“No. But that's not the reason. He wanted to be sure we knew it was arson right away. Didn't want us chasing the wrong assumptions.”
Mac chewed on that a while along with his toothpick. “So he wanted us to realize he'd killed the horses intentionally.”
“And that he could have done worse if he'd wanted to,” Helen added. She drank more of her coffee and checked her watch before heading around the now-missing barn walls and exiting through the empty space that once was the back door. Mac followed her path toward Todd Dale's cabin, saying nothing, giving her room to investigate and reach her own conclusions.
She walked with purpose, but didn't rush, stopping at the live oak tree and checking her watch again. “Less than two minutes from the back barn door to this spot. And I'm guessing that in daylight, he'd have a pretty good view of his handiwork from here.”
Mac considered her point. “So he'd have worn some sort of night-vision. Which might explain why he removed the ski-mask. Those goggles can get heavy. With the exertion and the fire blazing, he'd have been pretty hot inside a ski-mask.”
He stopped talking, but she knew what he was thinking. The killer didn't expect any witnesses to see his face. He'd have felt safe enough to remove the ski-mask.
Helen handed Mac her coffee cup, hoisted herself up into the crotch of the tree and settled in facing the barn, her back to Todd Dale's cabin. She glanced around. Mac mimicked her position while on the ground. He stood with his back to the tree, facing the same direction.
“From down here, I can't see much. Vegetation blocks the sight line to the ranch house,” he said. “How about you?”
Helen thought about the question for a few seconds before she mused aloud, “Eric used to play in this tree as a kid. Even though we told him not to. He'd come over here to play around Todd. Todd let him do things we wouldn't allow. From up here he'd watch for Oliver and me. The minute he saw one of us heading this way, he'd jump down.”
“Too high up for a boy,” Mac observed.
Helen jumped back to the ground, too, stumbling a bit and steadying herself with her hands on the dirt. She stood up and dusted herself off. “Exactly why he was forbidden to climb this tree. He broke his arm jumping down from here once. He wore a bright lime green cast from his elbow down to the palm of his hand. We'd never have known he was playing up there, otherwise.” She held out her hand and Mac returned her cup.
“I remember,” Mac said. “That was the year you gave him Jake for his birthday, wasn't it?” They exchanged glances and by tacit agreement, said no more about Eric.
She sipped her coffee and thought about it for a bit.
Helen said, “Todd knew all along that Eric was climbing the tree. He could see Eric from his front porch. But he never said anything because he thought we knew about it already. Todd was devastated when Eric fell, even more upset about it than we were, I think.”
She checked her watch again and moved toward the manager's cabin. She stopped before the porch steps, standing in front of the inviting cane rocking chairs. The breeze blew both rocking chairs enough to set them moving as if ghosts rested and watched.
Again, when she arrived, she checked the time. “Two minutes more from the tree to here. A total of four minutes from here to the barn, four minutes back.”
“Unless you wanted to stop and watch from the crook of that tree,” Mac said.
Helen waited for him to work it out for himself. After all, like Mac said, he wasn't stupid. In a few moments, her faith in him was rewarded.
“The arsonist watched the fire and the ranch house from the tree. He knew about the tree because he knew Todd,” Mac said.
“And Oliver,” she added.
And me and maybe Eric, too
.
Mac processed that for a couple of beats, then nodded as if she'd voiced her thoughts aloud. “The arsonist killed Todd before he started the fire because he knew Todd would see him and maybe put the fire out and save Jake and the other horses.”
Helen's voice was quieter, “And maybe save Oliver, too.” The feeling of safety that had wrapped around her earlier disappeared like a magician's flourish. She shivered.
Mac misunderstood. “Let's go inside, where it's warmer.”
It was Todd's wrongful death that chilled her. It made her want to hurry back to Oliver's side and never leave the ranch house again. Had Frank ordered all openings in the house electrified and ordered the agents to shoot to kill every person who approached from any entry point, she'd still have felt unnerved.
