The Million Dollar Demise Read online

  Looking up in the rearview, he had no idea why in the hell he was being stopped. Had they already found out about the bodies in Chicago? Against the glare of the bright police lights, Freddy saw the silhouette as an officer got out of the car and started walking toward him.

  There’s just one man, Freddy told himself. He shouldn’t be much trouble. But Freddy would have to act quick, catch him by surprise. And most important of all, not miss.

  The officer sidled up cautiously beside Freddy’s door. His hand was on his gun, but it was not drawn.

  “Put your hands where I can see them, sir,” the officer said, a twang in his voice. “I’ll need to see your license and registration.”

  Freddy didn’t look at the officer. His eyes were still directed out the front window. “Can you tell me why you stopped me, Officer?”

  “I’m asking the questions here, son. License and registration.”

  “They’re in the glove box. Can I get them?”

  “Slowly,” the officer said.

  With one seamless motion, Freddy lifted the gun, whirled it in the direction of the officer, aimed at the man’s head, and fired off a single shot. The bullet bore through the front of the officer’s wide-brimmed hat, then tore through his skull, exploding out the back of his head. Freddy’s victim stood on his feet for a moment longer, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging open, then he fell slowly backward.

  Freddy’s feet were on the ground before the man hit the pavement.

  He checked the backseat to see if the boy had been awakened. Of course he had been. Nathaniel was looking around and starting to cry. But Freddy had to move quickly. He didn’t need a car driving by and spotting him.

  Freddy stepped over the officer’s body and ran back to the police cruiser. He pulled his sleeve over his hand, careful not to leave his prints, then whipped open the driver’s-side door. He climbed into the car, scanned the dash for a camera of some sort. He knew that a lot of police cars had video these days to tape the stops.

  Freddy didn’t see anything of the sort. He checked again, just in case. Satisfied, he climbed out of the car. He stopped, looked down at the officer. His skull was haloed by a circle of blood. Freddy kicked him hard to make sure he was indeed dead. The man didn’t move.

  Freddy jumped back in his car, slammed the door, and brought the engine to life.

  As he sped onto the dark road, he told himself he hadn’t wanted that to happen. After killing his own father, Freddy had told himself he never wanted to kill again. But Mr. Kenny had forced him down this path with all the evil things that man had done to him. No, he hadn’t wanted to kill the officer. So this body belonged to Nate Kenny, not Freddy.

  10

  Lewis Waters sat in the courtroom wearing the faded gray trousers and DOC collared shirt the jail provided him. It was a small, cheaply wood-paneled room, filled with other inmates and their family members. It was seven-thirty A.M. Lewis looked over his shoulder. He had expected to see Nate and Monica sitting somewhere in the room. They hadn’t arrived.

  “Where are they? Aren’t they supposed to be here?” Lewis said to his public defender, Larry Charles.

  “Yeah.” Larry glanced down at his watch. He looked over at the opposing attorney, stood, then leaned over to Lewis and whispered, “I’ll be back.”

  Lewis watched Larry as he stepped across the aisle. He spoke to a man Lewis assumed was Monica’s attorney—distinguished, slightly wrinkled, graying around the temples. The man hunched his shoulders at a question Larry asked, then Larry turned back and walked toward Lewis, smiling.

  “What happened?” Lewis said. No, he was in no rush to sit while Monica practically slammed the gate shut on his cell, but he was bothered by the fact that she wasn’t here yet. And even under these jacked-up circumstances, he was kind of looking forward to seeing her.

  “Give me a minute,” Larry said, still smiling, holding a finger up before Lewis.

  He turned to face the judge at the front of the room and said, “Your Honor, my client sits here, patiently awaiting his day in court, but if his accusers do not show, shouldn’t he be set free?”

  “Judge—” Monica’s attorney began, leaning forward on the desk before him.

  “Hold on, Mr. Charles,” the judge, a heavy brown man with curly hair and a trimmed beard, said. “Do we know where your clients are?” he asked, speaking to the opposing attorney.

