by Diane Capri
There were only three other items Jess could remember: two hairs without the roots attached that had been found on Mattie’s pajamas. And under the boy’s body—she glanced at the overflowing ashtray next to Vivian’s chair—a cigarette butt matching the brand that Taylor smoked.
But none of these contained any usable DNA evidence that linked either Taylor or anyone else to the crime. In addition, upon successful objection by the defense attorney, the hairs had been excluded from evidence. The cigarette butt proved nothing except to corroborate Arnold’s eye witness account. After all, the car belonged to Taylor and finding one of his cigarette butts in the trunk was hardly incriminating. Besides, Taylor’s lawyers were able to keep the butt from the jury, too.
Since these items had not been admitted into evidence, they would not have become a part of the court’s files. They were most likely were returned to the police and from there, probably destroyed.
While writing her article, Jess had gone over all of it in her head, in her notes, including the last time she’d interviewed Arnold and the prosecutors. She could think of no other possibilities.
Governor Sullivan claimed there was no new evidence, and she would have used any legitimate excuse to stay Taylor’s execution. If there had been new evidence, Helen would have been all over it. Whatever else Helen Sullivan was, the woman’s reputation as a truth-teller was absolute. Jess believed her without reservation.
So what the hell was Vivian talking about?
“Do you mean the hairs? The cigarette butt? But those items didn’t prove anything. And anyway, they were lost years ago.” Vivian narrowed her eyes against the trailing smoke and threw the cards onto the table again when she’d lost yet another game.
How many nights had she spent like this? Playing solitaire, smoking, ruminating on her life’s tragedies? Maybe Vivian really was insane after all. The thought that she might be sitting across from true madness gave Jess gooseflesh. She rubbed her hands up and down her bare arms to warm them.
Vivian’s eyes narrowed further and her gaze bored into Jess’s. “That so? Lost? You sure?”
“Yes,” Jess responded. “I’m sure. I’ve run this down. But even if the hairs and the cigarette butt were found today, the DNA they contain, assuming it could be analyzed, wouldn’t prove Taylor innocent. Maybe he’d get a new trial, a reprieve, but he’d be convicted again. All of the other evidence is way too strong.”
Jess heard her own urgency and understood why she felt she needed to be right about this. She wasn’t Taylor’s lawyer. She wasn’t on Manson’s side. Taylor’d had many competent crusaders over the years and none had been able to save him. Nor did Jess think he should be saved.
But if Taylor hadn’t actually killed Mattie Crawford, then who had?
“Oh,” said Vivian, “well, if you’re sure, then there’s no problem, right? I guess Arnold was just a crazy old bastard after all.” She laughed a little bit as she picked up a fresh cigarette and lit it with the remains of the last one. The laugh caused her to cough, and the raspy, hard coughing went on for several seconds. She spit pinkish sputum into the paper cup she kept nearby for the purpose and looked up at Jess as she took another drag on the cigarette.
Then she winked.
7
Thornberry, Florida
Thursday 8:45 p.m.
From his comfortable seat in the crotch of the live oak tree a hundred yards between the ranch house and the barn, he was invisible.
He couldn’t see the fire developing inside the barn, but once the smoke began to curl out through the windows and air vents in the building, he watched.
Through the night-vision goggles, only green tint of the image distinguished his view from what he could have seen in full daylight.
The horses cried in high pitched, continuous whinnies that sent a shiver down his spine. All six of them panicked together increasing the volume of the eerie shrieks that resembled human voices.
Smoke wafted toward him and he imagined he could feel the heat even perched at a safe distance from the fire.
He planned to be long gone before the scent of roasting horses filled the air, but would the aroma resemble grilled pork or beef? In some cultures, people ate horsemeat. He’d eaten rattlesnake once, which really did taste like chicken. He wondered how horse would taste.
A glance at his watch. Timing was everything. Seconds could make the difference between success and failure. He wanted Helen to be there, to experience Jake’s death, and Oliver’s, too. She was too strong to succumb if she merely discovered their deaths second-hand, a lesson he’d learned with Eric.
The fire was still contained inside the barn. Once it broke through, the living fire could gulp oxygen, expanding and flourishing until it consumed everything.
Maybe he should have left the back door open to speed things along. He made a mental note of it. Practice and preparation never substituted for actual experience.
Turning his head toward the ranch house, he saw that the windows were open and only the screen covered the front door. The odor of smoke and the horses’ cries should have reached Oliver. He couldn’t be sleeping. When would he come out? Oliver wouldn’t fail to try to save Jake, of that the man was absolutely certain.
Suddenly he saw Oliver struggle out of the screen door and onto the porch, nearly tumbling down the front steps, using the cane, dragging his leg. He had to stop to reach into his pocket and pull out the cell phone.
A small smile tilted the corner of his mouth as he watched Oliver call Helen. So predictable. He had counted on precisely this outcome. To be absolutely certain, the man had eliminated Oliver’s alternatives, making sure Todd Dale wouldn’t be available tonight. Yes, everything was unfolding as planned.
He frowned a bit when he saw Oliver throw down the phone and continue to struggle toward the barn. What happened? Didn’t he reach Helen? Or the fire department?
