Jess had seen victims of shock many times, recognized it in Vivian, she thought. The flat affect and lack of emotion that sometimes accompanied the receipt of terrible news. Unfortunately, the numbness didn't last forever. How much more tragedy could Vivian handle? After Tommy Taylor was executed, would she fall apart?
“Manson wasn't hurt.”
“Too bad,” Vivian said, continuing to play the game. The stark words struck Jess like a sucker punch. In all her prior interviews with Vivian, Jess believed her an irretrievably broken spirit, but not vindictive and never less than compassionate.
“Why did Arnold do this, Vivian? Do you know?”
“To stop Manson from getting Tommy Taylor out of prison with his new DNA evidence, what else?” Vivian's matter-of-fact explanation might have been a description of the IRS tax code. No concern entered her tone. She spoke as if the answer was obvious. And it was anything but.
“What evidence, Vivian? There is no new evidence. The governor told me that herself. Taylor's going to die tomorrow. He's run out of rope. That's it. He's done.”
Jess felt her anger growing. It was just like Manson to goad Arnold into attempted murder by pretending to have new evidence that didn't existâand the Wards' lousy luck for Manson to survive while a good man like Arnold died.
“Oh, there's evidence all right,” Vivian said, continuing to play with the cards. “Always has been. Or at least, there was.”
Jess was confused. Had Vivian lost her mind? Was the pressure, once and for all, more than she could take? Jess watched Vivian's face for signs of madness, but if insanity dwelled within her, its existence was well concealed.
“That can't be right,” said Jess. “Arnold testified at all three of Taylor's trials. He was examined and cross-examined. If he'd known about any other evidence, it would have come out back then.”
Vivian didn't argue. She raised her eyebrows, tilted her head to one side and flipped over another set of cards. She took a last drag on the cigarette and pulled the butt out of her mouth long enough to replace it with a new cigarette and light it from the still smoldering butt before she crushed and twisted it down hard into the ashtray, knocking every last tobacco ember out of the filter.
“Gotta be careful. Land's as dry as tinder out there. They been fighting little wild fires all around these parts the past few weeks.” She picked up the deck and continued the game.
Jess thought back to Arnold Ward's testimony. At all three trials, his testimony had been consistent â and sufficient to convict Taylor in the end: Arnold had been watching Taylor's house for hours, a long, lonely vigil, when he saw Taylor walk around from the back yard, the red tip of a cigarette dangling from Taylor's lips and glowing in the dark.
As he neared the streetlights, Arnold saw that Taylor was carrying Matthew Crawford's body.
Taylor struggled to open the trunk of his car and then bent over to put the body inside. When he stood upright, the glowing cigarette ember was gone.
Taylor bent over again and looked into the trunk, rummaging around for something, then closed the lid. Arnold waited until Taylor went into the house and then he drove to the nearest pay phone and called the police.
It was a straightforward account. No variation. The same story, each time he told it, consistent with the statement he gave to the police, the defense investigators, and the reporters.
Jess wondered whether the story was
too
consistent. “Did Arnold lie? Is that it?”
Vivian let the smoke out of the corner of her mouth. “Lies don't hold no DNA,” she said. She studied the layout of the cards.
So Arnold lied. But about what? Jess remembered the protesters' chanting this afternoon. “
DNA. DNA. DNA
.” She tried another tack. “Something physical? A piece of trace? Is that what it was?”
Again, Vivian didn't respond, leaving Jess to work it out for herself. She thought back to the physical evidence presented at the trial.
Unlike Taylor's other victims, Matthew Crawford, Jr. hadn't been sexually molested or tortured. His body was found lying on his back, as if he'd been sleeping peacefully in Taylor's trunk. The medical examiner testified that Mattie died of strangulation. Pictures and charts depicted bruises around his throat consistent with Taylor's grasp.
Mattie's cotton Superman pajamas and underwear were admitted into evidence, although they proved nothing except his youth and innocence. Taylor's blue jeans, red t-shirt, sneakers, white boxers and socks were admitted, too.
There were only three other items Jess could remember: two hairs without the roots attached that had been found on Mattie's pajamas. And under the boy's bodyâshe glanced at the overflowing ashtray next to Vivian's chairâa cigarette butt matching the brand that Taylor smoked.
But none of these contained any usable DNA evidence that linked either Taylor or anyone else to the crime. In addition, upon successful objection by the defense attorney, the hairs had been excluded from evidence. The cigarette butt proved nothing except to corroborate Arnold's eye witness account. After all, the car belonged to Taylor and finding one of his cigarette butts in the trunk was hardly incriminating. Besides, Taylor's lawyers were able to keep the butt from the jury, too.
Since these items had not been admitted into evidence, they would not have become a part of the court's files. They were most likely were returned to the police and from there, probably destroyed.
While writing her article, Jess had gone over all of it in her head, in her notes, including the last time she'd interviewed Arnold and the prosecutors. She could think of no other possibilities.
Governor Sullivan claimed there was no new evidence, and she would have used any legitimate excuse to stay Taylor's execution. If there had been new evidence, Helen would have been all over it. Whatever else Helen Sullivan was, the woman's reputation as a truth-teller was absolute. Jess believed her without reservation.
So what the hell was Vivian talking about?
“Do you mean the hairs? The cigarette butt? But those items didn't prove anything. And anyway, they were lost years ago.” Vivian narrowed her eyes against the trailing smoke and threw the cards onto the table again when she'd lost yet another game.
How many nights had she spent like this? Playing solitaire, smoking, ruminating on her life's tragedies? Maybe Vivian really was insane after all. The thought that she might be sitting across from true madness gave Jess gooseflesh. She rubbed her hands up and down her bare arms to warm them.