  Mr. Kennedy smiled thinly. “I’ve tried reaching them at their numbers, but I can’t get hold of them.”

  “Your Honor, if no one is here to press charges, then there is nothing more to do but release my client,” Lewis’s attorney said.

  The judge narrowed his eyes on Larry, then said, “Nice try, Mr. Charles. What I’ll do,” he continued, speaking to Mr. Kennedy now, “is I’ll give your clients till tomorrow to appear. If there is no one here by then to bring charges against this man, then all charges will be dropped.”

  11

  Freddy stood outside on a slope of grass, staring out on a small, man-made body of water surrounded by trees. It was morning. The sun had come up some time ago, and it was already warm out. He guessed it was because he was so far south, about halfway through Tennessee. The shit was beautiful. That moment Freddy felt at peace. He knew in the near future all hell was going to let loose on him, but at that moment, staring out at those trees, hearing the birds chirping in the branches overhead, he felt more at peace than he had in years. The moment was ruined by Nathaniel’s whining.

  “I want my daddy,” the boy said.

  “You’re gonna see your daddy. That’s where we’re going.”

  “But you hurt my daddy,” the boy said, looking up at Freddy with huge tear-shiny black eyes.

  Damn, Freddy thought. He remembered hearing that sometimes when kids saw something tragic, it messed with their brains so much that they just forgot it. He had been hoping that that had happened to this boy, because although Freddy had wanted Nate dead, he’d had no intention of doing it right there in front of his kid.

  “Don’t you worry,” Freddy said, rubbing a hand across the child’s curly hair, and with the other pulling a candy bar out of his jeans pocket. “Your daddy is gonna be fine, as long as you stop crying. You hear me?”

  Freddy held the candy bar out in front of the boy’s face. Little Nathaniel wiped his cheeks with his fingertips, nodded his head, and reached for the candy bar.

  “Good,” Freddy said. “Now eat that, and don’t start crying, ’cause I got to make a phone call.”

  After dialing the number, Freddy took a few steps away from the child, who was so involved with his candy bar that he didn’t seem to mind.

  “Cook County Department of Corrections. This is Officer Hardimon. Can I help you?”

  “Yeah,” Freddy said, now ten feet away from Nathaniel but keeping an eye on him. “I need to speak to an inmate.”

  “Name?” the officer said, her tone curt.

  “Waters. First name Lewis.”

  “Your name?”

  “Freddy Ford.”

  Freddy was placed on hold. Almost a full five minutes later, he heard Lewis come on the line and say, “I thought I told you not to contact me no more.”

  It pained Freddy to hear Lewis speak like that to him. They had been so tight for so long. Not anymore.

  “Don’t hang up on me, man. I got something to say.”

  “I already heard all you gotta say.”

  “Just hear me out.”

  “Fuck you, Freddy. Don’t call—”

  Freddy knew Lewis was going to hang up and never take another one of his calls, so he blurted out, “I took care of him for you.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Took care of who?” Lewis finally said.

  “That motherfucker who did this to us.”

  “The only motherfucker that did anything to me was you. Who you talking about, and what did you do?”

  Freddy glanced at Nathaniel. The boy was still into that chocolate bar. It w
as all over his face and hands.

  “Nate,” Freddy said, his voice lowered. “I told you I was gonna take care of him, and I did.”

  “What did you do?” Lewis said, seriousness in his voice.

  “What you think?”

  “Tell me, or I’m hangin’ up this—”

  “Shot him, man,” Freddy said. “I killed him.”

  Inside that jail, Lewis was staring right in the face of a guard when he heard what Freddy said. He turned his back to the big man, lowered his voice. “You ain’t do that, Freddy. Say that you ain’t do it.”

  “We used to be best friends. He used me against you, and now—I had to,” Freddy said, the slightest bit of regret in his voice.

  Lewis all of a sudden felt sick. He didn’t like Nate, couldn’t stand the man, actually. But to think that he was dead, gunned down by the man Lewis used to love as a brother … He felt sorry for Nate. A second later, Lewis’s heart was racing.

