Page 7 of Mercy (Buchanan-Renard 2)

  Yet, the nagging uncertainty wouldn’t go away, and so he did follow him. He figured that if he could just sit down with him and talk, they would be able to clear up this . . . misunderstanding. John would tell him this suspicion was simply a reaction to the horrible guilt he was feeling over what they had done in the name of mercy.

  Cameron thought about turning the car around and going home, but he didn’t do it. He had to be sure. Had to know. He took a shortcut through the Garden District and arrived at John’s house before he did. The beautiful Victorian home was on a coveted corner lot. There were two enormous, ancient oak trees and a magnolia casting black shadows on the front yard. Cameron pulled onto the side street adjacent to the electronically gated driveway. He turned the lights off, then the motor, and sat there, well-concealed under a leafy branch that blocked out the streetlight. The house was dark. When John arrived, Cameron reached for the door handle, then froze.

  “Shit,” he whispered.

  She was there, waiting. As the iron gate was opening, he spotted her standing on the sidewalk by the side of the house. The garage door lifted then, and Cameron saw her red Honda parked inside.

  As soon as John parked his car and walked out of the garage, she ran to him, her large round breasts bouncing like silicone balls underneath the tight fabric of her dress. The bereaved widower couldn’t wait to get her inside the house. They tore at each other like street dogs in heat. Her black dress was unzipped and down around her waist in a matter of seconds, and his hand was latched onto one of her breasts as they stumbled to the door. His grunts of pleasure blended with her shrill laughter.

  “That son of a bitch,” Cameron muttered. “That stupid son of a bitch.”

  He had seen enough. He drove home to his rented one-bedroom apartment in the untrendy section of the warehouse district and paced for hours, stewing and fuming and worrying. A bottle of scotch fueled his anger.

  Around two in the morning, a couple of drunks got into a fistfight outside of his window. Cameron watched the spectacle with disgusted curiosity. One of them had a knife, and Cameron hoped he’d stab the other one just to shut him up. Someone must have called the police. They arrived, sirens blaring, minutes later.

  There were two officers in the patrol car. They quickly disarmed the drunk with the knife and then slammed both men up against a stone wall. Blood, iridescent under the garish streetlight, poured from a gash in the side of one drunk’s head as he crashed unconscious to the pavement.

  The policeman who’d used the unnecessary force shouted a crude blasphemy as he rolled the unconscious man over onto his stomach and then knelt on his back and secured the handcuffs. Then he dragged him to the car. The other drunk meekly waited his turn, and within another minute or two, both were locked in the back of the car on their way to the city jail.

  Cameron gulped a long swallow of scotch and wiped the perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand. The scene under his window had freaked him, especially the handcuffs. He couldn’t handle being cuffed. He couldn’t go to prison, wouldn’t. He’d kill himself first . . . if he had the courage. He had always been a little claustrophobic, but the condition had worsened over the years. He couldn’t be inside a windowless room these days without feeling tightness in his chest. He’d stopped using elevators, preferring to walk up seven flights of stairs rather than spend thirty or forty seconds inside a metal elevator box, squeezed in like a dead sardine with the other office dwellers.

  Dear God, why hadn’t he thought about his claustrophobia before he agreed to this lunacy?

  He knew the answer and was drunk enough to admit it. Greed. Fucking greed. John was the motivator, the planner, the man with the vision . . . and the money connections. With the fervor of a southern evangelist, he’d promised he could make them all rich. Hell, he already had. But he had also played them for the greedy fools he knew they were. When he started talking about killing himself, he knew they’d all panic. They couldn’t lose John, and they would do anything to keep him happy.

  And that was exactly what the bastard had counted on.

  Bleary-eyed from drink, Cameron finished the bottle of scotch and went to bed. The following morning, Sunday, he battled a hangover until noon. Then, when he was clearheaded, he came up with a plan. He needed absolute proof for Preston and Dallas to see, and once they realized how John had manipulated them, Cameron would demand that they split the profits in the Sowing Club now and go their separate ways. He wasn’t about to wait five more years to collect his share. After what John had done, all Cameron could think about was running away before they got caught.

  Cameron had a few connections of his own, and there were a couple of calls he needed to make. He had five working days before the confrontation he planned on Friday. Five days to nail the son of a bitch.

  He didn’t tell anyone what he was doing. Friday rolled around, and he arrived at Dooley’s late, around six-thirty in the evening. He made his way to their table and took the seat across from John. The waiter had spotted him and brought him his usual drink before Cameron had taken off his suit jacket and loosened his tie.

  “You look like hell,” Preston said in his customary blunt way. Of the four, he was the health nut and made it clear at every opportunity that he didn’t approve of Cameron’s lifestyle. Built like an Olympic weightlifter, Preston was obsessive about working out five nights a week at a posh health club. In his opinion, any man who didn’t have steely upper arms and a stomach you could bounce a quarter off of was a weakling, and men with beer guts were to be pitied.