“I need to get back.”
Mac nodded and fell into step with her as they retraced her route. “Eric was a good boy, Helen,” he said as they approached the tree where her son had played. “Ryan, too. They went astray a bit as teens, that's all. Not unusual for boys. They'd have come around.”
Helen was grateful for Mac's kind words. She'd been thinking about Eric's last couple of years, his trouble with school, the street drugs she'd found in his room more than once. “I often wonder if he'd have even gone to that party if we hadn't taken his car away, Mac. Or, if he'd been driving his own car, would he have been more careful? He knew better than to drink and drive. He'd never done that before.”
They'd almost reached the ranch house, but Mac laid a hand on her shoulder to stop her while they could talk in privacy. She turned her gaze toward him, knowing her pain was visible to her old friend, and that he understood. Ryan Jones had been his wife's nephew, after all. His family had suffered too.
“Listen,” Mac said with feeling. “Listen to me, Helen. Eric hit his head when he fell from that tree. He injured his brain. The symptoms he exhibited were all related to that frontal lobe injury. They had nothing to do with you. There was nothing you could have done to change him. Eric's deathâ” he stopped a second, remembering his nephew, she knew, “âwas not your fault.”
Before she could respond, Frank came out of the front door of the ranch house. “Helen,” he said, moving quickly in her direction. “There's been a problem at Tommy Taylor's funeral. A serious one. You'd better come in.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Thornberry, Florida
Sunday 2:00 p.m.
SEVERAL HOURS HAD PASSED since Oliver first realized that his grief counselor had tried to kill him. He could tell the time from the big red numbers on the LED clock across the room. Each time his eyelids popped open without warning and before they closed again of their own volition, he checked the digits. Time was passing, and no one had been in to see him for a good long while.
The last visitor had been Helen. He'd been unable to squeeze her hand or speak to her, but he'd felt her soft lips on his cheek and her reassurances had calmed him. He knew he could trust Helen. He could rely on her. She would figure this out. She would be able to help him.
If only he could make her realize he was aware, alert. If only he could warn her of the danger.
Oliver had spent much of the past few hours digging through the rubble of his memories to uncover the buried artifacts of the past few years. Each uncovered shard fit neatly into his near completion of the Ben Fleming puzzle.
Oliver recalled he first met Ben Fleming at Papa's Bar on Front Street. Ben was with Milton Jones. Ruby wasn't dead yet, but she was a bag of bones, wasted by cancer and chemo, and everybody knew where she was headed. Ruby, Ryan, and Milton had moved into the guest rooms at the Sullivan ranch where Oliver and Helen could help Ruby through the last stage of her illness.
Helen was in Tallahassee that day. Ruby had asked Oliver to find Milton and bring him home for dinner, which in Thornberry, meant lunch. Neither one of them expected Milton to eat anything, but Oliver did as she asked. He knew right where to find Milton. Everybody in Thornberry knew where Milton Jones was every day of the week.
Milton sat on a stool, leaning on the bar with both elbows to avoid falling onto the floor. It was one o'clock in the afternoon, but Milton hadn't been sober in months, maybe years.
“Come on, Milton,” Oliver said kindly. “Ruby's got dinner ready.” He approached Milton, put an arm around his shoulders, and tried to move him to his feet.
Milton was surprisingly strong. He resisted Oliver's efforts. “I'm not hungry, Oliver. Ya'll go ahead without me. Tell Ruby I'll be home for supper.”
Oliver hadn't expected Milton to object. Milton was always easy-going, even before he became a drinker. Oliver knew his old friend was hurting. He didn't know how he'd react if Helen was in Ruby's situation. So Oliver tried again. “Ruby doesn't have a lot of time left, Milton. She needs her husband to show her some respect. Ryan's there, too, waiting for his daddy. You come on home now.”