  “Where did you do it?” Lewis asked urgently.

  “At his house.”

  The phone was now wet in Lewis’s hand as he prepared to ask the next question. He closed his eyes, prayed as the words left his lips.

  “Where was Monica?”

  Freddy said nothing. He wondered just how to go about this. Tell him the truth and Lewis would be pissed. But they weren’t friends anymore anyway. Besides, lying was what had gotten him into this with Lewis in the first place, so might as well just tell him the truth. “I ain’t know she was there, man.”

  “What are you talking about?” Lewis said, the phone tight in his grip, pressed tight to his face.

  “The gun was in my hand. My adrenaline was up and shit, and she pop out of nowhere, scare me, and—”

  “And what? You did what?” Lewis said, now yelling into the phone. The guard was in his face, told him something about how he would have to quiet down or else. But Lewis barely heard him, he was listening so intently for Freddy’s next words.

  “I ain’t mean to, Lewis. But I shot her, too.”

  Freddy heard loud yelling as he pulled the phone from his ear and pushed the End button.

  “C’mon, boy,” he said to Nathaniel, walking over, placing his palm to the back of the boy’s head, and directing him toward the car.

  12

  Daphanie was a slender woman, with brown hair she’d recently had cut to shoulder-length. Men called her beautiful, but she considered herself just cute. In her opinion, her eyes were a little too narrow, her lips a little too big. But she did what she could by dressing nicely when she was out, or at work, which was where she was now.

  She worked at Reese Pharmaceuticals. She’d been there for five years. Daphanie had made the transition from being a nurse, working in the ER and on countless intensive care units with her best friend Brownie. She’d gotten burned out on the whole care-giving thing, while Brownie had learned to love it more, then got promoted to nursing supervisor.

  This morning Daphanie sat in Parker’s office. Parker was a couple of years younger than she was. He was good-natured and happy-spirited. He had a boyish haircut and a freckled face on which there always seemed to be a smile. For some reason, though, he wasn’t smiling right now.

  “So what’s up, Parker?”

  Parker took a long moment to answer, anguish now on his face.

  “Remember three and a half months ago, when I told you that this branch might close?”

  Daphanie remembered. Parker had called her into his office, as he had just done, and informed her of the possibility. There had been three positions open in the south suburban branch, and he had suggested that Daphanie transfer into one of them.

  “I already spoke to the manager over there, and he said he’d look out for your papers,” Parker had said back then.

  “Well, how likely is it that this branch will close?”

  “Not very, I don’t think. But to be safe, I think I’d transfer if I were you. This is not the time to be without a job, Daphanie.”

  Daphanie didn’t want to transfer. She didn’t know anyone over there, and the morning drive would be at least an hour.

  “I don’t think I’m interested.”

  “Think it over, okay?” Parker said. “Talk to whoever you need to talk to, and let me know by the end of the week.”

  Daphanie went home and had the conversation with Nate that night.

  “If you don’t want to go, don’t,” Nate said, peeling back the blankets and climbing into bed with her.

  “And what if they actually close my branch, and it’s too late to transfer?”

  “Then you can stay at home if you want. Be a housewife,” Nate said, giving Daphanie a peck on the lips, then sliding under the blankets. “Or you’ll find a new job. It’s not like there’ll be a rush. It’s not like we’re hurting for money.”

  So Daphanie hadn’t taken the transfer, and now, three and a half months later, she sat before Parker, waiting to hear what her future would be.

  “Yeah, I remember,” Daphanie said.

  “Well, I got finalization today. We’re closing, Daphanie.”

  “Are there still any positions at the south suburban branch?” Daphanie asked, worried.

  “I’m sorry. Those were filled more than a month ago. I’m really sorry, Daphanie, but you’re gonna have to be gone in two weeks.”

  13

  Nate sat in a wheelchair, staring sadly at Monica. His IV pole stood beside him on small wheels. He wore a hospital gown. He had stitches from his surgery, and they throbbed each time he took a breath. His surgeon, a balding Asian man named Dr. Kim, told him not to get out of bed for any reason.