Vivian's eyes narrowed further and her gaze bored into Jess's. “That so? Lost? You sure?”
“Yes,” Jess responded. “I'm sure. I've run this down. But even if the hairs and the cigarette butt were found today, the DNA they contain, assuming it could be analyzed, wouldn't prove Taylor innocent. Maybe he'd get a new trial, a reprieve, but he'd be convicted again. All of the other evidence is way too strong.”
Jess heard her own urgency and understood why she felt she needed to be right about this. She wasn't Taylor's lawyer. She wasn't on Manson's side. Taylor'd had many competent crusaders over the years and none had been able to save him. Nor did Jess think he should be saved.
But if Taylor hadn't actually killed Mattie Crawford, then who had?
“Oh,” said Vivian, “well, if you're sure, then there's no problem, right? I guess Arnold was just a crazy old bastard after all.” She laughed a little bit as she picked up a fresh cigarette and lit it with the remains of the last one. The laugh caused her to cough, and the raspy, hard coughing went on for several seconds. She spit pinkish sputum into the paper cup she kept nearby for the purpose and looked up at Jess as she took another drag on the cigarette.
Then she winked.
Chapter Seven
Thornberry, Florida
Thursday 8:45 p.m.
FROM HIS COMFORTABLE SEAT in the crotch of the live oak tree a hundred yards between the ranch house and the barn, he was invisible.
He couldn't see the fire developing inside the barn, but once the smoke began to curl out through the windows and air vents in the building, he watched.
Through the night-vision goggles, only green tint of the image distinguished his view from what he could have seen in full daylight.
The horses cried in high pitched, continuous whinnies that sent a shiver down his spine. All six of them panicked together increasing the volume of the eerie shrieks that resembled human voices.
Smoke wafted toward him and he imagined he could feel the heat even perched at a safe distance from the fire.
He planned to be long gone before the scent of roasting horses filled the air, but would the aroma resemble grilled pork or beef? In some cultures, people ate horsemeat. He'd eaten rattlesnake once, which really did taste like chicken. He wondered how horse would taste.
A glance at his watch. Timing was everything. Seconds could make the difference between success and failure. He wanted Helen to be there, to experience Jake's death, and Oliver's, too. She was too strong to succumb if she merely discovered their deaths second-hand, a lesson he'd learned with Eric.
The fire was still contained inside the barn. Once it broke through, the living fire could gulp oxygen, expanding and flourishing until it consumed everything.
Maybe he should have left the back door open to speed things along. He made a mental note of it. Practice and preparation never substituted for actual experience.
Turning his head toward the ranch house, he saw that the windows were open and only the screen covered the front door. The odor of smoke and the horses' cries should have reached Oliver. He couldn't be sleeping. When would he come out? Oliver wouldn't fail to try to save Jake, of that the man was absolutely certain.
Suddenly he saw Oliver struggle out of the screen door and onto the porch, nearly tumbling down the front steps, using the cane, dragging his leg. He had to stop to reach into his pocket and pull out the cell phone.
A small smile tilted the corner of his mouth as he watched Oliver call Helen. So predictable. He had counted on precisely this outcome. To be absolutely certain, the man had eliminated Oliver's alternatives, making sure Todd Dale wouldn't be available tonight. Yes, everything was unfolding as planned.
He frowned a bit when he saw Oliver throw down the phone and continue to struggle toward the barn. What happened? Didn't he reach Helen? Or the fire department?
He began to perspire anew. He'd counted on a fast response from Thornberry's finest for its number-one citizen. Florida was experiencing a multi-year drought and wildfires had to be promptly extinguished. He didn't want to burn down the entire ranch. Just the barn.
In truth, his escape plan depended upon all attention being focused on extinguishing the fire.
Briefly, he considered calling the fire station himself. No. Too risky. He'd have to assume that Oliver or someone else would do it. He began to think about getting away if the breeze carried the fire in his direction and blocked his retreat.
He checked on Oliver again, watched him hobble toward the barn, then fall into the dirt.
The visual reminder of his own fall and sprained ankle caused the throbbing in his left leg to intensify. He reached down and rubbed the ankle as he watched Oliver's brave but futile rescue attempt.
Having dropped his cane, Oliver crawled slowly toward the barn, dragging himself along as best he could with his useless left arm, yelling something.
The man strained to hear the words. “Jake! I'm coming!” That's what it sounded like.
Oliver reached the door of the barn and grabbed the handle, cried out and jerked back.
He imagined he could hear Oliver's flesh sizzle and the pain of the burn on his palm. He rubbed his gloved hands together as if his own flesh were tender, blistered and swollen.
Oliver collapsed onto the dirt. He lay there, not moving.
The man in the tree glanced briefly away from Oliver's writhing and noticed that flames licked out of the space beneath the doors and lapped up the sides of the barn.
The fire wanted to escape, to be free. Soon the entire barn would be ablaze.
He glanced at the illuminated dial on his watch again. Had Oliver reached Helen or not? Where were the firefighters?
This wasn't going the way he planned it. Not at all. Oliver was supposed to die in her arms. She was supposed to feel impotent to save him.
At the least, she had to be there to discover Oliver while he was still recognizable. It wouldn't do to have her find Oliver on a steel slab in the morgue looking like charred beef.
He considered his options briefly. He had to act immediately or the entire plan would fail.
He slipped down out of the tree, careful to land solidly on his right foot and leg, absorbing his body weight without pressure to his own injured left limb.
He hopped on his right foot, steadying himself with his left foot and wincing each time he put too much weight on the ankle. He moved as quickly as possible to Oliver's inert body.