He began to perspire anew. He’d counted on a fast response from Thornberry’s finest for its number-one citizen. Florida was experiencing a multi-year drought and wildfires had to be promptly extinguished. He didn’t want to burn down the entire ranch. Just the barn.
In truth, his escape plan depended upon all attention being focused on extinguishing the fire.
Briefly, he considered calling the fire station himself. No. Too risky. He’d have to assume that Oliver or someone else would do it. He began to think about getting away if the breeze carried the fire in his direction and blocked his retreat.
He checked on Oliver again, watched him hobble toward the barn, then fall into the dirt.
The visual reminder of his own fall and sprained ankle caused the throbbing in his left leg to intensify. He reached down and rubbed the ankle as he watched Oliver’s brave but futile rescue attempt.
Having dropped his cane, Oliver crawled slowly toward the barn, dragging himself along as best he could with his useless left arm, yelling something.
The man strained to hear the words. “Jake! I’m coming!” That’s what it sounded like.
Oliver reached the door of the barn and grabbed the handle, cried out and jerked back.
He imagined he could hear Oliver’s flesh sizzle and the pain of the burn on his palm. He rubbed his gloved hands together as if his own flesh were tender, blistered and swollen.
Oliver collapsed onto the dirt. He lay there, not moving.
The man in the tree glanced briefly away from Oliver’s writhing and noticed that flames licked out of the space beneath the doors and lapped up the sides of the barn.
The fire wanted to escape, to be free. Soon the entire barn would be ablaze.
He glanced at the illuminated dial on his watch again. Had Oliver reached Helen or not? Where were the firefighters?
This wasn’t going the way he planned it. Not at all. Oliver was supposed to die in her arms. She was supposed to feel impotent to save him.
At the least, she had to be there to discover Oliver while he was still recognizable. It wouldn’t do to have he
r find Oliver on a steel slab in the morgue looking like charred beef.
He considered his options briefly. He had to act immediately or the entire plan would fail.
He slipped down out of the tree, careful to land solidly on his right foot and leg, absorbing his body weight without pressure to his own injured left limb.
He hopped on his right foot, steadying himself with his left foot and wincing each time he put too much weight on the ankle. He moved as quickly as possible to Oliver’s inert body.
Oliver lay on his stomach, head facing the east side of the barn, legs pointed in the opposite direction, unconscious, but not yet dead.
That would come soon enough.
He tugged on Oliver’s ankles, struggling with the dead weight of Oliver’s body and putting most of his own body weight on his right leg. The blast of heat was becoming dangerous.
Sweat poured down the inside of his microfiber suit. His tight shirt and trousers were glued to his skin.
He moved as quickly as possible, but the combination of Oliver’s weight, the heat, his ankle, made it tough going.
“You never see the bullet that gets you,” he muttered a fact he knew only too well from actual experience.
He’d dragged Oliver’s body barely ten feet when the wailing sirens of the fire trucks in the distance penetrated his concentration.
Finally.
He jerked his head up, glanced down the road to see the red flashing lights on the trucks, followed by two or three police cars with blue and red light bars pulsing along with the blood in his temples. The flat land, deep darkness and winding country road allowed him to see quite a distance, but they were moving fast. There was no time to waste.
Sweat ran down his body in rivulets, soaking through his clothes. His head felt wrapped in a hot steam towel. The goggles were annoying under the best of circumstances, but now they felt wretched. He dropped Oliver’s legs, stood upright to rest a few moments, and pulled off the goggles.
The ski mask still covered his entire head, giving him essential security. He blotted his eyes with his shirtsleeve, moving some of the sweat around but not helping much. The salt stung his eyes.
Bright flames broke through the barn. Intense smoke billowed over him. Sweat streamed from around both eye holes in the ski mask and dripped down onto the dirt. The wet mask felt suffocating.
He swore, then jerked the ski mask off and used it to swipe his drenched head. Liberated, he toweled off his overheated face and basked in the cool breeze.
He stuffed the mask into his only pocket as well as he could.
He leaned back against a tree, propped his pounding left ankle onto his right boot and lifted his face to the sky, breathing deliberately to slow his heart rate, calm his frustration, clear his thinking.
Don’t panic. Work it through.
While he leaned against the tree to give his throbbing leg some relief and attempt to quiet his pulse pounding in his ears, Oliver moaned.
He looked down and realized that his victim’s eyes were open. How long had he been looking? Had Oliver seen his face?
Without thinking, he gave Oliver’s head two quick, vicious kicks in the temple.
Oliver’s eyes rolled up into his head, then closed.
The man cried out from the new pain in his injured ankle.
He hopped on his right foot back to the tree and leaned against it. When the throbbing had subsided to a tolerable level, he looked over at Oliver again. His eyes remained closed, and he’d stopped moaning. Good. He might be dead already, but that couldn’t be helped.
He glanced down the road again. The flashing lights, moving closer by the moment, were almost at the ranch gate. They would be right on top of him in a matter of seconds. He had to move.
He put his weight down on his left leg, winced at the pain, but tugged Oliver further into the underbrush as the sirens came closer, louder.
