Deadline

by Sandra Brown

  “No such luck, Jeremy. I need you to clear up a couple of things.”

  Eyes still closed, he asked, “Are you going to write about me?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Well, if it’s deathbed confessions you’re after, you’d better be quick.”

  “Willard Strong’s version of Darlene’s murder. True?”

  “Close enough. Main thing, he didn’t do it. I did.”

  Dawson looked down at his phone to make sure he’d got that. “The Wessons.”

  Jeremy opened his eyes as they filled with more tears. He struggled not to cry. “Randy and Patricia.”

  “Was their last name really Wesson?”

  “No, but I don’t know what their real names were. I lived with them for thirteen years and they took good care of me. They believed in Daddy and his crusade, as they called it.”

  “What about the fire?”

  “Daddy said it was necessary. He called it martyring them for the cause.” Jeremy wiped his eyes again.

  It was a struggle for Dawson to maintain his objectivity as he asked the next question. “Amelia’s father. Suicide, or not?”

  He stared hard into Jeremy’s eyes, demanding the truth. Slowly Jeremy gave a small shake of his head, then let it sink deeper into the cushion. “From the time we met, especially after we married, he would ask questions about the Wessons and other things I’d told him that didn’t add up. Daddy was afraid he’d really start snooping after the divorce. I wasn’t the congressman’s favorite person.”

  “You’d hit Amelia.”

  He winced, but he didn’t defend the abuse. “Daddy was afraid the old man would be out to get me. He said we needed to nip it in the bud.”

  “So you nipped it.”

  “I knew his schedule, knew when he would be in the house alone.”

  “How’d you coerce him into taking the pills?”

  “Daddy gave him a choice. Take the lethal dosage, or stand by and watch Amelia die slowly and in agony. He was going to die, no matter what, but if he wanted her to live, he would fake his suicide. The old man tried to reason, then to bargain. He wound up pleading, but in the end he swallowed the pills. We waited there until we were sure his heart had stopped.”

  “And left him for Amelia to find.” Dawson wanted to strike him, to beat him senseless for the grief he had caused her, not just over her father’s death but over everything he’d done for a stupid, fanatical, baseless “cause.”

  “‘Cause,’ my ass,” he muttered. Carl Wingert’s treachery was propelled only by his ego, his sick, sociopathic delusions of grandeur. Dawson was suddenly consumed by rage. He grabbed Jeremy’s hand as though he would arm wrestle him right there atop Jeremy’s chest. “You also need to answer for killing Stef.”

  “Stupid move. I acted without thinking.”

  “That’s not going to hack it as a defense.”

  As though he hadn’t heard Dawson’s remark, he continued. “I’d been cooped up here for so long, to get out of here and actually do something felt good.”

  “It felt good to kill a young woman?”

  “I thought she was Amelia.”

  “You wanted to kill the mother of your children.”

  He turned away from Dawson’s accusatory glare, and his chest deflated as he expelled a long sigh. “If I had to think about it, I couldn’t have done it. So when I saw her—the woman I thought was her—it was like Providence. A sign. Something. If I acted on impulse and did it right then, I’d be done with it and not have to think about it anymore. That’s what went through my mind.”

  “Fucking twisted mind, Jeremy.”

  “Tell her that I’m sorry.”

  “I doubt she’ll believe that.”

  “Probably not. Not after everything I’ve put her through.” His gaze turned introspective. “My boys will be ashamed of who their daddy was, won’t they?”

  The answer was so obvious that Dawson didn’t need to state it.

  “I was jealous of you for playing with them on the beach,” Jeremy continued. “I watched from the boat. Where’d you get the football?”

  “Found a bag of beach toys in the rental house.”

  “Grant’s got a good right arm for a kid his age.”

  “For a kid of any age.”

  “Hunter’s better at soccer.”

  “He’s got some moves.”

  “They’re good boys, right?”

  “They’re great boys.”

  “Do they ever talk about me?”

