Truth-Stained Lies

by Terri Blackstock

  “Blue Grand Cherokee,” she wrote, and typed in the tag number. “Heading north on State Street.”

  Michael wrote back immediately: “I’ll start with hotels south of 15th Street. Holly — Lynn Haven Parkway area. Juliet — near the mall. Cathy, go to private airport & see if he’s tried to charter a plane.”

  “What do we do if we find his car?” Holly texted.

  “We call Max & let him take it from there. And call each one of us to let us know.”

  As Cathy set down the phone, she headed to Sandy Creek Airport. If Warren had chartered a plane, would he take Jackson with him? Surely he wouldn’t want to be saddled with a sick child when he was on the lam.

  Wishful thinking, she told herself. She reached the airport, pulled in, and scanned the few cars in the parking lot for a blue Grand Cherokee. There wasn’t one. She ran to the door that said Gulf Air Service. A man with a baseball cap sat at a desk with his feet up.

  “Hi,” she said.

  The man dropped his feet. “Hey there, pretty lady. Do I know you?”

  “No,” she said. “Listen, I’m looking for a man who may have rented a charter plane today. He had a little boy with him. His name is Warren Haughton, but he might have used another name.”

  The man shook his head. “Nope, not here. We haven’t had anybody come in today. It’s been really slow.”

  Her heart sank. “Are you sure? Have you been here all day?”

  “Yes ma’am, I have.”

  “Well, has anyone rented a plane for tomorrow?”

  “No, the weather’s not going to be that great. Right now there’s a pretty fierce wind surge, so nobody’s flying much to day.”

  She couldn’t give up. “Is there any other service here?”

  “Yeah, the one next door. You could check with them.”

  “Thanks.”

  She pushed out through the exit, went to the business next door. A woman sat at a desk, watching a Spanish soap opera.

  “Hi,” Cathy said, out of breath. “Listen, I need your help … Could you tell me if a man came in today wanting to rent a charter plane for some time this week?”

  “No, it’s been slow,” the woman said. “A guy called, though. Asked about prices to Grand Cayman. Said he’d call back.”

  Her heart jolted. “Did you get his name?”

  “No, he didn’t leave it.”

  “What about your caller ID?”

  The woman checked. “No name. Must have been a wireless number. I’ll read it out to you.”

  Cathy wrote the number on her hand. “If he comes in or calls back, would you let me know?” She told her what Warren and Jackson looked like. “It’s life or death for the boy, and the man is fleeing the police,” she said. “Please, I need to know if he tries to get out of town.”

  After securing the woman’s promise, she went back to her car. So he hadn’t rented a plane … not yet.

  What else might he do? Surely he wouldn’t fly commercially. Security would be too tight. That would be too much of a risk. He could drive out of town, but if he knew there’d be an Amber Alert, he might not try it.

  The most logical thing would be to hole up in a hotel room somewhere, trying to figure out his next move.

  She checked with the hotels, striking out at each of them. No blue Grand Cherokee, and none of the clerks at the front desks had seen a man fitting Warren’s description.

  As Cathy drove, desperation brought tears to her eyes. “Lord …” she said as she drove. “I know you don’t owe me anything, as mad as I’ve been at you.”

  The tears spilled out and rolled down her face. “You may be mad at me too. I wouldn’t blame you, after how I’ve acted. But if you could just put that aside for Jackson’s sake …

  “That little boy is so sick. He’s suffering, and now he’s in the hands of a murderer. God, please show us where he is. And send angels to surround him and take care of him. I’m begging you.”

  Suddenly her phone rang. Michael. She picked it up. “Any luck?”

  “Yep. His rental car is sitting right here in the parking lot at the Holiday Inn on Frane Street. Same tag number you gave us.”

  Her heart leapt. “Did you call the police?”

  “Yes. Max is getting the SWAT team together.” A SWAT team. Dread crushed her. What if Jackson got hurt?

  “I’m on my way over,” she said.

