The guest book did not contain the signatures of the Crawfords or Vivian Ward. Neither had arrived yet.
Good
. He stood off to the side of the front entrance and waited, appreciating the time he'd been given to work through his plan to kill Vivian before she revealed what she thought she knew.
The old dear was suffering from dementia of some sort, he would explain to anyone whom she might have told already. He'd revised his treatment notes for his sessions with her and backdated several entries to reflect her growing mental incapacity. With luck, he wouldn't need to explain anything, but if he was required to do so, he was ready.
Before either of his targets arrived, a white SUV pulled up out front. He'd seen the vehicle before. Parked at Helen Sullivan's ranch last night. The driver was that young photographer, Mike something. His heart beat a little faster when he recognized the passenger, Jess Kimball.
Ben had expected her because she'd been at the execution. He'd researched her on the internet once he'd learned who she was. He knew she was writing a story in support of Tommy Taylor's victims and was therefore harmless. But he'd also seen Jess speaking with Vivian Ward after Tommy's execution. At the time, he hadn't worried about Vivian at all, and it was unlikely she'd told Jess Kimball anything problematic then. But given what Vivian had said to him on the phone last night, Ben could not allow the journalist another conference with Vivian before he'd had his chance to silence her permanently. How would he manage that?
Another car pulled into the parking lot that he recognized shortly after Jess Kimball containing two of Frank Temple's team. What were their names? He couldn't remember. But more importantly, why were they here?
Ben's brow began to sweat, and he smelled the faint odor of last night's Scotch. Since Vivian's call, he'd had precious little sleep and drunk several entire pots of coffee, but he'd been unable to eat the hearty breakfast he normally rewarded himself with before a funeral. Seeing Jess Kimball and Frank Temple's men made his stomach feel queasier. How should he handle this?
The decision was made for him moments later when Providence rewarded him once again. The Crawfords' car drove past the front entrance and moved around to the back and he could plainly identify the occupants of the vehicle: Matthew and Marilyn Crawford in the front seat. And Vivian Ward alone in the back seat. He hesitated briefly.
First things first
, he reminded himself under his breath. He moved with purpose toward Vivian.
By the time he'd reached the rear entrance, the Crawfords had parked in the processional line behind the limousine that would carry Sarah Taylor to her son's final resting place. Matthew and Marilyn had already exited the car and removed Vivian's wheelchair from the trunk.
Ben wiped the sweat from his brow with one of the tissues he kept in his pocket for mourners at funerals. He'd never needed those tissues before. The small reminder of his situation irritated him disproportionately.
He adjusted his jacket, and said, “Good morning,” in a voice loud enough to draw their attention. The Crawfords' open, grateful expressions revealed everything he needed to know. Vivian had not told them. Not yet.
Ben moved toward the car. He spent a few moments comforting Matthew and Marilyn before saying, “You two go on inside. I'll help Vivian into the viewing room.”
“Are you sure? It's a bit of a struggle to get the oxygen and everything,” Matthew said.
“We need a few moments alone, Matt,” Ben told him, conveying sympathy for both the Crawfords and Vivian in his tone. “You understand.”
Marilyn put her hand on her husband's arm. “Come on, honey. Let's give Ben and Vivian some privacy.” She glanced at Ben and said, “We'll see you inside.”
He watched Matthew and Marilyn make their way into the building before he turned to deal with Vivian. He opened the car's door. “Good morning, dear. Did you have a good night? I was so worried about you. You didn't sound well at all when we spoke.”
Vivian smiled up at him as he lifted her from the back seat and placed her in the wheelchair. She weighed almost nothing, it seemed. He'd done this sort of service for frail people many times. He settled her into the chair, then reached farther into the car for her oxygen tank.
After placing the tank on the platform on the back of the chair, he moved around to check on her again. “Okay?” She nodded, unable to speak for the moment. The slightest bit of exertion literally took her breath away. “Let me check the flow of your oxygen, dear. You may not be getting enough.”
