Page 17 of The List
He was surprised by her defense of him. “I thought you women stuck together.”
“I’m not condoning what you did, only saying Loretta didn’t necessarily have to do what she did, either.”
“Turnabout’s fair play.”
“I don’t think the Lord views it that way.”
“Thou shall not commit adultery.”
“Forgiveness is a duty. Luke 17:4, I believe.”
He smiled. “I never realized you were such a biblical scholar.”
“I have many talents you may not be aware of.”
Catherine Walker had always been an interesting woman.
But right now his daughter was the major concern.
“One reason I think Ashley stuck with me was because of her own situation. She hadn’t been the best wife to three men either.
I think she understood what failure in marriage meant. That duty of forgiveness, as you say.”
He’d often thought both he and his daughter were cursed with an inability to find what their hearts truly desired.
Ashley had promised her mother that she’d look after him, Loretta grateful that her daughter would finish what she’d been unwilling to do.
The minister who married them long ago had said, “ Till death do you part ,” yet religious fervor could not compensate for the toll deceit took on the heart.
That point of no return when emotions gestated from love to hate, respect to loathing, caring to indifference.
His former wife was now bonded to another man and another life.
Every week he preached the gospel to his Sunday school class.
Too bad he never learned to practice what he preached until it was far too late.
“I want you to know,” he said, “that I don’t think there’s been anything sexual at all between Brent and Ashley for a long, long time. They’re both better than that. But the feeling between them seems real. And Paula was aware of that situation.”
“I know that.”
He was surprised. “Mind if I ask how?”
“She talked to me once about it. Paula could be quite difficult. That much was clear. She was hard to please, and she never really concerned herself with anyone else’s feelings. It’s amazing she was like that at all. Small-town girl from a down-to-earth family. Her parents were good people.”
“Except they killed themselves.”
Catherine stared beyond the railing. “I often wondered about the pain I saw in Brent’s eyes. He tried hard to conceal it, but I could see it there.”
“Ashley had her share, too. I think she tried to forget with three husbands. Those were mistakes that should have never happened.”
“But she has Lori Anne. What a darling girl. How old is she now?”
“Twelve, and she runs us to death.”
“I bet her granddaddy spoils her?”
“Every chance I get.”
He hesitated, deciding best how to finish what he started. Damn Ashley. This should have been done years ago.
He sucked a deep breath.
“There’s something else.”
10:37 A.M.
F RANK B ARNARD STARED AT THE LOG CABIN, TWELVE HUNDRED square feet under the roof in the woods of west Georgia, the muddy Chattahoochee River in sight.
He knew the history of Priority Number 6.
Melvin Bennett bought the property in his forties, made payments until his fifties, then built the cabin in his early sixties.
Two weeks after retiring from Southern Republic Pulp and Paper Company, Bennett and his wife packed a moving van and drove two hundred miles west from Woods County, across Georgia, spending the past two years quietly beside the Chattahoochee within sight of Alabama.
He also knew how many and how far away Melvin Bennett’s neighbors lived.
He likewise knew the Harris County Sheriff’s Department did not make regular patrols, and the nearest hospital was forty miles away.
He’d arrived last night and, to supplement the file, spent most of the evening doing on-site surveillance.
Afterward, back in his motel room, he studied the information in more detail.
Relatively healthy, Melvin Bennett was concerned only with a long-standing diabetic condition and a peanut allergy.
Though he was insulin-dependent, no major problems presently existed from the disease.
As for the allergy, he maintained a running prescription for an epinephrine auto-injector, which he kept nearby in case of emergency.
De Florio’s notes in the file suggested a processing consistent with that allergy.
But devising a method to accomplish that, while at the same time not raising any suspicion, had taken thought.
He considered himself a consummate professional.
Nearly five years he’d worked for De Florio, performing flawlessly.
He’d traveled all over the country, twice to Canada and once to Mexico, processing Priorities under the most varied of circumstances.
Only a small percentage of Priorities lived in and around Concord.
Most moved away at retirement to be closer to family.
Some sought the warmth of Florida or the coolness of the mountains.