  CHAPTER 43

  The smell of Jackson’s soiled clothes was getting to Warren. The child hadn’t had anything to eat since going into the hospital, yet his diarrhea continued to flow. Jackson had vomited twice since checking into the hotel — mostly bloody liquid. Warren hadn’t taken time to get Jackson’s clothes out of the hospital locker, so the boy lay on the bed in the rancid hospital gown. The stench made Warren gag.

  Maybe he should just abandon him, launch out on his own, and hope he made it across the state line. If he could just get out of town, maybe he could get to one of the private airports in another town, rent a charter flight to Mexico. But if he did it that way, he’d have to leave the money behind. If he hid out here, there might be a little time to transfer his mother’s funds.

  On his iPhone, he went to her bank’s website and tried out different passwords to get into her bank account. He knew she had online access because he had set it up for her. She apparently had changed her password since he did it — probably at his sister’s prompting — but it shouldn’t be too hard to figure out. He typed in her birthday … Annalee’s birthday … his own …

  He tried Jackson’s, but that didn’t work either. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, went to the window and opened it, trying to let out some of the stale, puke-laden air. His mother was simple. She wouldn’t choose a password she would have trouble remembering. It would be something easy like 12345 or the word password itself.

  He went back to the computer. Maybe it was something as simple as her grandson’s name — Jackson.

  He typed that in, and suddenly the ball began to spin. Access! After a few seconds, up came her account information.

  Now what?

  He could make a payment to his own account, as if he were paying a bill. She did have that capability, didn’t she, to pay bills online? He checked her balance. She had $50,000 in her checking account, $200,000 in savings. The lion’s share of her money was tied up in stocks and bonds, municipal funds, and of course, her house. Warren supposed that was lost to him, since he’d been found out. He could only get away with what he could grab now.

  Quickly, he set the account up to pay a bill, then wrote himself a check for $49,000. It wasn’t much, but it was something. It would be enough to get out of town and get set up somewhere south of the border. But it didn’t sit well with him, not when there was $200,000 more sitting in her savings account. How could he get that out?

  He heard Jackson’s labored breathing, and he turned. The boy’s eyes were closed and he seemed to be sleeping. He was burning with fever. The E. coli was advancing.

  He turned back to the computer. Maybe if he transferred her funds from savings to checking, then wrote himself another payment … but would it raise red flags at the bank? Would they alert the police and put a hold on the account?

  He didn’t have much time. He had to hurry. He opened another browser window, found a bank in Grand Cayman. Was it possible to open an account online? He quickly scanned their website, found a screen where he could do that.

  Typing as fast as he could, he filled in the information, using his alias, Doug Streep, opened the account, got the number. Yes, this was perfect. He could transfer the money from her savings account to her checking account, then “pay a bill” to his account in Grand Cayman. He could get out of here tomorrow by driving over to Mobile, taking a charter flight down to the Cayman Islands, getting the money out, then fleeing to Mexico. He already had a fake driver’s license and passport in the name of Doug Streep. He’d taken care of that in case things went wrong with Annalee.

  It could all work, but sh
ould he keep Jackson with him in case he needed a hostage? No, the boy would hold him back. No pilot would want to fly with a kid who was throwing up and soiling his clothes, especially one who was so clearly critically ill. They might notify the police.

  If they’d issued an Amber Alert, the kid would raise red flags. If he went alone …

  He could dye his hair, put on glasses, disguise himself somehow. Maybe he could even leave an anonymous call that the boy was in the hotel room, so somebody would come get him and they’d quit looking for him as if he were a kidnapper.

  Kidnapper … murderer …

  The labels didn’t fit. He wasn’t a bad person. He just needed money. His sister hadn’t deserved any of it. She was a narcissist who was willing to rip her child’s father out of his life for her own fickle appetite. That should have disqualified her as an heir under his mother’s strict moral code. And Jay … Warren had owed him since he exposed his joblessness to Warren’s mother a couple of years ago. She’d been all too happy to help him financially while he was working, but then Jay discovered that he had never been employed where he claimed to work. Because of Jay, Warren’s mother saw him as a liar. It had taken two years and a stupid janitorial job before she trusted him again. He’d been waiting to get even ever since. With Annalee’s death, he’d killed two birds with one stone.

