Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense

by Luana Ehrlich

  “Sorry, I think I’m getting a cold sore.”

  He shook it off, picked up his briefcase, and walked out to the garage. True to her word, he noticed her SUV following him a minute later. Their local home overlooking Jordan Lake put him almost equidistant from Raleigh, and his office at the State Capitol, and Durham, where Duke University sat. As much as he needed to go to the house near Duke Forest, he actually had to meet someone else at the Capitol Building before going to the office.

  Several hours later, not having heard from Misty, he worked through the lunch hour and headed to his campaign office where he met briefly with his manager and strategist.

  “Emory, this race is yours to lose. Don’t do something stupid.” His manager’s words echoed through his mind as he left the meeting. He’d already done it by kidnapping the Thoms lady. How could he have been so brainless? His bigger quandary – how could he undo it? His gut churned.

  He picked up his cell and dialed his wife. No one at home. He tried her cell and got her voicemail. “Honey, I’ve got to run over to the Greensboro campaign office for a brief interview. I’ll call you as I leave. Maybe we can go to Bin 54 for dinner. If that works for you, please call and make a reservation for seven o’clock. Thanks. Love you.”

  He hated lying to Misty, but this would give him time to question the Thoms lady and get home within her time expectations. Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the drive of the house. Little Hastings’ car remained parked in the same place. He entered the home and Ricky Lee greeted him.

  “Wondered if you was coming back.” He grinned, as if jesting with a peer.

  Albritton ignored the man’s attempt at camaraderie. “How is she?”

  “Last I checked, she found a book and was reading. She did check all the windows like you figured, but they held. She’s made no escape attempts. Hasn’t eaten much, either.”

  Albritton entered the room and found Angela sitting in a comfortable chair, a recent Myra Mitchell book in her lap. Even now, he couldn’t get away from that Mitchell lady. The woman looked calm, but he had never felt so anxious.

  “I hope you’ve been comfortable.”

  She made no comment or moves that might reflect her thoughts.

  “Did you get enough to eat?”

  No reply. For a second, he thought she was about to ignore him and resume reading.

  “Look, like I said last night, I don’t want to hurt you. I just need some information.”

  Suddenly, there was a commotion in the front of the house. He heard a scuffle and Ricky saying, “Don’t go in there. Stay here and I’ll get him.” An instant later, Misty burst through the door.

  “You cheating S-O-B! I knew it! I knew it. I could tell something was up, but I didn’t really think you’d cheat on me after all these years.”

  Ricky came charging in. “I tried to stop her. I knew you wouldn’t want me to hurt her.”

  That’s when Albritton noticed the handgun in his wife’s hand.

  “Is this her? Is she the reason for all these late evening campaign meetings? Why, Emory? Why?”

  “Misty, it’s not what –”

  Unexpectedly, the Thoms woman stood up, put her hands on her hips in feigned indignation, and faced her captor. “Didn’t you tell her, Emory? I thought you said you were getting a divorce.”

  Albritton couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Was this Thoms lady crazy enough to want them both dead?

  The senator’s wife began to raise the gun toward Albritton, but Ricky Lee ran at her. She must have sensed his movement because at the last moment, she turned toward the man and pulled the trigger. A look of horror flashed across Ricky Lee’s face as a bloody flower blossomed across his chest. Just as quickly, Misty dropped the gun and put her hand to her mouth in realization of what she’d just done.

  In that moment, Angela dashed for the door. Albritton tried to detain her, but she broke free just as another man, a stranger, appeared in the door. Angela tried to push past him as well, but he said something to her that got her attention. Albritton couldn’t hear the words, but watched as the woman joined the man willingly and together fled from the house.

  Albritton’s mind was in chaos. Should he go after them? Misty sat sobbing on the floor, her hand unsteady as she kept pointing toward Ricky Lee. Should he try to comfort her? Should he call 911? Try to tend to Ricky’s wound? The gun. Where was the gun? His campaign. The press. Stunned by the turn of events, he stumbled toward the front door and exited the house in time to see the Thoms woman and the stranger climb into a car and speed off.

