Fatal Distraction (10 page)

Oliver lay on his stomach, head facing the east side of the barn, legs pointed in the opposite direction, unconscious, but not yet dead.

That would come soon enough.

He tugged on Oliver's ankles, struggling with the dead weight of Oliver's body and putting most of his own body weight on his right leg. The blast of heat was becoming dangerous.

Sweat poured down the inside of his microfiber suit. His tight shirt and trousers were glued to his skin.

He moved as quickly as possible, but the combination of Oliver's weight, the heat, his ankle, made it tough going.

“You never see the bullet that gets you,” he muttered a fact he knew only too well from actual experience.

He'd dragged Oliver's body barely ten feet when the wailing sirens of the fire trucks in the distance penetrated his concentration.

Finally.

He jerked his head up, glanced down the road to see the red flashing lights on the trucks, followed by two or three police cars with blue and red light bars pulsing along with the blood in his temples. The flat land, deep darkness and winding country road allowed him to see quite a distance, but they were moving fast. There was no time to waste.

Sweat ran down his body in rivulets, soaking through his clothes. His head felt wrapped in a hot steam towel. The goggles were annoying under the best of circumstances, but now they felt wretched. He dropped Oliver's legs, stood upright to rest a few moments, and pulled off the goggles.

The ski mask still covered his entire head, giving him essential security. He blotted his eyes with his shirt sleeve, moving some of the sweat around but not helping much. The salt stung his eyes.

Bright flames broke through the barn. Intense smoke billowed over him. Sweat streamed from around both eye holes in the ski mask and dripped down onto the dirt. The wet mask felt suffocating.

He swore, then jerked the ski mask off and used it to swipe his drenched head. Liberated, he toweled off his overheated face and basked in the cool breeze.

He stuffed the mask into his only pocket as well as he could.

He leaned back against a tree, propped his pounding left ankle onto his right boot and lifted his face to the sky, breathing deliberately to slow his heart rate, calm his frustration, clear his thinking.

Don't panic. Work it through
.

While he leaned against the tree to give his throbbing leg some relief and attempt to quiet his pulse pounding in his ears, Oliver moaned.

He looked down and realized that his victim's eyes were open. How long had he been looking? Had Oliver seen his face?

Without thinking, he gave Oliver's head two quick, vicious kicks in the temple.

Oliver's eyes rolled up into his head, then closed.

The man cried out from the new pain in his injured ankle.

He hopped on his right foot back to the tree and leaned against it. When the throbbing had subsided to a tolerable level, he looked over at Oliver again. His eyes remained closed, and he'd stopped moaning. Good. He might be dead already, but that couldn't be helped.

He glanced down the road again. The flashing lights, moving closer by the moment, were almost at the ranch gate. They would be right on top of him in a matter of seconds. He had to move.

He put his weight down on his left leg, winced at the pain, but tugged Oliver further into the underbrush as the sirens came closer, louder.

He dropped Oliver's legs and left him lying off the driveway, hidden in the underbrush as far as he could pull the dead weight.

Throbbing pain from his left ankle and leg shot all the way into his groin. He doubled over and tried to squeeze the pain away, but it pounded his ankle, his shin, his thigh.

He had to put the ski mask and goggles back on. Otherwise, he might trip again, or run into something, or someone.

He reached for the hot, sticky, close fitting ski mask, but it wasn't there.

It must have fallen out of the small pocket!

When did he lose it? Where? How could he have such horrible luck, tonight of all nights?

His mind began to spiral his thoughts downward, imagining one catastrophe after another, intensifying to something close, but not quite, fear.

The sirens grew louder behind him.

On his injured leg, he'd never be able to find the mask in the dark and have time to get away. He had to go.

He forced the goggles into place. They felt like ten pounds of extra weight on his head, but he could see well enough.

He hurried as quickly as he could, trying to cover his tracks, but realizing he needed to make better time or he'd be discovered here.

He must not get caught. He glanced around for a solution.

The fire trucks, two police cars, and a trail of headlights had entered the gate and raced toward him. He had no choice but to circle wide around behind the burning barn.

By the time he reached his safe live oak tree again, the micro-fiber clothes stuck to him like a wetsuit, just as hot and heavy.

He doubled over in the pain of exertion. He couldn't go another step.

He struggled to catch his breath and allow his heartbeat to return to normal. He'd never make it back to the truck unless he rested. He watched through the goggles as the firemen began to battle the fire.

He glanced at his watch again. He couldn't wait any longer. He turned to begin his escape, which would be slower on his bad leg, when he heard the helicopter overhead and knew it was Helen.

Excellent.

He should go. Every second he remained here he risked being seen, caught, prosecuted.

But he'd planned every detail of this project for months to culminate in Helen's discovery of Oliver's injured body his death in her arms. More than he wanted to drag himself away from danger, he needed to stay and watch the climax.

He saw her running toward the house.

“No,” he whispered aloud. “You're wasting time. You really think he'd be in the house while Jake was dying?”

He realized how much smarter he was than Helen. He'd chosen her as a worthy adversary, but perhaps he'd bestowed upon her greater stature than she deserved.

How much longer could he wait here?

Chapter Eight

Tallahassee, Florida

Thursday 9:00 p.m.

HELEN FELT RATHER THAN SAW Frank Temple approach from behind her, then insert himself between her and the man whose hand she had just shaken.

“We have to go,” Frank said, his tone urgent but not panicked. Frank never panicked. It was one of the traits that caused her to trust him.