  This man didn’t deserve his pity, his compassion, not even one of those magnanimous white lies. But to tell the harsh truth to a dying man…“All the time,” he heard himself say. “They’re proud of your service to your country.”

  Jeremy knew he was being lied to, and looked at Dawson in a way that silently thanked him for the mercy. Then he closed his eyes and Dawson feared that he’d lost consciousness or soon would. He shook his shoulder. “Don’t pass out yet. Tell me where Carl went.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “He left me here to die. You think I give a shit about where he went?” Again tears filled his eyes.

  Dawson did in fact believe him when he said he didn’t know his father’s whereabouts. A man who would abandon his dying son wouldn’t bother to tell him where he was going. He battled another onslaught of pity. “Jeremy, where’s Flora?”

  His eyes jerked into focus on Dawson’s face, then he made a raw, sobbing sound. “Don’t ask me—”

  “Where is she, Jeremy? Is your mother still alive?”

  Another harsh sound erupted from him. “Leave me alone. I’m dying.”

  Dawson gripped his hand more tightly. “Tell me, damn you.”

  “I—”

  “Tell me!”

  Just then they heard the clatter of a helicopter approaching. Dawson ran to the door and looked out. The trash can was emitting a thin ribbon of smoke, and it had worked as a signal. The helicopter appeared, hovering barely above the treetops. He stepped out of the cabin and waved his arms over his head, then went back inside and knelt beside the sofa.

  Jeremy’s head had lolled to one side. “No!” Dawson worked his arm beneath Jeremy’s head and, supporting his limp nape in the crook of his elbow, lifted it off the cushion. “Don’t die on me. Come on, wake up!” He jostled his head.

  Jeremy groaned. His eyes fluttered open.

  “Help’s here, man. Hang on.”

  “I don’t want help.”

  “What happened to Flora?”

  Jeremy’s lips moved, but Dawson couldn’t hear him for the racket outside. Forest debris caught in the downwash of the helicopter blades was striking the exterior walls like stones. Men were shouting. A heavy footfall landed on the porch, and someone shouted his name.

  He bent his head low. “Tell me where to find Flora. Jeremy. Tell me.”

  Jeremy clutched the collar of Dawson’s shirt and pulled him down until his ear was directly above Jeremy’s lips. He whispered his last words, then he looked into Dawson’s eyes, and for a millisecond they connected. Then Jeremy’s became unseeing.

  Dawson stared into the vacant gaze for several moments, then eased Jeremy’s head back onto the cushion and pulled his arm out from under him. When he tried to stand, he had to tug his collar free from the dead man’s grip.

  * * *

  Amelia was in Headly’s hospital room with the restive patient and Eva when she received the call that Tucker had promised her. “Deputy Tucker? I’m putting you on speaker.”

  She clicked over in time to hear him say, “We found him.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “He’s fine.”

  Eva folded her hands beneath her chin in an attitude of prayer. Headly muttered inaudibly, which was probably just as well. Amelia felt light-headed with relief.

  The deputy continued. “But I’m sorry to report that your…that Jeremy is dead.”

  She lowered hers
elf into a chair. “I see.”

  She wouldn’t have expected the burst of grief she experienced. He’d been dead to her for more than a year. She had already mourned his passing once; she wouldn’t have thought there was any bereavement left for him. Knowing the things he’d done, she was amazed that she could feel anything at all. Yet she did. Regret over his bad choices, sorrow over his wasted life, and, even more sadly, relief. She and her sons were free of him.

  Tucker said, “The Savannah PD officer we found dead had got off one shot from his service revolver. Jeremy took it low in the abdomen. He bled out slow.”

  She nodded, then, realizing that Tucker was waiting on a verbal response, repeated the only words she seemed capable of uttering. “I see.”

  “The details will have to keep for now. Scott got a video recording on his phone, but we still have a lot to ask him about what transpired when he got here.”

  “That’s why they’re not letting you talk to him,” Headly said, not caring if Tucker overheard him. More loudly, he said, “Tucker, what about Carl?”

