone voice, the smell of body odor, not cologne . . .

  “I’m here to help,” Buster Jackson whispered. “And if you quit squirming and shut up, I’ll let you go.”

  Nikki nodded and felt the hands release her. She turned to face her sweaty assailant. Over the sound of her labored breathing, she could hear more footsteps—this time from the upstairs hallway.

  “I followed you here from McDonald’s,” Buster whispered. “When I saw Armistead come back to his crib, I knew you were in deep trouble. I took out the fuse box—” Buster smiled his big gold-toothed smile—“yanked it out the wall. And I also yanked the doc’s cell phone from his car on the way in.” Buster reached into the front pocket of his baggy jeans, producing the phone. “Had to bust through a window to get it.”

  Despite Nikki’s terror, this brought a quick and uneasy smile. “It was already unlocked, Buster. Otherwise, the alarm would have sounded.”

  Judging by the dumbfounded look on his face, this piece of information caught Buster off guard. “I knew that,” he whispered.

  Nikki heard another noise in the hallway and nodded toward the closet. They slipped in just as the flashlight beam hit the bedroom.

  Buster moved right next to Nikki, touching his lips to her ears. “When I make my move . . . get out. Don’t look back, dog.”

  Nikki shook her head and turned to look in his eyes. “I’m staying with you.”

  Buster took his huge hand and grabbed Nikki’s jaw, squeezing so hard the pain shot through her like a knife. “No.”

  Nikki nodded her head quickly, and Buster released her. This guy scared her. The look in his eyes, the way he so quickly resorted to force.

  “Promise me you won’t hurt him,” Nikki whispered.

  Buster said nothing.

  “Promise me,” she demanded.

  He stared at her, jaw clenched, bloodshot eyes narrowed.

  She folded her arms. “Then I’m not leaving.”

  Buster grunted his frustration, rocking nervously from one foot to another. She watched those hooded eyes grow hard and cold, an executioner’s look.

  “Promise me,” she insisted.

  She saw Armistead’s flashlight darting around the bedroom. A few more seconds and he would be checking in the closet. Why do I care if Buster hurts Armistead? The man certainly deserves whatever he has coming. But something deep inside her knew this was the right thing to do, and so she stepped in front of Buster, feet planted shoulder width apart. I’m not moving. Nikki the mule.

  The light flashed closer.

  “Promise me.”

  Buster grabbed the outside of Nikki’s arms, then picked her up and moved her like a mannequin to a spot behind him. “I promise,” he snorted.

  “Here.” Nikki shoved one of her cards in the back pocket of Buster’s jeans. “Call me.”

  Just then she heard Armistead in the bedroom punching the numbers on his phone. He must have noticed that the receiver had been taken off the hook.

  “He’s calling the police!” she whispered to Buster.

  Buster quickly stepped to the door of the closet and threw Armistead’s cell phone across the room. When the flashlight pivoted in that direction, Buster bolted from the closet and headed straight toward Armistead. Nikki followed close behind.

  Buster lowered his head and landed his shoulder squarely against Armistead’s back, sending him crashing through the nightstand and into the wall, sandwiched between Buster and the drywall, the flashlight falling on the floor. Nikki stood for a second, frozen in the shadows.

  “Go!” Buster barked.

  She wanted to stay, see this through, but she knew they would get in enormous trouble with the cops. Why should they both take the fall? She would owe Buster big-time. She would make sure he got treated fairly. But in that split second of decision making, self-preservation won out. This was her chance! Her only chance!

  She sprinted from the room, down the back stairs, and toward the rear door of the house. She heard scuffling and muted cursing from the master bedroom as she crossed the family room, then a sickening gurgle sound. She unlocked the back door, then hesitated for a second. Should she go back and make sure Buster didn’t do anything drastic? Had he already done it? Did Buster need her help?

  The gun! She hadn’t heard any gunshots. If Armistead had struggled free and picked up his gun, she would have heard some shots. As long as no gun was involved, Buster would overpower him. What worried her was that she hadn’t heard anybody say anything.

  “You okay?” she yelled.

  “Get out!” the big man yelled.

  Nikki opened the back door and sprinted across the patio surrounding the pool. She flew through the gate and ran across Armistead’s yard and the yards of neighboring houses. She was exhausted, but she never stopped until she reached her car. She tried to catch her breath but could not, looked to the right and left, then unlocked her car door and hopped in.

  Nikki was nearly back to her condo before she started breathing anything close to normal. Her heart still pounded like it would explode inside her chest, and she didn’t remember much about th
e drive home. All she could think about was Buster and Armistead, the anger she had seen in Buster’s eyes, and the gun she had seen in Armistead’s hand. She went inside her condo and took a long hot shower, with her cell phone just within reach, wondering the whole time if she should call the police. She eventually talked herself into lying down on the bed, but she had no desire to sleep.

  She picked up her cell phone four times to dial 911. Each time her trembling fingers stopped short. She tried to call Charles twice but couldn’t bring herself to do that, either. After she put the phone down for the last time, she lay back down in bed, and a wave of exhaustion flooded her body. Her limbs felt like they weighed a thousand pounds, and her swirling mind finally slowed. When it came, the elusive sleep hit hard. But with it came relentless nightmares that raced nonstop through her mind until they were interrupted by the sound of her phone ringing in the darkness more than three hours later.

  73

  BUSTER JACKSON was almost to Williamsburg, heading west on I-64, before he pulled off the interstate to find a pay phone. He had been making good time, but he had also been carefully staying within five miles of the posted speed limits. He could not afford to be pulled over. A black man in a nice car, with a broken window, registered to someone else would invite a search. Buster knew a thing or two about racial profiling.

  He found an exit with a gas station at the end of the ramp. He kept mulling over the blur of events in his mind. His sudden move on Armistead, then dragging the doctor to his feet and slamming him against the wall. Buster had wedged his forearm against Armistead’s neck, pinned him to the wall with it, actually lifting the doctor off his feet.

  Buster wheeled right and pulled into the parking lot, his thoughts fixed on the bugging eyes of Armistead, the gurgle coming from the doctor’s lying throat, Armistead’s muffled pleas for mercy. It was ironic that this man, who had shown no mercy to Thomas at trial, would be begging for mercy himself. Most vivid of all, Buster remembered the feeling of Armistead’s body going limp.