Milton had done one of the most unexpected things Oliver had ever seen him do. He burst into tears. He dropped his head onto his folded forearms and bawled like a little boy. Oliver was embarrassed for him, knew Milton would be embarrassed for himself when he straightened up. Still, Oliver stood by him and tried to help, but Milton kept sobbing.
Ben Fleming was seated next to Milton at the bar. While Milton sobbed, Ben turned to Oliver and said, “I'm Milton's doctor, Benjamin Fleming.” The two men shook hands and Oliver introduced himself. “Milton is having a bad time at the moment. It's probably not going to help Ruby or Ryan very much for him to go home in this condition. Why don't you leave him here and I'll see that he gets home by this evening, as he said.”
Oliver had been impressed with Dr. Fleming that day. He'd handled Milton expertly; more to the point, he'd gotten Oliver off the hook. True to his word, Dr. Fleming brought Milton home in time for supper.
After that, Oliver and Milton had discussed his grief therapy with Dr. Fleming many times. When Ruby died, when her parents took Ryan in to raise, all the months and years Milton needed to get himself back on track. During all of that, Ben Fleming was there, for which Oliver had been grateful at the time. He realized how wrong he'd been.
What a fool you are, Oliver Sullivan.
You couldn't see that Ben was making Milton worse? You
deserved
for Milton to shoot you, you jackass.
Helen's instincts had been right on. Oliver should have stopped confiding in Ben long ago. He felt stupid, duped, betrayed.
Oh, quit wallowing
.
He's done with you; he thinks you're a vegetable. He'll go after Helen next. You've got to warn her. What are you going to do now?
He thought about it a while longer, but deduced no other possibilities. He had to figure out how to communicate. He'd heard enough of the doctor talk the past few hours. They didn't think he was conscious. They were talking about pulling out his feeding tube, letting him die.
He didn't object to dying, but he wouldn't leave Helen alone at the mercy of Ben Fleming.
For two hours, he'd attempted to lift his fingers, separate them, move his thumbs, his hands. He could feel the blanket against his palms, but no movement. He tried his feet, toes and ankles next with the same results. The effort was exhausting, but he couldn't give up.
He'd been Eric's little league coach and he remembered how to prod young boys into performance.
Come on, Oliver. You can do it. You had a stroke, for Christ's sake. You bounced back from that. Just open your eyes. Go on.
He tried again to force his eyelids up, a simple maneuver for most of his life. He'd never attempted to analyze how one opened one's eyelids. In years past, he just did it. Blinked hundreds of times a day. Now, he couldn't blink once.
When he'd failed repeatedly, he tried raising his eyebrows instead. Maybe he could lift his eyelids with his brow muscles. Ten, twenty, thirty tries, but his lids didn't open.
How much more time did he have before Ben came for Helen?
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Dentonville, Florida
Sunday 2:30 p.m.
WHILE MIKE KEPT FILMING at her instruction, and while Prescott and Berger remained caught up in the chaos surrounding Vivian, Jess quickly searched the chapel for Ben Fleming. Failing to find him, she walked out into one of the common entry areas where more mourners gathered. The Taylor funeral appeared to be the only viewing in the mortuary today.
Jess began a systematic check of all the rooms. When she reached the restrooms, she asked a man coming out to check for Ben Fleming inside. “There's no one in there, ma'am,” he said. She thanked him and continued her canvass into the back of the mortuary.
Double doors exited to a short flight of stairs and a covered driveway. A hearse was parked closest to the exit, followed by a black limousine, and several passenger cars lined up for the final trip to the cemetery after the service.
Jess had no idea what type of car Ben Fleming drove or where he might have parked. There were no empty spaces in the funeral line. She saw a few people milling around outside.
Two men about Vivian Ward's age were talking quietly between cigarette puffs near an outside ash container. She hurried up to them and asked, “Do either of you know Dr. Ben Fleming? Have you seen him?”