“Hi, honey. How did the session go?” Oliver had been working with his grief counselor for three years now. Progress was glacial, but every time she asked Dr. Ben Fleming assured her: It was still progress.
Oliver's resigned sigh traveled through the phone and whispered against her ear. “It was fine, Helen. Just like it always is.”
“What did you talk about?”
“What we always talk about.”
She waited a few beats, but he didn't say more. There wasn't much more to say. She already knew that they talked about Eric. Discussed Oliver's grief. Explored his inability to move on with his life. Watched the full video of Eric's crash. Sometimes, they talked about his lack of physical progress in recovering from the stroke, too. Oliver had always been a physical man. His immobility depressed him almost as much as his grief, Ben had told her more than once, as if she didn't already know.
She put a lighter note in her voice. “Are you sure you don't want to come up for the dinner tonight? We started this gig together and I'd love to have you with me for the grand finale.”
Oliver had never liked black-tie affairs, but he was an accomplished dancer. There was a time when he would have moved heaven and earth to be with her on the night of her last big bash as Florida Governor, when she announced her Senate candidacy. They'd have taken at least one stylish turn around the dance floor and ended her term with a flourish. No, the Oliver she loved wouldn't have missed such an important occasion, even if he needed to use a cane to ambulate.
“I wish I could,” he said, almost as if he meant it.
Helen closed her eyes and visualized him seated in the old brown leather armchair behind the desk his father had used to settle the books at the ranch. He'd have the windows open and he'd be breathing the crisp December air. The desk lamp would cast a warm glow over his desk and the fire in the fireplace would take the chill from the room. Maybe he wore his threadbare brown sweater and black denim jeans. Before his stroke, he'd have worn boots, but now he couldn't pull them on and he wouldn't allow anyone to do it for him.
“Frank offered to fly down and bring you back here,” she said. Oliver trusted Frank, just as she did. They'd been through hell together. The experience had bonded them more tightly than Frank's FDLE job description suggested; none of them could imagine life without Frank now.
“You know how long the reception line will be. You can easily make it for the last dance, at least.” The jet could be there and back in time.
“Your tux is here, all ready for you.”
She'd left small spaces between each cajoling sentence, giving him a chance to say yes, but not enough room to offer another excuse. She didn't want to tell him the truth: that she wanted, needed him here with her.
When she stopped for a breath, he said, “It's too late, Helen. And I have a morning session with Ben.”
She felt herself frowning and pressed her fingers between her brows to smooth the furrows. If Oliver's complicated grief was improving, his sessions should be less frequent.
At least that's what Dr. Fleming had explained six months ago. Normal grief lasts less than a year, he'd told her. But complicated grief like Oliver's could go on much longer, especially grief over a murdered child.
Added to his recovery from his gunshot wound and the stroke that followed, the consultant confirmed the negative prognosis both Oliver's grief counselor and his physicians offered.
She'd meant to voice the point only to herself, but she asked aloud, “I thought you were only meeting with Ben once a week now.”
“We added a few more sessions since you've been away.”
When she didn't respond, she felt his sigh again.
“Don't worry, Helen. I'm fine. Have a great party. Tell them all good bye and promise to do them proud in Washington. I'll be here tomorrow when you get back and we'll enjoy the holidays before you have to start campaigning. How's that?”
She had no choice. Until she could get home and see for herself, she had to content herself with his plan. “I'll see you tomorrow afternoon, then.”
Perhaps hearing the concern in her voice, Oliver relented a bit. “I love you, Helen. I've always loved you. I'm just going through another rough patch. I'll be one hundred percent soon. I promise.”
Somehow they got disconnected then. She tried to call him back, but heard only a busy signal, as if the line was jammed.
She sat holding the phone in her left hand, her right massaging the sore spot on her left shoulder where the bullet had grazed her, taking out a slice of her muscle, leaving a scar and lingering pain that she worried would never heal.
“Governor?”
It was Frank; she realized the car had stopped in front of the hotel once again. She didn't feel ready to go inside yet.
“Helen? It's late,” Frank said.
“I know.” She had made her decision.
Both she and Oliver needed a change. They'd move to Washington, get away from the ranch and the memories of Eric that still lived and breathed and hounded them there. She wanted the Senator's job and there was no way to get it without the party's support.
Because it suited her purposes, she'd allow Ralph Hayes to win this round, as he'd smugly assumed he would. But there would be other battles, she knew. He wouldn't win them all.
Yes, she would announce her candidacy tonight, and she'd find a way to deal with the inevitable public criticism of her timing.
Having Oliver with her when she revealed her future political plans would have made the moment complete. But he wasn't coming. She ignored her misgivings on that subject now, too.
Frank exited the front seat, opened the back door, and offered his hand.
She emerged from the limousine, stood tall and took a deep breath. She handed the cell phone to Frank. “We got disconnected. If he calls back, let me know right away.”
“Anything wrong?”
“Not at all,” she heard herself saying too quickly. “Everything's fine.” She took another deep puff from her inhaler and handed it to Frank as well. She stood tall, straightened the dress over her stomach, and walked into the hotel.
A few minutes later, Helen stood in the receiving line, smiling at guests as they approached her, shaking hands, murmuring appreciation for each guest's attendance.
Helen looked toward Frank, standing a few feet away. He patted his left breast pocket where she'd seen him place the phone before they entered the ballroom. He shook his head to let her know that it hadn't rung, that Oliver hadn't called back. She nodded.
And tried not to worry.
