Fatal Distraction Page 18

  Oh, yeah, I remember that sensation, he thought when he recognized the catheter. Glad I was asleep when they inserted you, little buddy. Was his grim humor an indicator of health or hysteria? He didn’t know.

  And, of course, the severe headache that he just couldn’t shake.

  Without warning, his eyelids closed, covering his corneas in moist, comforting darkness. He continued his physical check in the dark. Could he move his legs? No. Arms? No. Feet? Hands? Fingers? Toes? No, no, no and no.

  So you can’t move. Don’t freak out. You’re not a vegetable. A fruitcake, maybe. If he could have groaned at his childish joke, he would have.

  Earlier, Ben and the resident had said something about being locked in. Oliver wondered if that was his situation, whatever it meant. He tried to remember exactly what they’d said. He focused on what he could recall of the conversation and finally pulled up the only hopeful piece of information embedded there: the tests on his brain didn’t show a brain-stem lesion.

  You’ve spent a lot of time with doctors in the past three years, Oliver. You know what a brain-stem lesion is. Think it through. What is it? What does it mean?

  The location of the brain injury made a difference in the symptoms and treatment he remembered from Eric’s childhood fall from the oak tree in Todd Dale’s front yard. In Eric’s case, they said it was his frontal lobe that was damaged. They called the damage mild, but to Oliver and Helen, the changes in their normally happy boy seemed devastating. He acted out, seemed uninhibited instead of shy, and often erupted in inexplicable anger or laughter. So far, Oliver hadn’t felt any of those emotions.

  That you remember, he thought. Still, probably not frontal lobe.

  When Oliver had his stroke, the neurosurgeons explained it as a brain attack. They’d been able to tell him which part of his brain was affected, and it was on the right side, they said, since the principal physical symptoms were his left leg and left arm.

  But now you can’t move anything at all. That must be why the resident mentioned the brain-stem. As soon as he worked out the logic, it felt like an epiphany. Of course. The stem is the part of the brain that’s connected to the spinal column. Where all the nerves are that control movement.

  A lesion was a wound, maybe, in the brain-stem. The implications began to fall down like a row of dominoes in his mind. Paralysis. Total body paralysis. Forever. Unable to move even his eyelids voluntarily.

  He felt his heart rate ratchet up, heard the monitor’s beeps pounding closer together. If he could have screamed, he would have. He tried, but no sound emerged.

  “Hey, Mr. Sullivan,” he heard a man’s voice near his head. “What’s got you all excited, hmm?”

  That must be Steven, a sliver of Oliver’s mind processed through his uncontrolled panic. He felt Steven’s cool fingers on the side of his throat. If I’m paralyzed, could I feel that? No. No, of course not. Paralyzed means lack of feeling, surely.

  “Something bothering you?” Steven touched Oliver’s wrists next. He felt a poke in his ear. An ear thermometer, probably. “Blood pressure spiked up there, but it’s coming down now. Did you have a bad dream?”

  If only . . . . He couldn’t be paralyzed. He didn’t have any evidence of a brain-stem lesion, that’s what Dan the resident said. Oliver could breathe, too. If he was locked in, he’d need a ventilator, wouldn’t he? Sure he would. Oliver heard the monitors return to their reassuring regular rhythms.

  “Well, that’s much better, sir. Much better,” Steven said, straightening the lightweight blanket on the bed. “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”

  He moved away, but Oliver couldn’t tell where he’d gone.

  Careful there, dude. You don’t want to stroke out. That’s what Eric would have said. Thinking about Eric’s idiomatic teen-speak made Oliver feel calmer, too.

  Something nagged at him, though. It hid just beyond his consciousness. He’d slowed his brain waves and his breathing using the biofeedback and meditation techniques Ben had taught him. He felt as if he was floating at the edge of sleep in the darkness.

  His headache continued to throb. He located its exact source: his left temple. He focused on the pain, willing it to stop. Odd that he couldn’t move his body, but he could feel every sensation.

  What did you do to your noggin? Why does it hurt?

