“I’ve been to all the big firms,” she explained. “In Tulsa and in Oklahoma City. They all said no, because—”
“I know why they said no.” Ben gingerly laid the photos down on his desk
“If you’ll agree to take us on, I’ll help in any way I can. I’ll do anything you want.”
“I know.”
“So?” She leaned forward eagerly. “Will you do it?”
Ben drew in a deep breath, then slowly released it. It seemed like an eternity before he answered, both to Cecily and to Ben himself. “I want to meet the other parents.”
He had waited long enough. The lights in the house had been out for more than an hour now. There had been no sounds, no movement, not the slightest indication that anyone was awake. True, it might be safer to wait another hour or so; it was only eleven o"clock. But he was ready now, and when he was ready, he was ready. It was difficult to explain. It was a tingling at the base of his spine, an itching at the back of his eyeballs. A sixth sense, if you will. It was like that passage in the Bible, in Ecclesiastes: There was a time for everything.
This was the time to kill.
Quietly, using maximum stealth, he crept out of the alleyway between houses toward the front door of a large two-story Tudor-style home. He kept to the shadows; only his piercing green eyes shone in the darkness. He tiptoed up the steps to the front door.
Which was locked. As he had known it would be. He had learned some time ago that the key to success in this world was advance research. He had planned this outing well, well enough to know that the door would be locked. He also knew how to get around that.
From an inside coat pocket he withdrew a palm-size glass cutter. He attached the suction cup to the window panel on the left side of the door, close to the lock. He extended the string to its full length, then carefully drew a circle with the diamond stylus. He repeated the motion, again and again, cutting a smooth, round section of glass. When that was finished, he grasped the handle on the suction cup and removed the circular section of glass.
Voilà! Smooth as a baby’s bottom.
He reached through the new opening in the glass and slid out the chain lock. He gave the doorknob a little twist, popping open the lock.
There was still the matter of the dead bolt. Reaching inside his coat once more, he removed a stainless steel lock pick. He had acquired this baby during his last trip to D.C. He loved it. It resembled a Swiss army knife, except the various blades were all picks designed for a variety of different locks. He chose the two most appropriate for this door and started to work.
Two minutes later, he was inside. The lights were out, but moonlight streamed through the bay windows, making it easy to find his way around. He located the staircase almost immediately. As he knew, all the bedrooms were upstairs.
There were three people in the house, not counting himself: Harvey, Harvey’s wife, and their fifteen-year-old son, the junior high track star. At the top of the stairs, he quietly crossed over to the first bedroom, carefully creeping, to use Sandburg’s phrase, on tiny cat feet. He soundlessly pushed open the door.
The boy was asleep in bed, on top of the covers, wearing nothing but a ratty pair of gym shorts. He had no grudge against this boy, and there was nothing the boy could tell him. Unfortunately, the kid was young and strong, and if he awoke during the subsequent proceedings, there was a tremendous possibility that he could create problems. It was an unacceptable risk.
The man reached into his overcoat pocket and this time withdrew a Sig Sauer .357. He walked to the edge of the bed, aimed it at the boy’s head, and fired.
Bang-bang, he thought, adding the sounds his silencer-equipped gun did not. You’re dead.
The boy twitched spasmodically as the bullet hit his skull, like a laboratory frog touched by an electrode. After that, he settled down, never to move again.
The man stood for a moment, admiring his handiwork. There was very little blood, since the boy had died immediately. The only suggestion of how he had met his demise came from the almost perfectly round red circle in the center of his forehead. It was a rather attractive addition, in its own way. Ornamental. Like something that might be required by an Eastern religion or something.
But enough ruminating. He had more work to do. He turned and moved rapidly out of the boy’s bedroom.
Too rapidly, as it happened. His right leg caught on a metal trash can, knocking it over. It clattered down on the hardwood floor. Not a huge noise, but in this absolutely tranquil house, it seemed deafening.
He heard a rustling sound at the other end of the hallway, in the other bedroom. Someone was awake, which was unfortunate.
He raced down the hallway, caution to the wind. It didn’t matter whether they heard him now; they knew he was coming. He flung open the bedroom door, his gun raised and poised, ready to go.
There was a woman sitting in the bed, slightly upright, her head resting against several large pillows. She had dark hair and a hard set to her jaw. Her eyes were open.
The man knew that she was Harvey’s wife. He also knew that she was an invalid, that she could only move slowly, and barely that. She wasn’t going anywhere.
He approached the bed, keeping his gun pointed at her brain. He didn’t stop until he stood directly in front of her at the foot of the bed.
“Where’s Harvey?” he said, gun still at the ready.
The woman stared back at him with cold eyes. “He’s out of town.”
He could still see the slight depression on the other side of the bed. A hand to the sheets told him they were still warm. “Tell me where he is.”
“Cincinnati,” she replied. “He’s staying at a hotel. I can’t think of the name. Saint Something or other.”
He shot her in the kneecap. After the initial shock subsided and her cries of pain diminished enough that he could be heard, he aimed his gun at her other kneecap and asked her again. “Where’s Harvey?”
Needless to say, she told him.
Chapter 3
THE OTHER PARENTS GATHERED in Ben Kincaid’s office shortly after noon. Their hometown, Blackwood, was in Tulsa County, a thirty-minute drive from downtown Tulsa, and they all agreed to come when Cecily called them.
“There were eleven?” Ben said, as he studied the faces before him. Cecily had told him there were others, but he never dreamed there could be so many. “Eleven.”
It was true. Eleven sets of parents, all of whom had recently lost a child between the ages of eight and fifteen to leukemia. For more than two hours, Ben listened to their stories, all told simply and undramatically, and all of them heart-wrenching just the same.
Cecily told Ben about her son, Billy, how he had been diagnosed with leukemia when he was twelve, how they’d fought it with drugs and radiation and chemotherapy, twice pushing the cancer into remission, only to lose finally at the end of a struggle that took more than two years. She told him about her last frenzied race to the hospital, how Billy had died during the drive, how she had attempted to revive him, crying and pleading, all to no avail.
“I tried everything I knew to bring him back. Everything. I would have gladly changed places with him, given my life for his. But it didn’t help. My baby boy was gone. And there was nothing I could do about it.”
Margaret Swanson told Ben about her son Donald, who was a star soccer player at Will Rogers Elementary. When the bruises first began to appear, Margaret assumed they were sports injuries; after all, soccer was a rough-and-tumble sport. When they didn’t go away, she began to suspect other causes. Their ordeal lasted almost three years. Donald endured more than a hundred blood tests, more than two dozen bone marrow aspirations. He spent the entire last year of his life in the hospital. But the end result was the same.