  Forty-three

  **********

  Myra sat in bed flipping through channels on the TV. Nothing caught her interest. Nothing was capable of claiming her attention. Her mind focused on two things – Angela and the next day – and nothing on earth would displace those from her thoughts.

  Dinner came and went. She had no appetite. It didn’t matter whether that was the result of her illness or of her preoccupation. The tasteless chicken broth and green gelatin held no appeal. She sipped the tea in a fruitless attempt to ease her parched mouth.

  Her nurse entered the room with a small paper pill cup in one hand and a Styrofoam cup of water in the other. She extended it toward Myra. “Here. Something to help you sleep.”

  Myra took both and placed them on the stand positioned across her. “Thank you.”

  “You sure you don’t want to eat a little something? It might be days before you get to eat after the surgery.”

  Myra shook her head. “Even Surf and Turf from Harris’s Steakhouse in San Francisco wouldn’t interest me tonight. Thank you, though, again.”

  The phone rang and the nurse picked up the receiver to hand it to Myra. Myra listened, and smiled. Alexia’s plan had indeed worked. Angela was safe, and the authorities were preparing their case against Albritton. Now, she could take that sleeping pill.

  Forty-four

  **********

  How he got home remained a mystery, but Albritton had somehow managed to return safely to his Jordan Lake home. He held a vague memory of tracking down a trusted aide to come get his wife’s car while he drove her home. He didn’t remember driving or undressing Misty and putting her to bed. Unfortunately, he vividly recalled the events preceding that and the brisk walk he took with their dogs during which he heaved the gun as far into the lake as he could. He was now guilty of not only kidnapping and unlawful restraint, but of leaving the scene of a crime, failing to report a fatal shooting, tampering with evidence and obstruction.

  Life had spiraled out of control – because he had been stupid. He had allowed himself to become so emotional, so worried and preoccupied about what the Hamilton girl may have discovered that his common sense evaporated. Now, it seemed obvious that she never got so far as to connect him to the Curt Umfleet trial. His actions had now resulted in multiple people being injured, two dead, and his whole life being sucked into an inescapable black hole.

  Misty had been catatonic. He’d given her a sedative to help her sleep and could only hope that she’d be able and willing to talk with him upon waking. It was too late to flee the country and only a matter of time before the police arrived. He could have turned themselves in, but the thought of Misty in a jail cell nauseated him. With luck, she would have this one last night in their home, in her own bed. No matter what happened, he wanted her to understand that he loved her, and would never cheat on her and never had.

  Now he sat in his study with three fingers of scotch, feeling three sheets to the wind. His hope for one last night together, in their own bed, faded. The police would come for them any time now. He was sure of it.

  Absentmindedly, he flipped on the television at the beginning of the evening news. The anchor came on after the lead-in.

  “Our top story tonight is a report of an alleged kidnapping and murder in a luxury home bordering Duke Forest. Police received a call from an Arkansas woman stating she had been held against her will at the home for the past thirty-s
ix hours and had witnessed another woman shoot the kidnapper, who apparently worked for that woman’s husband. Details are sketchy, but the story is being corroborated by a local private investigator well known for his work with the Innocence Project. How this might be related to the Innocence Project is not known at this time. As an added twist, a prominent politician appears to be involved and his wife may have been the shooter. We’ll have more on this story as it develops.”

  The phone on his desk rang for the sixth time since he settled into his chair. He ignored it. His cell chimed with the receipt of a text message. He glanced at the text. His campaign manager was going ballistic. He needed to talk with him ASAP.

  Albritton didn’t have the strength. He’d gone beyond stupid. Maybe he shouldn’t have tossed the gun. At that moment, he felt like eating the barrel.

  Forty-five

  **********

  Myra floated as if she was in a dream, half-awake but unable to open her eyes or talk. She became aware of something in her throat but it didn’t gag her. She sensed air being forced into her lungs. She tried to take a deep breath but couldn’t.

  “She’s coming out of it.”

