Jess felt her face flush. “Haven't you learned anything about me yet? You still think writing about you and the Tommy Taylor case is the only thing that's motivating me? After everything we've done?”
Mac cleared his throat loudly. “If there's nothing else, I've got a list as long as my leg of things I've got to get done in the next few hours. I need to head out to my office and get somebody going on getting these warrants issued and served, collect the evidence and sweet talk the lab techs into getting this work done pronto. And I haven't the foggiest clue where I'm going to find the money to pay for it in my budget.”
Frank said, “I can help with both. I'll make a call.”
“Thanks. Is there anything else, then?”
“No, Mac. Keep me posted. I'll call you if we need anything before we hear from you next.”
Mac stood to leave, then said, “Helen, I'm sorry about all of this. I feel like we let you down.” His voice trailed off and they exchanged a glance that Jess could not decipher. Mac Green had been Helen's friend since childhood. Whatever had happened here, they'd been in it together. Mistakes were made by everyone.
“Be strong, Mac. Come back soon.” Helen sent him on his way.
Frank said, “I've got work to do, too. Let me confirm that Fleming has left town. And we'll go from there.” Helen nodded, and he turned and left the room.
Jess and Helen were alone. Jess had not committed to the confidentiality Helen requested, but she knew she'd already heard enough to be dangerous if they allowed her to leave. “What are you thinking, Jess?”
“That we have to find Mattie Crawford's real killer. We've got to catch him and execute him next.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Thornberry, Florida
Sunday 10:00 p.m.
BEN HAD LEFT THE WHITE VAN in an all-night strip club parking lot and collected a black one. He parked more than a mile away from the Sullivan ranch, in the same barn he'd used the night he killed Todd Dale and failed to kill Oliver. He backed the vehicle into the abandoned structure and left the keys in the ignition, then moved around to the back of the van to collect his equipment.
Ben's injured left ankle had improved but stabbed without warning from time to time. He'd stabilized it and wore high-topped boots to provide support, but he favored the ankle and wanted to avoid over burdening himself.
His familiarity with the Sullivan ranch and its layout was immensely helpful. Earlier in the evening, he saw two teams of Temple's men patrolling the area around the house. But they seemed somewhat less vigilant than they would have been if they expected to find him. He noticed that they drove around the exterior of the ranch property, too. Four teams, total, he figured, two on the perimeter and two on the grounds. Frank Temple would be inside the house with Helen and Oliver, and maybe a fifth team inside as well.
He settled the night vision headset he'd used the night he set the barn fire on his head, but this time, the cooler temperatures and gusting high winds made the ski-mask covering his head and face more comfortable. The rest of his body was encased in black clothing enveloping him in darkness.
He stood for a moment at the door to the barn and adjusted the headset. He left the door open. He didn't expect to dash away, but he never assumed he was safe until he was finished with the task. He worked under the most stringent limitations he'd ever faced; despite the dangers, his goals excited him. He wished he had time for rehearsals, one luxury Oliver precluded. He scowled.
Forget about Oliver
, he warned himself.
Concentrate
.
Clouds blacked out all light from the moon and a gusty wind blew down from the north. He'd heard on the radio that a winter cold front was pressing through, but no rain was expected to extinguish his fire prematurely. The wind, coupled with dry conditions and surplus fire fuel would ensure his victory. Luck was with him once more.
Ben traveled light, carrying only a small backpack filled with three energy bars, a bottle of water, two cigarette lighters, two books of matches, his Sig and its magazine, a second ammunition magazine for insurance, two one-pound cans of propane, and four cans of Sterno into which he'd placed cotton strips lest the Sterno extinguish too soon. Each can burned for two hours, but should serve its purpose far quicker.
Ben was thoroughly familiar with the terrain of the ranch and the interior of the house. He'd planned his escape route upwind from the fire. He would get in, get out, and only the occupants of the house would die. He knew Helen did not allow strangers or guests in the family wing of the house. If others happened to be there for some reason, they should be sleeping. If not, he planned a solution for that, too.
He crept onto the Sullivan property and reached the outlying equipment and supply storage barn at the ranch's north edge. There, he ate his first energy bar while he scavenged a butane lighter. It was impossible to tell how much fuel it contained, but he only needed backup. He'd found nothing else useful.
He'd rejected the idea of starting the fire after he killed Oliver and Helen. He was good, but not that good. He needed the fire's distraction to keep Frank Temple and his men occupied.
The last time he'd been on the ranch in daylight, he'd seen the pile of yard debris behind the house. Todd Dale's work on clearing out the Sabal palms and Spanish moss near the swimming pool had ended prematurely when Todd died. Ben expected the debris to remain there tonight. Sure enough, there it was.
You're a lucky guy
, he told himself when he saw the dry tinder piled five feet high.
When Ben assured himself he was on time and on track, he settled into a tree to watch the driveway, the house and the people in it, waiting for the right opportunity. It was breezy up in the tree. The wind blew steadily and gusted to maybe twenty miles an hour every two or three minutes.
Excellent
. While he waited, he pulled out the second of his energy bars, unwrapped and ate it.
Ben had learned about fires and fuel the hard way, but the lessons had stayed with him and he'd perfected the art of fire through experience. He knew just how to use it to his best advantage. Conditions tonight were perfect.
Fire was all about fuel and wind. How long and how hot a fire burned depended on the amount of fuel available for the fire to consume; the speed of consumption was driven by strong winds.
Ben was sure the Sullivan ranch house presented more than enough fuel for a fast, hot, all-consuming fire. In this, as in all things, Oliver Sullivan's soft-hearted sentiment would be his undoing for he loved the house too much to improve it the way he should have.