Ben looked at the regulator on the oxygen tank. It was properly set to flow at a rate of two liters per minute. He turned the dial, increasing the flow to ten liters per minute.
“There,” he told her. “That should do it.” He glanced at his watch. If his estimates were correct, Vivian should slip into a coma in ten minutes or so. If he kept the oxygen flow so elevated for twenty minutes, she'd be dead. He needed to get her inside before that happened.
But first, he slipped down to talk with her. Perhaps he'd been mistaken about what she'd said last night. He'd been tired and more than a little tipsy. He could have misheard her. Of course, it probably didn't matter all that much. Vivian didn't have a lot to live for anyway.
Still, it would be nice if she had a few more weeks to enjoy her victory over Tommy Taylor, and to feel her gratitude for that gift. Gratitude made people happy, Ben knew. Vivian deserved some happiness before she died. And he needed to kill a bit of time before they went inside, too. Give her a chance to breathe a bit more oxygen into her damaged lungs.
“Vivian, dear, how are you feeling today?”
She took a few short, shallow breaths in through her nose and puffed them out of her lips before she was able to say, “Fine.” She put her bony grip on his arm and he barely felt it through his suit coat. More breaths and puffs. Then, “Ben?”
“Yes, dear,” he said, still kneeling in front of her chair.
Inhale. Inhale. Inhale. Puff, “Thank you.” Inhale. Inhale. Inhale. Inhale. Puff, “Tell Mariâ” inhale. Puff, “âlyn.”
He waited a while longer, but she was never able to say more. Ben was feeling better by the minute. If Vivian hadn't told anyone anything yet, she would never be able to do so now.
“I understand, dear. You're welcome. Let's go inside, okay?” She closed her eyes slowly by way of response. “Here we go,” he said, as he pushed the wheelchair up the ramp and into the building. He didn't hurry.
Once in the chapel, he and Vivian wheeled to the front to view Tommy Taylor in his casket. He didn't want to deny Vivian the final pleasure of seeing her sons' killer one last time. He kept up a monologue of soothing chatter to prevent her from speaking until they reached Sarah Taylor.
In full view of the mourners, Vivian and Sarah exchanged a few words of farewell and forgiveness. Sarah did almost all of the talking, but Vivian responded to her breathlessly once or twice, saying “yes” in response to Sarah's questions. Sarah could testify that Vivian was alive when Ben brought her into the room, if the need arose.
Ben checked his watch. It had been fifteen minutes, but he gave it a few more seconds just to be sure. Then he surreptitiously dropped the wet tissue from his hand and started to bend down to retrieve it. On the way up, he'd planned to return the dial on the oxygen tank to deliver two liters per minute for the remainder of Vivian's short life.
But the mourner behind him interrupted. “Oh, let me get it,” the man said. “You've got your hands full there.”
It would have seemed odd to object, so Ben said, “Thank you,” noticing that his brow had begun to perspire again. “Sarah, let me get Vivian settled. Other folks are wanting to offer their condolences to you. I'll be back in a little while, okay?”
Sarah nodded, dabbing at her eyes with a soaked tissue. Ben reached into his pocket and pulled out a fresh one for her. As he placed it in her hand, he took the damp one away and stuffed it into another pocket, planning to drop it and do the retrieval in a minute or so.
“Thank you for coming, Vivian,” Sarah said. “It means a great deal to me to know that you don't blame me for what Tommy did.”
Vivian's eyelids blinked twice and she took a breath that lifted her chest enough to puff out her response, a silent attempt at words that would be her last.
As Ben wheeled Vivian into the chapel and placed her wheelchair at the end of the row of chairs next to the Crawfords, he resisted the urge to smile. But before he'd managed to drop the second tissue and reset the oxygen regulator, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
He turned to find Jess Kimball standing slightly behind him, in his blind spot. “Excuse me, Ben, but I need to talk to Vivian, if you don't mind.”