  He wondered if his mother was dead yet or if she lay in the hospital believing the things they were telling her about him. He did feel bad for her. She was the only one who’d ever supported him, the only one who believed in him. She would want him to be happy, want him to be free, want him to have the money he needed to start a normal life. That was her dream for him, wasn’t it?

  But how had it gone so terribly wrong? He had set it up so perfectly, figuring out exactly what would make Jay’s story unbelievable, so he would be the main suspect. It had seemed hilarious at first. Dressing up like a clown, murdering his sister, emailing “Jay’s” note to his sisters and then emailing Jay to come over and work things out. He’d enjoyed every moment of it. He’d imagined Jay telling the story of how the clown had bounced out of Annalee’s house before he found her body.

  Since he knew it would be harder to get away with it once Cathy got involved — and he knew she would — he’d added a red herring to lead her on a wild goose chase. She’d been so suspicious since her fiancé’s death, she had gotten famous with her skepticism. She was too smart for her own good, so he had to throw her off his trail. But his notes pointing to Leonard Miller hadn’t worked.

  Now Jay would be released and the police force would be after Warren. And Cathy would be blogging about his guilt, and people would leave their nasty little comments about him on her page, and people all over the country would recognize him.

  He had no choice. He had to risk transferring the money and get out of the country. He arranged the transaction, transferred $199,000 into his mother’s checking account, waited to make sure it had gone through. Then he wrote his alias another payment from her checking account to the Grand Cayman bank.

  Quickly, he signed off, signed back on in his own name, went to his own account. If only he could get some cash — but that was impossible right now. He’d just have to do the best he could with what he had in his pocket — about $800, which he’d been carrying for getaway money in case his plan with Annalee went south. That would have to pay for the first part of the charter flight. Maybe he could get the pilot to take him to Grand Cayman and wait for payment until he could get the money out of the bank.

  It wasn’t ideal, wasn’t what he had wanted to happen, but he should’ve known Cathy and her sisters would figure things out.

  Jackson’s breath was louder now, more labored. Was the E. coli affecting his lungs? He thought of putting a pillow over the kid’s face and being done with it. Jackson had served his purpose to help him escape. Now he was a liability.

  Ending his suffering would be the kindest thing.

  CHAPTER 44

  Where were the police? Cathy sat in the passenger seat of Michael’s car. Juliet and Holly had gotten in the back, and they all waited with anticipation for the police to come and make an arrest at Warren’s hotel. Time was ticking away for Jackson.

  Michael had gotten the hotel manager to tell him which room Warren was in. He’d checked in as Doug Streep. But the SWAT team was taking too long. They should be here by now.

  “Maybe we can’t wait for them,” Cathy said. “Maybe one of us needs to go to the door.”

  “No,” Michael said. “We’re not equipped for this. We have to wait.”

  “I’m equipped,” Cathy said. “I have a .38 in my purse.”

  “Are you crazy?” Juliet countered. “You’re dealing with a maniac. What are you gonna do? Shoot your way in?”

  “All I have to do is aim it.”

  “Cathy, listen to yourself! This isn’t a game!”

  “Nobody’s going,” Michael said, checking his watch. “We’re sitting right here.”

  “Jackson could be dying in there,” Holly muttered.

  They got quiet, and Cathy looked up and down the street, wishing she could hear a siren or see lights flashing. Where were they?

  “Okay, I’m gonna be sick,” Holly blurted. Before anyone could respond, she opened the door, leaned out, and heaved onto the pavement.

  Juliet stared at her. “What’s wrong with you? You threw up the other day at my house. You almost did earlier today. Are you getting it too?”

  Holly straightened, wiping her mouth. “No. It’s probably just nerves.”

  “You’ve never thrown up before when you’re nervous,” Juliet said.

  “Well, I just did, okay?”

  “Are you sure you’re not sick?”

  “No, but even if I were, I can’t do anything about it now. Can we get back to catching the murderer?”