  Nate had demanded to see his ex-wife several times hours ago. His doctor and the staff refused him. They gave him pain medication, which he desperately needed. It put him into a deep sleep.

  Upon waking this morning, Nate did not take no for an answer, and two nurses came to his room, helped him into a wheelchair, and pushed him in to see Monica in the ICU down the hall.

  The blinds were pulled in her room. As he sat in his chair beside Monica, the room was only minimally lit by a fluorescent light just over the bed. Her head was heavily bandaged, a tube snaked up one of her nostrils, and a needle was lodged in her arm, connected to an IV unit similar to the one Nate had beside him.

  “There is good news and bad,” Monica’s doctor had said, before Nate was taken out of bed and moved to the wheelchair. Her name was Dr. Beck. She was a middle-aged woman with short blond hair.

  “The good first,” Nate grunted.

  “The are a number of factors working in Monica’s favor. The bullet was from a small-caliber weapon. A twenty-two. She was struck here.” The doctor pointed to just above the outer corner of her left eye. “It penetrated the frontal bone, and the bullet shattered, much of it exiting the parietal bone without doing serious damage to any of Monica’s brain tissue.”

  Nate pulled himself up in bed. He winced against a sharp pain in his gut.

  “There were fragments lodged in the superficial tissue of her brain. We believe we were able to remove those without causing any permanent damage. So the good news is your wife should wake up, Mr. Kenny.”

  “But you said there is bad news,” Nate said, bracing himself.

  “Yes. Although the injury was not lethal, the bullet fragments did cause Monica’s brain to swell. The minutes immediately after a head injury are crucial. It was a good thing your brother found you when he did. But a great deal of time passed before we were able to relieve the pressure.” Dr. Beck looked at Nate, sympathy in her eyes. “The swelling is the reason for the coma, and unfortunately we don’t know when she will wake up.”

  “But you said she’ll wake up. When she does, she’ll be fine, right?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Kenny,” Dr. Beck had said. “We won’t know that till she regains consciousness.”

  Nate shifted himself in the wheelchair, feeling the pain in his thigh become unbearable. His chest ached, his gut felt as though it were on fire.
But he was out of bed. He could sit up in a chair, and was even able to stand for a short period. He was conscious. His doctor had told Nate he’d make a full recovery if he just allowed his body to properly heal. That could not be said for Monica, and this tore at Nate to no end.

  Nate reached out, grabbed Monica’s hand. He shut his eyes to the image of her standing in their bedroom doorway; to the bullet tearing into her skull. If he could’ve only done something then. God, he had tried. Earlier this morning, Nate had told the two detectives, Davis and Martins, everything he knew about Freddy—from when he was born, to who his friends were, to where he last lived.

  “How did you come to know this Freddy Ford?” the clean-shaven Detective Martins asked.

  “He worked for me.” Nate told them in exactly what capacity. He withheld nothing. “We had a deal, and he didn’t keep his end.”

  Detective Davis scribbled some of what Nate said on a pad. There was a look of disapproval on his face.

  “Since you took his home from him, do you know where he’d be now?” Davis said.

  Nate didn’t appreciate how that question was phrased. “No. That’s your job. And you better do it,” Nate said. “He tried to kill us, and there’s a good chance he has my son. You better—”

  “We understand, Mr. Kenny,” Martins said. “I guarantee you, we will find this man.”

  Davis had slid his pad into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He’d looked at Nate as though he couldn’t stand him. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Kenny,” he had said.

  As he looked at Monica now, tears came to Nate’s eyes. His body was wracked with pain, but gingerly he leaned out of his chair and onto Monica’s bed as much as he could, placing an arm across her chest. He held her, pressed his tear-streaked face to hers.

  “Monica, I promise, I will get him for doing this to you, baby,” Nate said, unable to control his anguish and his tears. “I will get our son back, and I will get that man for doing this if I have to give my life to do it!”