  The voice sounded distant. She realized she was indeed coming “out of it” remembering she’d gone to surgery early that morning. A sense of elation overcame the fuzziness. She had survived the surgery. Her greatest fear became a worry of the past.

  “I’m Jean. You’re in the recovery area. Try not to fight the ventilator. You still need it to help you breathe.”

  Myra felt the desire to fight the machine, but she hadn’t the strength. She relaxed and listened to regular whoosh of the ventilator, it’s timing corresponding to the filling of her chest. She drifted back to sleep.

  “Is she okay?”

  Myra again began to sense her surroundings. The thing in her throat was gone. The whoosh of the ventilator was gone, but that now familiar tick of the IV infuser came from her left side. A mask covered her face, but she could take a deep breath, almost.

  “Yes, she’s doing quite well. She’s starting to wake up.”

  “Can she hear me?”

  The voice was Alexia’s.

  “She can, but I’m not sure how easily she’ll be able to respond.”

  The male voice was familiar, too, but she couldn’t put a name to it. That was her doctor, wasn’t it?

  “Myra, it’s me, Alexia. Can you hear me? Here’s my finger. Squeeze it if you can understand me.”

  Myra felt warm flesh in her right hand. She tried to squeeze but wasn’t sure if she’d succeeded.

  “Good. You’re about to go to the ICU and I’ll be going to the post-op floor, but they’ll let me visit. I just wanted you to know that everyone is safe. You can rest comfortably. We’re all safe. Do you hear me?”

  Myra squeezed the finger in her hand, a little stronger this time.

  Albritton awoke to the repeated ringing of the doorbell, his mind groggy and his gut churning. He glanced at the empty bottle of Glenfiddich lying on its side on his desk. His mouth felt like a freshly graveled road. His back ached. He had passed out at his desk.

  The doorbell rang multiple times again and he heard a muffled yell from outside. The events of the last evening flooded into his mind and his heart began to race. Misty! He needed to check on Misty, first and foremost.

  He raced upstairs to the master bedroom to find her sleeping peacefully on top of the covers. He remembered tucking her in, under the covers. He approached the bed.

  “Honey?” he whispered. He didn’t want to wake her, but knew he had to.

  He sat down next to her and touched her forehead. She felt cold. He stared at her. “You’re cold. You should have stayed under the covers.”

  He tried to move her, to pull the covers over her and realized she wasn’t breathing. Her arms were stiff. Her color, pale. Panic covered him and the mental fuzziness evaporated. He glanced around and saw the sedative pill bottle, cap off, on the floor. Empty.

  “Oh dear God! Nooooo!” he screamed.

  “Uncle Emory! It’s Mike! Uncle Emory!”

  Albritton rushed to the top of the stairs. He hadn’t heard the door open, but his nephew stood in the foyer.

  “Mike! Please! Call an ambulance! Misty … Oh dear God.”

  He crumbled to the floor, sobbing. What had he done? Why had this happened? How had things gone so badly?

  He recognized Mike at his side. “Uncle Emory, I’ve called for EMS. Where is she?”

  Albritton pointed toward the bedroom and watched his nephew race to the room, only to emerge slowly, head down.

  “I’m sorry, Uncle Emory. I don’t think EMS can help.”

  Another man walked up the stairs. “Sir, I’m Agent Barrows. I work with your nephew. We have warrants –”

  Mike waved him off. “Give us a minute, Rod. Please.”

  Albritton felt his nephew’s arms envelope him.

  “So sorry, Uncle Emory.”

  Albritton noticed tears in his nephew’s eyes. He took a deep breath and straightened up, trying to regain his composure. That’s when he noticed half a dozen men in the foyer below. He knew why they were there. He pointed toward them.

  “Sorry, Uncle Emory. We have warrants to search the house, and your office, and the house in Cashiers. They’re all being searched as we speak.”

  Albritton nodded. He knew they’d be coming. It was that girl’s fault – and that Mitchell woman. His life was shattered. The love of his life, dead – because of them. The tears stopped. His heart raced but not in fear. Anger grew inside. He patted his pocket. His car keys were still there.