  He continued his deep breathing and relaxation techniques while asking himself the question until he almost nodded off. As always, Ben’s technique worked. Good old Ben had taught him well . . . but Ben’s name struck a discordant note on his taut nerves. He tried to ignore the vibration, but it grew stronger.

  Why had Ben seemed so satisfied when he’d told Dan that Oliver would be a vegetable?

  Ben! The name bounced off the walls inside his skull. Memory of the night Jake died came flooding back. He recalled the fire, his puny efforts to save Jake. He watched his mind’s movie as a limping, panting, sweating Ben Fleming dressed in black dragged him off into the trees. And when Ben realized Oliver was watching, Ben kicked him in the head. Hard. Twice.

  Ben had set the fire and killed Jake and attacked him. For god’s sake, why? He didn’t know and it didn’t matter. He needed to warn Helen. Where was she? Was Ben going to hurt her, too?

  Oliver’s anxiety elevated to full panic. He tried to open his eyes, tried to shout out for attention. His body would not cooperate. He remained silent, eyelids closed in total darkness.

  Helen! Helen! he screamed inside. No one heard. No one came.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Thornberry, Florida

  Sunday 2:00 a.m.

  “I DON’T WANT TO BE CALLED to testify as a witness in this case,” Jess told Helen after the evidence collection process was completed and everyone had gone, leaving the two women alone again. “I’ll be leaving Florida in a few days. It might not be possible for me to get back for a trial.”

  “If you leave the jurisdiction,” Helen said, “no one will be able to compel you to return. You don’t have any ties to the area that would give the courts subpoena power over you.”

  Jess sat across from Helen, head back, eyes closed. Fatigue etched the younger woman’s face, making her appear years older than she had on that Thursday afternoon when she’d been so full of piss and vinegar in Helen’s office. “I hear a but coming,” she sighed wearily.

  “We don’t know what any of that evidence is going to prove yet, Jess. We can discuss this once we find out what’s in Arnold Wade’s affidavit and what, if anything, those hairs and the cigarette butt reveal. It’s too late to think about it anymore tonight. My brain isn’t going to process anything else without some sleep.” She stood, stretched. “We made up a guest room for you. I’d like to talk to you more in the morning.”

  They’d established earlier that Jess and Mike would both stay the night. Mike had stopped doing research on his laptop about an hour ago and was already asleep in his room.

  Eyes still closed, Jess said, “I’ve got to be at the Taylor funeral in the morning. I can come back after that.”

  Helen was surprised at her reluctance to see Jess go. It was easy to forget that Jess was practically a stranger to her, and to the entire Taylor mess, so closely had they bonded this evening, and at the hospital before that. It had been a long time since Helen had the opportunity to work closely with someone she genuinely liked. Other than Frank Temple and Mac Green, of course. But they were law men. That was different from how she related to Jess, who understood Helen’s feelings about Eric on a deeper level, even though they’d yet to discuss the commonality. After Jess’s visit to the hospital, Helen had requested a full background check on the journalist. She hadn’t finished reading everything yet, but she’d digested the central issues relating to Jess’s missing son.

  Beyond the closeness she felt to Jess, though, Helen worried that the younger woman could be in danger. Jess claimed that no one knew she’d obtained potentially damning evidence from Vivian Ward’s house. Helen wasn’t so sure. Vivian Ward
may have confided in others, too. And the trace evidence Vivian had concealed, if it proved that Tommy Taylor had not killed Mattie Crawford and the real killer was still out there, would be more than enough to make him kill again.

  “We’ll talk when you return. I want to discuss the Florida unidentified persons program with you, too. I think it could help you with Peter. Until then, I’ll ask Frank to send someone to cover your back at the funeral,” Helen said. Without waiting for any protest, Helen headed for the kitchen to complete the security arrangements with Frank, after which she went to check on her husband.