He felt sweat from his brow drip down into his eyes and he blinked much as Vivian had, but from a different cause. It had been more than fifteen minutes. Vivian should be sleeping her last sleep now, or shortly. He needed to stall Jess as long as he could. Several possible lines of inquiry passed through his pounding hangover. Finally, he hit on one that might work.
He reached out to Jess and took hold of her forearm. “Sure, but could I talk to you for a moment first?” He saw she was forming a protest and felt her trying to remove her arm from his grasp. “It's about Oliver Sullivan.” As he'd suspected, she stopped her struggle. He said, “Let's go over here for some privacy. Just for a moment.”
Reluctantly, Jess came with him, but her eyes remained on Vivian. He sensed her anxiety at letting Vivian out of her sight, which only confirmed his suspicions and made him more determined to keep the two apart until Vivian slipped into her final coma. He didn't need to block Jess's view, so he positioned himself to allow her that comfort.
When they'd moved about ten steps away, Jess said, “Look, I've got toâ”
“Sure, I understand. But I heard there was a change in Oliver's condition.” He'd heard nothing of the kind, but he'd correctly surmised that Jess would be distracted by the claim. “Can you tell me how he is? How is Helen?”
The questions obviously surprised her. Her eyes widened and when he dropped her forearm, she didn't move away. The satisfaction he felt was short lived.
“How did you hear about that? Helen said she wasn't going to tell anyone until the doctors had a chance to evaluate his status.” Jess glanced over at Vivian, probably reassuring herself that Vivian wasn't going anywhere. But she was clearly agitated and unsure about whether to continue their conversation or her own mission.
When he'd recovered enough from the shock of her answer, he said, “Oliver is my patient, after all.”
Distracted, but somewhat reassured, she said, “He's awake, but that's all I know. I left before the doctors arrived.” Then, she moved quickly away from him, fast enough to penetrate the haze in his brain and propel him to action.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Dentonville, Florida
Sunday Noon
JESS'S ESCAPE FROM BEN FLEMING'S INQUISITION freed her to stride toward Vivian Ward's wheelchair. Jess noticed that Vivian was seated next to the Crawfords and recalled that all the families involved in the Tommy Taylor mess were neighbors. Both before and after the Central Florida Child Killer began his reign of terror, the families all attended the same church.
Once, children were taught not to speak to strangers, but now law enforcement agencies knew that strangers were statistically less dangerous than friends or family. Tommy had identified all of his known victims from his social circle. The boys he abducted went with him willingly. He remained unsuspected for too long because he was a member of their congregation and the parents thought they knew him.
Jess shuddered briefly before she reached Vivian's wheelchair. Marilyn Crawford was seated immediately to Vivian's left and Matthew was next to his wife. Vivian's chair faced the casket and was stopped on the aisle, open to passers-by on her right side. When Jess first arrived at the funeral home's entrance and scanned the room, she'd noticed several people stopping to pay their respects to Vivian as well. Initially puzzled by this, Jess quickly remembered that Vivian's husband had died only four days ago and had not been buried yet.
Jess reached Vivian's side in a matter of seconds and bent down to speak to her when she noticed that Vivian's eyes were closed. The poor thing had to be so exhausted, in body and spirit. Jess took a moment to really see her.
Vivian's thin hair was artfully arranged and a bit of pale lip color had been applied to her mouth. Cheek color stood out on her pale face, but it gave her an appearance of warmth her skin would not otherwise display. Her clothes were clean and pressed. A dark navy silk t-shirt, a thin sweater and a skirt the same color covered her skinny limbs and almost camouflaged the clear tube that carried oxygen from the tank behind her to the two-pronged cannula beneath her nostrils. Vivian didn't have the strength to organize herself this well. Marilyn Crawford must have dressed her and Matthew had obviously helped.
As if Jess's thoughts had conjured her attention, Marilyn glanced toward her. “Good morning, Jess,” Marilyn whispered to avoid awakening Vivian. She offered a weak smile. “This is so hard. Harder than I expected it to be.”