  “No sign of him.”

  Headly’s lips tightened to a thin line. “The bastard left Jeremy there to die alone.”

  “Looks like.”

  Amelia felt another stab of heartache. “When can we expect Dawson back in Savannah?”

  “Can’t say. This place is reachable only by foot. A helicopter can’t set down. May take a while to get him out. Right now, he’s being questioned by Knutz’s people. I’m needed. Got to go.”

  “Thank you for calling.” She wasn’t sure he heard all of that before disconnecting.

  It was several moments before she raised her head. “At least we know that he’s safe.” Headly and Eva were watching her closely. She supposed they were gauging her reaction to the news about Jeremy. She stood up. “I’m going home to my sons.”

  * * *

  “We’ll have to keep your phone for a while,” Tucker said.

  Dawson nodded.

  “A local deputy will walk you out of here. We’ve set up a quasi camp on a road about half a mile that way.” He hitched a thumb over his shoulder.

  “My car’s in the opposite direction.”

  “This is the shorter route out. It’s not far, but it’s not an easy walk through the woods. The road swings around to the south and connects to the one that dead-ends in the marsh where your car’s at. Couple of deputies are watching it till you get there. Someone will drive you to it.”

  “I’ll appreciate it. Thanks.”

  A uniformed man approached at a jog. “Deputy Tucker? Can I have a sec?”

  Dawson turned away to let them confer and looked toward the cabin, which had become a beehive of activity. Over the course of the past few hours, crime-scene personnel had arrived. Some were uniformed. Others wore civilian clothes. One was in a suit and lace-up shoes, others wore blue jeans and T-shirts with the various agency names stenciled on them. The options depended on rank, Dawson supposed. They came and went as their duties required.

  He was happy to remain as detached as possible.

  He had, however, been questioned at length by Tucker and Wills, who’d arrived shortly after the first responders, thrashing their way through the forest to reach the spot. They’d soon been joined by sheriff’s deputies from the South Carolina county and by several FBI agents from Knutz’s office. Apparently he was coordinating things from Savannah.

  Each agency wanted to question him independently, so he was called on several times to describe Jeremy’s condition when he arrived. The video off his cell phone, as he’d guessed, was poor, but Jeremy’s confessions could be clearly heard, the most shocking of which was that of staging Congressman Davis Nolan’s suicide.

  The day had turned hot and sticky, the overcast sky creating a greenhouse effect that by noon had shirts sticking to backs. It was long past midday now. Dawson was bone tired and emotionally drained, but he had answered their multitude of questions patiently, realizing that the sooner he did so, the sooner he would be allowed to leave.

  It seemed that that time had finally come. After his brief conference with the uniformed officer, Tucker walked back toward him, accompanied by Wills who was mopping sweat off his hangdog face with a folded handkerchief.

  Tucker said, “False alarm. They were holding a white-haired man who roughly fit Carl Wingert’s description at a Dairy Queen. The old guy had stopped to get a Blizzard. Wasn’t Carl.”

  “He won’t be that easy to take,” Dawson said.

  “The son of a bitch,” Wills said under his breath. “I’m no fan of Jeremy Wesson, but…Jesus. What kind of man could run away and leave his kid like that, knowing he was dying?”

  Only one answer came to Dawson’s mind: Carl Wingert.

  A suspension of activity drew their attention to the cabin. The three watched solemnly as the stretcher bearing Jeremy’s body was maneuvered through the narrow doorway, carried by members of a rescue team. They placed it on the ground in the clearing to wait for the helicopter that would lift it out.

  “Where will he be taken?” Dawson asked.

  “Back to us, eventually,” Tucker said. “He died in their county, but he was our fugitive. They’re cooperating with us.” Turning back to Dawson, he said, “They’re more than a little curious about you.”

  “Why?”

  “They want to know if you should be arrested.”

  “For what crime?”