  Oliver lay on the hospital bed that had replaced their king-sized. The remaining furniture, like most of the quality pieces in the house, had belonged to Oliver’s parents. The room Oliver occupied as a boy was across the wide central hall. It had also been Eric’s room. Helen had lain awake in the single bed where her husband and her son had once slumbered in absolute peace, but she found none for herself.

  Helen insisted that Oliver never be without a qualified medical professional in his room after the seizure. If he had more seizures, at least he could be treated promptly. Steven, tonight’s physician’s assistant, sat across the room from the open doorway near Oliver’s bed, reading under a focused light that cast his face in shadows.

  “How is he?” she asked.

  “No change, Mrs. Sullivan.” He returned to his novel, allowing her a moment to absorb the situation fully.

  The ventilator waiting in the corner of the room was not reassuring. Oliver breathed without the machine, but the ventilator’s presence meant it might be needed on a moment’s notice. She couldn’t see the feeding tube’s entry point inserted in his stomach because he was covered by a lightweight blanket. The left side of his head was dark purple from the trauma that had caused his hematoma. The gray stubble of his beard aged him more than the abrasions that marred his face.

  Poles on both sides of the bed held solutions that dripped into his arms through tubes inserted in his veins, one on the back of his useless, withered left hand, and the second in the crook of his right elbow. A catheter dripped yellow urine into a bag affixed to a side rail.

  Oh, Oliver. Are you in there? Have you given up? Will you come back to me? She detected nothing in return, nor had she expected to.

  “Steven, would you step outside for a moment?” Helen was the only person allowed to be alone with Oliver. Everyone else required supervision.

  “I’ll wait in the hallway.” He took his book along and left the room. The hinges of the old door screeched an assault on her ears as Steven dragged the door against its will, but the noise didn’t seem to disturb Oliver at all. The noise reminded Helen that she and Oliver never allowed guests into this part of their home. After Eric died, the north wing had become their private space. There was never a need to close the bedroom door.

  Helen moved to Oliver’s bedside, took his right hand in hers, and stood watching his beloved face. After a time, she began to talk to him. Words of no consequence. Comfortable topics. The sort of conversation couples engaged to share their lives. She spoke of the cool weather appropriate for the season of cheer, the holiday decorations she had decided to forego, a party invitation in Thornberry for New Year’s Eve. Oliver may have heard her. If so, he gave no indication.

  “I love you,” she told him before she kissed him on his flaccid mouth. He did not kiss her back. “Don’t give up.” She stood, squeezed his hand one last time, and said, “You get some rest now. I’ll be back soon.”

  She opened the door, once again hearing the loud, long squeal of the old iron hinges. Helen didn’t glance back to underscore Oliver’s near-rigor mortis.

  Steven returned to his seat by Oliver’s bedside. She stood in the corridor to gather her composure and then made her way to the living room.

  “You look like hell,” Frank told her.

  He offered the faux irreverence, she knew, as a token of normalcy in a seriously abnormal situation.

  “You really know how to flatter a woman,” she joked back. “I’m beginning to understand why you’re not married.” She glanced around the room, saw the fresh pot of coffee she’d requested and poured herself a mug full. “In law school, I used to drink coffee all night for two or three days in a row.”

  “You were a lot younger back then.” Frank poured himself a mug of the strong brew and joined her at the desk.

  She’d opened the laptop and pulled the crime scene files up, intending to return to the task she’d been involved with before Jess arrived several hours ago. She knew so many things that the investigators, although good at their jobs, would never know. It was essential that she review every piece of the situation herself. “Our guests are all snug in their beds?”

  “Visions of sugar plums and all that,” Frank said. This time, he won a laugh from her. “It’s nice to see you still have a sense of humor.”

  Helen sighed. “I guess. Have a seat. I want to talk about where we are and what will happen tomorrow—” she looked at the clock above the mantel, saw that it was after 3:00 a.m. “—later today.”

  “It’s a little out of FDLE jurisdiction since you’re not going, but I’ve already requested a detail to attend the Taylor funeral. Mac needs the help. He’s shorthanded.”