Distance aided processing and allowed for a diversified pattern.
Rule expressly provided that people who lived in and around Woods County could be Prioritized only on a staggered basis so as not to attract undue attention.
He was well aware of De Florio’s rise from associate to chief of security.
He wanted to one day follow in that path.
He certainly didn’t want to end up like Milo Richey.
But Richey had screwed up and, in this business, there were no second chances.
Especially for an ambitious associate looking to get ahead.
But first things first.
Melvin Bennett’s untimely death.
When he’d entered Bennett’s cabin last night after the elder man went out, he discovered that Bennett’s wife was out of town, her sister’s telephone number tacked to the refrigerator door, a message on the answering machine checking on Bennett ending with love and “ I’ll see you Saturday .
” Knowing Bennett would be alone for the next two days, he’d finalized the method of processing, then telephoned De Florio and cleared everything, even receiving a compliment on his ingenuity.
Now he was back.
Watching from the thickets that engulfed the cabin as Melvin Bennett bolted out the front door carrying a fishing rod and tackle box.
Bennett headed straight for a small skiff tied to an aging dock.
No time was taken to lock the front door.
The file indicated that Bennett liked to say that if somebody broke in, he sure as hell wasn’t going to have a door to fix too.
So he never locked anything. The outboard roared to life and Bennett started upstream for what the file noted as his usual Thursday afternoon of solitary fishing .
Once the man was out of sight Barnard immediately entered the cabin.
He went directly to the kitchen and popped open the refrigerator.
Lining the shelf inside the door, exactly where the file said, stood four vials of insulin.
Through gloved fingers he examined each.
All full, their plastic seals intact—except one.
Half full. Obviously the one currently in use.
He carried the used vial to the sink, then removed an empty syringe from his pocket.
Puncturing the rubber seal with the long needle, he worked the plunger, slowly siphoning a full syringe, expelling the medicine down the drain.
He repeated the process two more times until the vial was empty.
From another pocket he found a bottle of saline mixed with arachis oil.
Essence of peanut.
He filled the syringe and injected the contents. He repeated the process until the vial returned to its original half-full level. The only difference, now it contained salt water and poison instead of life-giving insulin.
He rinsed the sink thoroughly and replaced the tampered-with vial in the refrigerator.
Eight hours later when Melvin Bennett injected himself he’d notice little.
But within a few moments he should be in shock.
The high concentrations would hit in an instant.
To make sure there would be no heroics, he unplugged the house phone from its jack.
There’d be no cell phone calls either, as he would be outside, close by, with a jammer working.
By morning Melvin Bennett would be dead.
All he’d have to do was maintain a vigil and confirm the inevitable.
12:04 P.M.
B RENT SCOOTED OUT OF THE MILL AND DROVE STRAIGHT INTO Concord. He had a general idea where to look, and it took only a few minutes to spot the boxy white van with its distinctive red, white, and blue markings. It was stopped in the opposite lane next to a dilapidated aluminum mailbox.
He pulled the Jeep up beside.
Ashley glanced to her left and instantly reacted, slamming the gearshift into park and jumping out of the right-hand seat.
Without saying a word she opened the driver’s door and climbed into his lap, kissing him long and hard, one of her Grand Canyon kisses as she liked to call them.
Suddenly, he wasn’t sitting in his father’s Jeep on a tree-lined drive three blocks over from his parents’ house.
He was back in high school. Over twenty years ago.
In the front seat of his ’65 Ford Galaxy.
At Eagle Lake.
“Why’d you do that?” he asked, when they stopped kissing.
“You didn’t like it?” Ashley said.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You worried about another girl?”
“Not particularly. I’m not going steady.”
To emphasize the point, he displayed the senior ring still on his finger. “You, on the other hand, do have a problem.”
He motioned to the chunk of gold and topaz held in place by a rubber band. It belonged to a two-letter jock who played center field in baseball and guard for the basketball team. Whom he doubted would appreciate having his girl kissed.
“You worried about him?” she asked, unconcerned.
He didn’t want to be used as a way to make a boyfriend jealous. “Should I be?”
“I’m not.”