Chapter Four
Thornberry, Florida
Thursday 7:45 p.m.
HE WAITED NOT OUT OF NEED, but to prolong the pleasure. This was his most ambitious project thus far. After weeks of planning, tonight had come too quickly. He wanted to savor the experience. He took a deep breath in through his nostrils, as though he might smell the fear and grief in the air.
He settled his lanky body more deeply into the well-worn cane bottomed chair and crossed his ankles on the porch rail, nearly invisible in the night, dressed in black from toes to crown. The tight-fitting microfiber ski mask on his face was a necessary nuisance. Fortunately, tonight's cool December breeze made the black cocoon less uncomfortable than usual.
The night-vision goggles that he'd use later to watch the results of his work rested in his lap. He didn't need them yet. His gaze roamed over the open darkness between the cabin and the ranch house. The darker shape of the small barn was barely visible between the two dwellings. Ambient light from the ranch house cast slight shadows around the trees, but it was too far away to illuminate the barn or the cabin. Or him.
He concentrated on the scene, embedding the layout of the open space and its obstacles into his memory, even though he'd seen it hundreds of times before. From experience he knew that a scene viewed through the goggles would bear distorted resemblance to its vivid daylight counterpart.
Under his glove top and over his turtleneck's sleeve he wore a diver's watch, which he glanced at now. 7:45 p.m. Almost time. But he could spare a few more moments to anticipate the evening and its results. He closed his eyes and visualized the job once more, marking off his mental checklist as he reviewed the preparations he'd already made to be sure there was nothing he'd forgotten.
Measure twice, cut once
, his father had often said.
Handling the unanticipated events as they occurred was the other challenge.
Tonight he had parked his rent-a-wreck about a mile from the cabin, keys in the ignition. He'd rented the small black truck yesterday from a cut-rate rental company using cash and a fake driver's license. Then he drove to the airport and parked in the long term lot. Earlier today, he'd taken a cab to the airport and picked up the truck. It waited at an abandoned ranch, safely stowed in one of the empty outbuildings, embassy parked nose toward the door inside the building for a hasty departure at the end of the night's work.
He patted the zippered pocket resting on the right hip of the smooth-fitting black slacks. Two small, disposable lighters made a comfortable bump in his silhouette. He'd stashed three small cans of accelerant in a corner of the horse barn two days ago where he knew they wouldn't been seen or disturbed until he was ready for them.
The distance from the cabin to the barn where Jake and five other horses were stabled was exactly 165 yards. He could easily run that distance in well under two minutes, but he didn't think he'd have to. He didn't expect anyone to give chase.
For the next few moments, he mentally reviewed his plans for the rest of the evening. He'd walked the route in the daylight and he knew every inch of the terrain. He'd been in the barn many times. He could almost feel the dirt floor covered in hay, smell the horse manure. An unconscious nod: He felt fully prepared, almost as if he'd done the job already.
Measure twice, cut once
.
He stood, reached overhead, and entwined his gloved fingers, stretched up, bent over at the waist and stretched down in front, then once on each side before returning to an upright position. He took a deep breath, held it a few seconds, and then released it slowly. Yes, he was ready. He listened once more to the quiet, just to be sure.
“Time to go.”
He loped easily along the hard-packed dirt driveway, shuffling his feet as he moved to disturb his footprints. The drought had made the dirt as dry as flour. His footfalls, the breeze, and the confusion he expected once the fire was discovered should effectively cover his tracks.
He glanced behind to be sure he hadn't left a clear print. While he was slightly off balance, his left foot landed hard on a large stone and his foot slipped wide. He stumbled to right himself, but his weight was not properly distributed. He fell.
He stayed down on all fours in the dirt driveway, steadying himself, gauging the new pain he felt in his ankle. After a few moments, he got up on his knees, used his gloved hands to disturb the imprint of his body in the sandy gravel, then knocked the dust off his gloves and tried to stand.
The pain in left foot and ankle sharpened and he gasped despite himself.
“Damn,” he murmured louder than he'd meant to.
He put his weight on the foot again and the pain shot up his calf.
He sat down on the ground and felt the foot and ankle through his clothes. Not broken. He rubbed the foot and ankle with firm pressure until he found the exact spot where it hurt. He winced as tears sprang to his eyes.
Now what?
He couldn't abort the mission. Tonight was his last chance. He'd prepared too long and hard for this. It had to be now.
He considered his options.
He wasn't far from his destination. He'd come more than half the distance already. He could still put the plan in motion.
The problem would be getting away clean afterward. Could he travel more than a mile back to the truck on this ankle?
Suck it up.
He wiped the area around him with his gloved hands, then pushed himself upright putting most of his weight on his right leg. Once standing, he dusted himself off before he tried to put weight on his left foot and ankle again. It hurt, but he could bear it.
He moved toward the barn, a bit more slowly, more carefully, limping on the left side.
You should have been more careful to start with,
he thought.
But it was too late to change that.
Kind of evens up the odds for Oliver, doesn't it?
When he reached the barn, he'd begun to perspire. His hands felt slick inside the gloves and he felt the trickle of sweat run down his sides.
He went around to the small door in the back, farthest from the main ranch house. He knew it would be unlocked. It always was.
There was no need to lock doors in Thornberry.
He entered the barn and passed along the back of the building until he reached the corner where he'd stored the small cans of gasoline and three rolls of paper towel. He didn't need much. Everything was so dry already that the fire should easily spread through the hay stacked inside and out, once he got it going.