  “Stupidity, mainly. Care to share what the hell you were thinking to come out here on your own, track them down, approach without caution?”

  “I was after an interview.”

  “Well, you got one. More than you bargained for.”

  “A lot more,” he said quietly.

  “Much as it pains me to say it, we’re glad you found him. The video will exonerate Willard Strong. It’ll also close the book on the DeMarco girl’s slaying.”

  “And reverse the ruling on Congressman Nolan’s suicide,” Dawson said.

  “How do you think Ms. Nolan will react to that?” Wills asked.

  “With mixed emotions.”

  They must have read from his expression that he wasn’t going to discuss it further with them. Tucker said, “You’ll be around?”

  “Until Carl is captured.”

  Tucker didn’t like the sound of that. “Look, don’t pull any more fool stunts, okay? You’re not a cop.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “I don’t want to have to cart you away in a body bag.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Say, listen.” Tucker backed down, glanced toward the cabin, flicked a bead of sweat off the tip of his nose. Coming back to Dawson, he said, “I’m man enough to admit when I’m wrong. I was wrong. Bygones?” He extended his right hand. Dawson shook it.

  Tucker nodded, but as he was about to walk away in step with Wills, Dawson said, “You’re not done here.” His solemn tone grabbed their attention. They looked at him expectantly. “The porch was an add-on,” he said. “Jeremy built it to protect the grave.”

  “Grave?” Wills said. “Whose?”

  “His mother’s.”

  Diary of Flora Stimel—2010

  I’m not sure of the date, whether it’s still January or if Feb. is here. It’s cold, I know that much. The cabin stays damp, and that hasn’t helped my chest cold. It’s hung on for weeks. I try not to cough too much, because it irritates Carl.

  He’s short-tempered because we stay cooped up in here for days at a time. He doesn’t like to venture out when it’s rainy because tracks can be left in wet ground.

  What I think—who’s looking for us after all this time? I bet most cops these days have never even heard of us. But Carl is as paranoid as ever. That FBI agent Headly makes him nervous. We haven’t pulled a job in years, but Carl says that doesn’t matter. We’re still wanted. Headly’s still out there and he’ll never give up till we’re caught or dead.

  Makes me tired just to think about it. And I miss Jere
my. He hasn’t been out to see us since before Christmas. He’s going to Af. again soon. Carl says that he’s too busy to come see us. He’s “setting things up,” whatever that means, but I think it means that their big plan is about to be launched.

  Breaks my heart that Jeremy’s gotta leave his family again. Last time he was here, he brought me pictures of the boys and told me stories about them. He had a picture of Hunter holding his new baby brother. Their faces are so sweet! I wanted to keep the pictures, but after I’d looked at them for a while, Carl took them away and burned them. In case this place is discovered, he didn’t want anything around that would connect us to Jeremy. But when I saw the fire eating up the pictures of our grandbabies, I cried. It took me a long time to stop.

  * * *

  I don’t know for sure how many days have gone by since I wrote that last part. The days sorta blend together. I don’t know why, because it’s not like I sleep through them. I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep at all. I think I have fever.

  Earlier today, I was lying here on the bed with my eyes closed. When I opened them, I caught Carl just sitting there at the table, staring at me. I asked him what was wrong. He said, “Nothing,” and got up to fix himself a can of soup. I think he just hates me being sick.

  I told him that cough syrup and maybe aspirin for the body aches would make me feel better and get me well faster. He said he’d go buy some when the weather clears.

  He’s asleep now, which is why I’m able to write in this diary. I don’t like what I’m thinking, which is this: Much as I’d like to have some medicine, I hope Carl doesn’t leave me here alone to go after it. I’m scared that if he left, he might not come back.

  Like last summer, when he was away for weeks at a time, and I had to be here by myself while he was at the beach. He got to see the grandchildren every single day! Lord, how I wanted to be there, too, but he said he couldn’t risk me making a fool of myself over them and ruining everything. He’s probably right. I don’t think I could have been around them and not loved them to pieces!