Oliver had told Ben about putting fire detection and suppression equipment in place when he'd rebuilt Todd Dale's house years ago. To the ranch house, Oliver had added smoke detectors, but nothing more. He'd been proud that the house remained as it had been originally constructed by Oliver's great-grandfather in the early 1930s when fire prevention and suppression equipment was still science fiction. Ben knew how to disable modern fire suppression systems, but it was nice that he didn't have to worry about it tonight.
Ben had considered the fuel issues when deciding how to ignite and destroy the building. The floors in the house and the porch that wrapped around three sides were wide pine planks covered with several layers of varnish that enhanced their flammability. The building was pine construction and the roof covered with wood shingles.
As a bonus, the house brimmed with old, dry wood furniture.
True, it would involve some risk to start the fire, open the gas valves and then go inside the house. But he didn't expect to be inside long. Neither Oliver nor Helen were strong enough to get away or overpower him. So the risk was minimal. Especially since he knew where the two gas valves were and how easily he could open them. A big, satisfying explosion when the gas ignited would be an extravagant end to his most impressive accomplishment.
Yes, Ben felt confident that the house would burn to cinders within sixty minutes. The only thing Ben had to do was to start the fire big enough. The gusty winds would do the rest.
There were four cars parked outside the house. He recognized Jess Kimball's rented SUV. Another was Frank Temple's vehicle. The third belonged to the pair of officers who had been with Jess at the Taylor funeral. Mac Green's car was gone. That left one car unaccounted for. Helen didn't own a car. Oliver's vehicle was stored in the big barn since he hadn't been able to drive for three years and Helen rarely drove herself anywhere. So who owned the fourth vehicle? As Ben watched, one of Oliver's caregivers exited the house, entered the fourth car, and drove away.
Problem solved
.
You're a lucky bastard.
He smiled.
The last of the interior lights, a bedroom in the guest wing of the house, extinguished by midnight. He couldn't see the family's wing from his current vantage point, but he wasn't worried about Helen. He could handle her face-to-face. He was looking forward to it.
He'd had plenty of time to think things through since he'd bolted from the chapel. That time, in fact, remained a bit of a blur in his memory. The news that Oliver Sullivan had regained consciousness had knocked him nearly senseless. Confusion caused him to compound the error of leaving Oliver alive, a mistake he never intended to make again and left him embarrassed, a feeling he hadn't experienced since leaving Kansas. He'd forgotten how awful public humiliation felt. Tonight, he'd exact vengeance on Oliver and Helen Sullivan, as well as Frank Temple and Jess Kimball. In one spectacular finish.
He waited another hour, until after 1:00 a.m. Christmas Eve. No further vehicle activity occurred in the driveway. The outside teams patrolling the property lines crossed at the gate as they seemed to do once an hour, but the house blocked their view of its north side. They wouldn't be back for another hour and it should be too late by then to extinguish the fire. He lowered himself from the tree, careful to absorb the landing with his good leg.
One of the best things about his special projects was the challenge. Ben relished the grief game, a game he always won.
Helen Sullivan had proved a worthy adversary. He almost regretted ending their contest by killing her tonight, even in the spectacular way he'd planned. As with a cat and a half-dead mouse, play time must end when the cat eats his prey.
Chapter Forty-Five
Thornberry, Florida
Sunday Midnight
HELEN'S NECK ACHED, HER STOMACH REBELLED at her lack of attention to its gnawing hunger, and her eyelids felt heavy, scratchy for sleep. She wanted to relax, but she was still waiting for final reports from Mac Green and Frank.
Earlier, Frank had confirmed that Ben Fleming flew out of TIA to New York City this evening. His car had been located in the long term parking lot. The airline he chose didn't assign specific seats to passengers, but he'd checked luggage and his boarding pass had been read at the entrance to the jet way at the gate. Ben was on the plane.
A winter storm had blanketed the northeast with heavy snowfall backing up air traffic, stacking the planes over Kennedy for several hours. Ben's plane had not landed and Frank had arranged for Ben to be met at the gate when the plane finally arrived.
Frank walked in carrying his cell phone. “It's Mac,” he said. “I told him that Fleming got on the plane, but we haven't picked him up yet.”
“Put him on the speaker,” Helen instructed. Jess was present, but it was part of their deal that she would be included in the rest of the evening activities if she agreed to remain at the ranch. “Mac, it's Helen. Frank and Jess are here with me. What did you find out?”
Mac hesitated. He obviously didn't want to share his investigation results with Jess. When he spoke, he reported a strict factual account with none of the opinions he would have given if speaking to Helen and Frank alone.
“We obtained the search warrants, picked up a toothbrush and hair samples from Fleming's home, and a couple of used tissues from his office. We also collected a few items likely to have his fingerprints. We took the samples to the lab. The tech performed a quick hair comparison.” The connection crackled, covering up the last words.
“What?”
“The hairs were consistent,” he repeated.
Her heart pounded hard enough to escape her chest at Mac's confirmation. She'd wanted so desperately to be wrong. Although she'd always sought to protect her son and care for her husband, she'd not only failed the two people she loved most, she'd allowed a cold killer to violate their most private lives. An overwhelming revulsion almost suffocated her. Her public humiliation was nothing compared to her personal failures.
“Helen?” Mac asked, “Are you there? Have I lost you?”
She took several deep breaths, trying to get hold of her body's reactions to the horror she couldn't control. She needed to get a grip on herself or she would pass out. She took a hit off her inhaler, then another.
As her airways cleared, she turned to the part of her mind that was as detached as possible, making an effort to compartmentalize her personal feelings from the view of the others in the room.