  Cathy stared out the windshield, thinking. This wasn’t like Holly. She was the type who embraced sickness, wanting attention and empathy. All her life, she’d milked her ailments for all they were worth. Maybe she was just growing up. This wasn’t a normal moment, and Holly was focused on Jackson. But wouldn’t her nausea at least make her wonder if she might have E. coli too?

  Suddenly it hit her. Her breath caught in her throat. Cathy turned around. “Holly, you’re not pregnant, are you?”

  Juliet sucked in a breath and looked at Holly.

  Their younger sister’s mouth dropped open. “Why would you … Just because … I would tell you if …”

  “Whoa, he’s coming out!” Michael cut in.

  They all looked to the door on the side of the hotel. Warren was carrying Jackson, wrapped in a blanket, hurrying toward his rental car.

  “Block his car!” Cathy said, grabbing her gun out of her purse. “Make sure he doesn’t get out.”

  Michael started his car, threw it into Drive, and lunged toward Warren’s rented Cherokee. Warren froze at the sight of them.

  Cathy jumped out of the car, clutching her revolver with both hands. “Warren, stop! Put Jackson down carefully. Lay him in the grass!”

  Warren didn’t move as Michael got out of the car. “Do what she says, Warren! Put him down!”

  Ignoring them, Warren turned and ran back into the hotel, Jackson jostling limply in his arms.

  Cathy couldn’t shoot for fear of hitting Jackson. She aimed the gun at the ground and ran after Warren. Behind her, she heard Michael shouting, “Wait, Cathy!”

  Cathy didn’t listen. She burst into the building, looked up and down the hall. Warren was gone. His room was on the fourth floor. He wouldn’t have taken the elevator.

  The stairwell!

  As Michael raced through the door behind her, Cathy burst into the stairwell. Suddenly, a blow came from her left — Warren’s fist smashed her cheekbone, knocking her back. Warren had Jackson slung over his shoulder, but he jerked the revolver out of her hand.

  The door flew open, and Warren backed up the stairs and turned the gun on Michael. “Get out of h
ere, Hogan, or I’ll kill all of you.”

  Michael put his hands up. “Warren, there’s a SWAT team on its way. It’s over. Put Jackson down and give me the gun.”

  Cathy held her breath and froze. Warren’s face twisted with panic. Jackson was limp, his head and arms hanging down behind Warren’s back. Was he breathing?

  The smell of diseased waste filled the room.

  Suddenly the gun fired, and Michael jumped back. Cathy screamed as ceiling plaster crumbled down. Thankfully, he hadn’t hit Michael. Warren stepped closer to Michael, threatening to fire again.

  “Michael, get out!” Cathy cried.

  Michael opened the door, backed away, his hands still up. “Warren, you don’t want to make this worse.”

  Warren’s hand was shaking, his finger over the trigger again. “Out!” he yelled, his voice echoing up the stairwell. Michael inched a little farther out the door. Keeping the gun aimed at Michael, Warren crouched and lay Jackson on the landing.

  Cathy lunged at him and went for the gun, but Warren managed to grab her wrist and twist her around. As her back arched in pain, he let her wrist go, and his arm came up to clamp around her neck. He shoved the barrel of the gun against her head. Her neck strained as she tried to lean her head away. She saw the fear on Michael’s face.

  “Don’t!” Michael said. “Warren, I’ll go. I’m backing away. You can take off, up the stairs, make an escape. I won’t come after you. Just leave her and Jackson here.”

  Warren’s hold on Cathy loosened, then just as quickly tightened again. He was compressing her windpipe, and she struggled to breathe.

  “I … told you … to leave. Out … now!”

  She felt the gun shaking in his hand, vibrating against her head as his arm clamped tighter. Her vision grew blotchy … black … He was going to kill her right here, without firing the gun.

  Her body grew weak, her knees buckled. She sagged, the weight of her body making his arm tighten even more.

  “Okay, I’m going,” Michael said in a desperate whisper. “I’ll back out into the hall. Just … let her breathe.”

  She heard Michael stepping out, and the exit door slammed shut. Finally, mercifully, Warren dropped his arm, and Cathy fell to her knees, clutching her throat and gasping for breath as if she’d been drowning.