  He stood and slowly descended the stairs. He watched the agent named Barrows give instructions to the men.

  “I’m going to have to show them the safe room, too, Uncle Emory. Sorry, but since I know about it, I’m bound to let them search it, too.”

  Albritton knew what that meant. His wealth and prominence made him a target. They had designed the safe room as a secure place to hide should his family be in danger. No one could enter the property without triggering security monitors and alerting anyone in residence. Such a warning wouldn’t, couldn’t, prevent a home invasion by anyone intent on harm. The warning only gave the family time to find safety inside. When Mike was a child, he had loved the secret room and the ability to “spy” on others with the monitoring system within – all done in play with his uncle’s permission. In recent times, Albritton had used the secure room to store sensitive documents. Those documents would etch the final line on his tombstone.

  He walked up to Agent Barrows and asked, “Am I under arrest?”

  “No Sir. But please remain on the premises.”

  He headed for the front door.

  “Uncle Emory, don’t. Please stay here.”

  Albritton ignored his nephew and walked out the door. He shoved aside an officer who stepped in to intercede and ran for the car. By the time the officer was back on his feet, he was halfway down the drive. His life was over. He wasn’t going alone.

  Forty-six

  **********

  Myra eased off the bedpan but left it under the sheet. She didn’t have the strength to lift it onto the side table. She grabbed the bed control and raised the head of her bed so she could watch the activity around her. Large glass windows between her room and the central work area of the Intensive Care Unit gave her an unobstructed view of the nurses at work, as well as giving the nurses an unobstructed view of her on the bedpan. Oh, for a little privacy. Still, nothing in life was wasted on a writer, and a writer she would always be.

  She took a sip of water and marveled that no nausea followed. For weeks, nausea had been her constant companion. She didn’t miss it. Even the green Jell-O looked good.

  “Hey! How’d you get in here?”

  “You can’t be in here!”

  A man rushed past the nurses’ station. He looked disheveled and angry, and he was heading right for Myra’s room.

  “Security!”

&
nbsp; “Someone call security!”

  Two nurses scrambled after the man, but he threw them both off and onto the floor. Within seconds, he entered Myra’s room, scowling and breathing hard.

  “YOU have destroyed my life!” He pointed toward Myra. “You and that miserable Hamilton girl.”

  He stepped closer to the bed. Myra could see he was unarmed, but she had no strength to fight him off.

  “My wife is now dead, thanks to you two.”

  He walked to the edge of her bed and yanked the pillow from under her head. In a split second she couldn’t breathe, her face smothered by the pillow. She scratched and clawed at the bed. She tried to grab and lift the bedpan. Pain rained through her abdomen.

  “Get off of her!”

  Suddenly the pillow was gone and she gasped for air as she saw Alexia on the man’s back, her arm around his neck in a tight stranglehold. The man fought back, pushing off the bed and throwing himself and Alexia backward against the nearby wall. She heard a thud and groan, and saw the man arise without Alexia. Abruptly, his back arched and his eyes bulged. He shook violently and fell to the floor, writhing.

  Three security officers piled on top of him, pulling his hands behind him, and attaching flexi-cuffs. A fourth officer removed the probes from Albritton and holstered his Taser X2. As they dragged the man from the room, several nurses rushed into the room. Two attended to Myra while two more bent over Alexia.

  One of Alexia’s attendants straightened up and yelled to the nurses’ station. “Get me a stretcher and call the surgeon STAT. I think she’s bleeding internally.”

  Myra found the strength to push her nurses aside. She raised herself up in the bed so she could see Alexia. Once again, the young woman had voluntarily sacrificed herself for Myra. Tears eroded her cheeks as she watched them rush Alexia out of the ICU to the OR.

  Forty-seven

  **********

  Myra sat on the edge of her bed, looking out the window over the Duke campus. She’d been moved to a regular med/surg bed on the transplant floor two days earlier. Alexia’s donor site incision had broken open in the scuffle, but the surgeons had been able to repair it easily and she, too, was back in a regular bed recovering. Myra had not been able to see her and longed for the opportunity.