  “And keep an eye on Jess as well. She’s supposed to come back here immediately after the burial. We need to know where she is every minute.” Helen trusted Jess to keep her promises, but unexpected things had a way of happening in this case and to the young woman.

  “She’s pretty high profile right now. Hard to believe anyone would try to harm her tomorrow,” Frank pointed out.

  “Ordinarily, I’d agree. But I thought that about my son and my husband, too, and it’s not a mistake I intend to make again.”

  They sat for a few moments in silence while Helen made her choices. Frank had been present for the discussions tonight about the contents of Jess’s box. She didn’t need to fill him in on those facts. Or the problems those facts and the evidence presented.

  “Tomorrow is Sunday, two days before Christmas,” she said. She felt mentally slowed by fatigue despite the caffeine and her assurances to the contrary. She regretted having drunk any wine earlier. “That’s the good news and the bad news. People will be busy with holiday tasks, law enforcement crews are lighter, government offices closed until Thursday.”

  Frank said, “I’ve asked for the Crawford case DNA to be expedited, but it’ll be Monday at the earliest before we get any kind of results. Depending on the quality of those samples. Could take longer.”

  “Right.”

  “It’s an old crime, Helen. A stone cold case. There’s no rush. And we’ve got a lot of other things to do.”

  “You’re right. So things are in motion and there’s nothing else to do for the moment except wait. If the DNA is Taylor’s we have no problem. If it’s not . . . ” her voice trailed off.

  “Let’s not go there if we don’t have to,” Frank said.

  She realized he’d been indulging her need to control the investigations and decisions made in all of the cases, but he steered her in the right direction whenever she strayed too far off the path he and his supervisors thought prudent.

  Helen agreed. She knew she was using the Taylor mess to avoid her own situation. She took a deep breath. “How much more work do the crime-scene techs have to do on the arson and Todd Dale?”

  “They’ve finished the preliminary stuff. You’ve got full reports, with pictures and video, on your laptop. We loaded the updates while you were busy earlier.”

  “What about the ski mask? Is the DNA back?”

  “Preliminary. Doesn’t match anyone in the system. But there’s no reason for a ski mask to be on the property unless it was dropped by the arsonist, so we’re assuming the DNA is his. Now we need to find someone to match it to.” He stretched his legs out, leaned back in the chair, and drank the coffee. “Oh, it’s not Todd Dale’s. We checked that, too.”

  “So Todd’s either
off the hook or he had an accomplice,” she said.

  “Or someone could have planted the ski mask to throw us off the track.”

  “Right.”

  Helen waited a moment before she asked her next question. “Have you reviewed the files on Eric’s crash for any connection?”

  Frank nodded. “Those are loaded on your laptop, too.”

  “And?”

  “No new ideas at the moment. We’re looking at everything two ways, as if the crimes are connected and as if they’re not. It’s prudent to believe everything is connected but we have nothing to prove the theory.” Frank ran a wide hand over his close cropped hair, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, hands clasped together. Helen could feel his frustration. “The three victims we’re discussing, Eric, Oliver, and Todd Dale, have nothing relevant in common as far as we know, except you.”

  Uncharacteristically, Frank looked away from her at that moment. He seemed reluctant to meet her gaze.

  “What?” she said. “There’s something else you’re not telling me. Out with it.”

  He exhaled a breath from deep in his belly and told her bluntly, “Oliver might have tried to kill himself, Helen. We found a note he left for you when we were securing the house a few hours ago.”

  “No!” Helen jumped out of the chair and began to pace the room. “That’s outrageous. Oliver would never do that. Never! He wasn’t strong enough to set those fires himself. Or harm Todd. Not that he ever would!” Suddenly spent, she dropped back into the chair.

  “All I’m saying is that it looks like Oliver’s handwriting on the note. His fingerprints are all over it. The pen and paper are from his desk. We checked. There’s a copy of the note and the test results with the other reports loaded on your laptop.” Frank’s tone was quiet, sorrowful, but certain. “I’m not saying he did anything else, believe me. But the note was his.”