He dropped Oliver’s legs and left him lying off the driveway, hidden in the underbrush as far as he could pull the dead weight.
Throbbing pain from his left ankle and leg shot all the way into his groin. He doubled over and tried to squeeze the pain away, but it pounded his ankle, his shin, his thigh.
He had to put the ski mask and goggles back on. Otherwise, he might trip again, or run into something, or someone.
He reached for the hot, sticky, close fitting ski mask, but it wasn’t there.
It must have fallen out of the small pocket!
When did he lose it? Where? How could he have such horrible luck, tonight of all nights?
His thoughts began to spiral downward, imagining one catastrophe after another, intensifying to something close, but not quite, fear.
The sirens grew louder behind him.
On his injured leg, he’d never be able to find the mask in the dark and have time to get away. He had to go.
He forced the goggles into place. They felt like ten pounds of extra weight on his head, but he could see well enough.
He hurried as quickly as he could, trying to cover his tracks, but realizing he needed to make better time or he’d be discovered here.
He must not get caught. He glanced around for a solution.
The fire trucks, two police cars, and a trail of headlights had entered the gate and raced toward him. He had no choice but to circle wide around behind the burning barn.
By the time he reached his safe live oak tree again, the micro-fiber clothes stuck to him like a wetsuit, just as hot and heavy.
He doubled over in the pain of exertion. He couldn’t go another step.
He struggled to catch his breath and allow his heartbeat to return to normal. He’d never make it back to the truck unless he rested. He watched through the goggles as the firemen began to battle the fire.
He glanced at his watch again. He couldn’t wait any longer. He turned to begin his escape, which would be slower on his bad leg, when he heard the helicopter overhead and knew it was Helen.
Excellent.
He should go. Every second he remained here he risked being seen, caught, prosecuted.
But he’d planned every detail of this project for months to culminate in Helen’s discovery of Oliver’s injured body his death in her arms. More than he wanted to drag himself away from danger, he needed to stay and watch the climax.
He saw her running toward the house.
“No,” he whispered aloud. “You’re wasting time. You really think he’d be in the house while Jake was dying?”
He realized how much smarter he was than Helen. He’d chosen her as a worthy adversary, but perhaps he’d bestowed upon her greater stature than she deserved.
How much longer could he wait here?
8
Tallahassee, Florida
Thursday 9:00 p.m.
Helen felt rather than saw Frank Temple approach from behind her, then insert himself between her and the man whose hand she had just shaken.
“We have to go,” Frank said, his tone urgent but not panicked. Frank never panicked. It was one of the traits that caused her to trust him.
“Go where?” She had a room full of supporters waiting to congratulate her following her short speech announcing her run for the senate half an hour ago. If she left now, Ralph Hayes would be apoplectic—a thought that almost made her smile.
“To the ranch. There’s a fire. Mac Green just called me. The helicopter should be ready.” Numbly, she let him lead her away from the crowd.
A fire? Wildfires were a fact of life in Florida, even common in rural areas. The ranch would be particularly vulnerable because of the amount of tinder-dry fuel around it. Before his stroke, Oliver had always been vigilant about eliminating the heavy underbrush, dead grass and long pine needles near the main buildings. In the past three years, the task, along with countless others, had not been done. That plus the drought meant a wildfire could spread in a hurry.
As she left the room, she told her assistant where she was going and why.
Moments later she was bunc
hing up her gown and climbing into the helicopter with Frank on the building’s roof. The pilot lifted off almost before she had her harness on.
“Where’s the fire, Frank? Tell me everything you know.” She found herself almost holding her breath as she waited for his answer. There were ten buildings on the ranch property of varying sizes and importance. The three most critical at the moment were the cabin where the ranch manager, Todd Dale lived; the small barn closest to the main house that stabled Jake and five other horses who now were Helen and Oliver’s only family; and the ranch house itself.
She hoped the fire had begun nearest Todd’s cabin. Todd was no longer young, but he was able-bodied. He lived alone. He could get himself out and get the fire extinguished with a bit of help from the Thornberry fire department, at least if he caught the blaze right away.
But as soon as the thought surfaced, she knew reality must be otherwise.
“It’s Jake’s barn, isn’t it?” she asked into the microphone attached to her helmet, hope in her voice, hope that the fire hadn’t started or spread to the ranch house where Oliver slept alone.
“Yes.”
“How bad is it?”
“Mac said by the time the call came in, the barn was pretty much destroyed. They’re trying to keep the fire away from the other buildings. And from spreading over the rest of the ranch and the county.”
Helen sat on the edge of her seat, tense, struggling to remain calm. The obvious question loomed in her mind: What about Oliver? She trusted that Frank would tell her if he’d been killed or badly hurt. For some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to ask. Instead she occupied her mind on related yet detached thoughts.
A December fire would be unusual. Spring was a more likely season. Last spring wild fires closed the expressways and burned more than 200,000 acres of land from Georgia to Cocoa Beach. The smoke traveled all the way across the state and as far south as Miami.
If the fire wasn’t contained, it could spell disaster for more than the ranch house. The entire community could go up in flames.