“Go where?” She had a room full of supporters waiting to congratulate her following her short speech announcing her run for the senate half an hour ago. If she left now, Ralph Hayes would be apoplectic—a thought that almost made her smile.

“To the ranch. There's a fire. Mac Green just called me. The helicopter should be ready.” Numbly, she let him lead her away from the crowd.

A fire? Wildfires were a fact of life in Florida, even common in rural areas. The ranch would be particularly vulnerable because of the amount of tinder-dry fuel around it. Before his stroke, Oliver had always been vigilant about eliminating the heavy underbrush, dead grass and long pine needles near the main buildings. In the past three years, the task, along with countless others, had not been done. That plus the drought meant a wildfire could spread in a hurry.

As she left the room, she told her assistant where she was going and why.

Moments later she was bunching up her gown and climbing into the helicopter with Frank on the building's roof. The pilot lifted off almost before she had her harness on.

“Where's the fire, Frank? Tell me everything you know.” She found herself almost holding her breath as she waited for his answer. There were ten buildings on the ranch property of varying sizes and importance. The three most critical at the moment were the cabin where the ranch manager, Todd Dale lived; the small barn closest to the main house that stabled Jake and five other horses who now were Helen and Oliver's only family; and the ranch house itself.

She hoped the fire had begun nearest Todd's cabin. Todd was no longer young, but he was able-bodied. He lived alone. He could get himself out and get the fire extinguished with a bit of help from the Thornberry fire department, at least if he caught the blaze right away.

But as soon as the thought surfaced, she knew reality must be otherwise.

“It's Jake's barn, isn't it?” she asked into the microphone attached to her helmet, hope in her voice, hope that the fire hadn't started or spread to the ranch house where Oliver slept alone.

“Yes.”

“How bad is it?”

“Mac said by the time the call came in, the barn was pretty much destroyed. They're trying to keep the fire away from the other buildings. And from spreading over the rest of the ranch and the county.”

Helen sat on the edge of her seat, tense, struggling to remain calm. The obvious question loomed in her mind: What about Oliver? She trusted that Frank would tell her if he'd been killed or badly hurt. For some reason, she couldn't bring herself to ask. Instead she occupied her mind on related yet detached thoughts.

A December fire would be unusual. Spring was a more likely season. Last spring wild fires closed the expressways and burned more than 200,000 acres of land from Georgia to Coco Beach. The smoke traveled all the way across the state and as far south as Miami.

If the fire wasn't contained, it could spell disaster for more than the ranch house. The entire community could go up in flames.

The flight from Tallahassee to the ranch took exactly seventy-nine minutes. She'd made the flight hundreds of times during her past eight years as governor. A jet was faster but required a trip to and from the airport. The helicopter could set down on the pad at the ranch. All she had to do was wait seventy-nine minutes and the pilot would have her on the ground.

To pass the time, she wondered where and how the fire had started. There were several possibilities. Fires started in trees where overhead wires rested. They also started with lightning strikes or when people were careless. Arson, too. Human greed and evil made her list of possibilities. Most of the state had burned at one time or another within the last century from one or more of these causes.

Before Oliver's stroke, he could have quickly extinguished a fire that started anywhere on the ranch. He'd learned to install and maintain fire-safe vegetation as a child. Their irrigation system and water reservoirs were filled and ready for immediate deployment. But all of that had taken a back seat to his physical recovery—and his grief—while Helen's attention had been diverted by other concerns.

Mindlessly, she tapped her thigh with her fist. If only she had ignored Ralph Hayes and done what
she'd
wanted to do, what she felt was right.

“Will you never, ever learn?” she murmured, hammering fist against leg with each word.

“Learn what?” Frank's crackly reply in the helmet headphones jarred her.

“To listen to my instincts. I should have been here earlier,” she said, voicing another reality she'd have to live with.

If she'd paid closer attention to her gut, Eric might still be alive. She didn't dwell on that most days. Most of the time, she kept her guilt and her sense of inadequacy buried behind a mound of work.

During their sessions, Ben Fleming told her she needed to process her grief, starting by telling Ben everything, openly acknowledging her feelings. But she couldn't reveal herself that way, even to a professional like Ben. She sensed his annoyance that she wouldn't share her deepest feelings with him. It couldn't be helped. That's just the way she was.

After Eric's death, Helen had vowed never to ignore her instincts again. Never.

But she'd done it tonight, broken her promise to herself. After speaking to Oliver earlier, she'd persuaded herself that he'd be fine. Tired, maybe, but he'd been working around the ranch, getting it ready for her, he said. So his exhaustion was to be expected, didn't necessarily mean he was falling into a deeper depression. Fatigue didn't have to mean depression, Ben said. How convenient for her to believe him on that point when she disagreed on so many others.

Only now could she see, with unmistakable clarity, that something had been different about Oliver on the phone tonight. He sounded almost maudlin with urgency when he told her, “I love you, Helen. I've always loved you. Only you. You know that, don't you?”

He'd said similar words to her countless times during their marriage. Even during the horrific events following Eric's accident, Oliver never blamed her. He'd never stopped loving her. Nor she him.

Tonight, though, the subtext was different: a final goodbye. She'd thought the call was disconnected, but had Oliver hung up intentionally?

The little hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as she absorbed the possibilities. Physical pain twisted her gut as she realized that she'd ignored her feelings. Rather than calling Oliver back, she'd put her work first. Again. When she obviously needed to get home.