  “I’ve put in some long hours at work this week. I’m tired, that’s all.”

  “You’ve got to start taking care of yourself before it’s too late,” Preston said. “Come with me to the club and start lifting weights and running the track. And lay off the booze, for Christ’s sake. It’s killing your liver.”

  “Since when did you become my mother?”

  Dallas, a die-hard peacemaker, couldn’t stand discord, no matter how minor. “Preston’s just concerned about you. We both know you’ve been under a lot of stress lately with the divorce and all. We just don’t want you to get sick. Preston and I depend on you and John.”

  “Preston’s right,” John said. He swirled his swizzle stick in the amber liquid as he added, “You do look bad.”

  “I’m fine,” he muttered. “Now enough about me.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Preston said, offended by the censure in Cameron’s voice.

  Cameron gulped down his drink and then motioned for the waiter to bring him another. “Anything new happen this week?” he asked.

  “It’s been dull for me.” Preston shrugged. “But I guess in our business that’s good. Right, Dallas?”

  “Right. It’s been pretty dull for me too.”

  “What about you, John? Anything new going on with you?” Cameron asked mildly.

  John shrugged. “I’m hanging in there, taking it a day at a time.”

  He sounded pathetic. Cameron thought John’s performance was a bit overdone, but Preston and Dallas bought it and were sympathetic.

  “It will get easier,” Preston promised. Since he had absolutely no experience with losing anyone he cared about, he couldn’t possibly know if John’s life would get easier or not, but he felt he should give his friend some sort of encouragement. “With time,” he added lamely.

  “That’s right. You just need some time,” Dallas said.

  “How long has it been since Catherine died?” Cameron asked. John raised an eyebrow. “You know how long it’s been.” He stood, removed his suit jacket and carefully folded it, then draped it over the back of the chair. “I’m going to go get some Beer Nuts.”

  “Yeah, bring some pretzels too,” Preston said. He waited until John had walked away before turning on Cameron. “Did you have to bring Catherine’s name up now?”

  John told the waitress what he wanted and was walking back to the table when he heard Dallas say, “John was just starting to relax. Give the gu

y a break.”

  “You don’t need to coddle me,” John said as he dragged his chair out and sat down. “I haven’t kept count of the hours and minutes my wife has been gone,” he said. “Some nights it seems like only yesterday.”

  “It’s been almost a month.” Cameron studied his friend as he made the comment. He picked up his glass and saluted John. “I think you ought to start dating. I really do.”

  “Are you crazy?” Dallas whispered. “It’s way too soon.”

  Preston vehemently nodded. “People will talk if he starts dating this soon, and talk leads to speculation. We don’t want that. Don’t you agree, Dallas?”

  “Hell, yes, I agree. I can’t believe you suggested it, Cam.”

  John leaned back in his chair. His shoulders slumped ever so slightly and his expression looked pained. “I couldn’t do it, not yet anyway. Maybe never. I can’t imagine being with another woman. I loved Catherine, and the thought of replacing her makes me sick to my stomach. You know how I felt about my wife.”

  Cameron gripped his hands together in his lap to keep himself from reaching across the table and grabbing the lying bastard by the throat.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I was being insensitive.” He reached down into his open briefcase and pulled out a thick manila file folder. Pushing his drink aside, he carefully placed it in the center of the table.

  “What’s that?” Dallas wanted to know.

  “Another investment opportunity?” Preston guessed.

  Cameron stared at John as he dropped his bomb. “Lots of notes and figures,” he said. “And . . .”

  “And what?” John asked.

  “Catherine’s medical records.”

  John was reaching for the folder. When Cameron announced what was inside, John reacted as though a rattlesnake had just landed on his hand. He jerked back and then came up halfway out of his chair. The shock was quickly replaced by anger. “What the hell are you doing with my wife’s medical records?” he demanded.

  John’s face was so red he looked as if he was about to have a stroke. Cameron began to hope that he would and that it would be massive and debilitating. The prick should suffer as much and as long as possible.

  “You son of a bitch,” Cameron hissed. “I saw you Saturday night with the blond. I couldn’t figure out why you hadn’t told us about her, and so I decided to do a little investigative work on my own.” “You didn’t trust me?” John was genuinely outraged.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Turning to Preston and Dallas, Cameron said, “Guess what? Good old Catherine wasn’t dying. John just wanted to get rid of her. Isn’t that right, John? You played us for fools, and, damn, we were that. We believed every word you told us. You knew Monk wouldn’t kill her unless we all agreed. That was the deal when we hired him. He works for the club, and you didn’t have the guts to kill her yourself. You wanted to involve us, didn’t you?”

  Dallas whispered, “I don’t believe it.”

  Preston was too stunned to speak. He stared at the file folder as he asked, “Is Cameron right or wrong? Catherine was terminal, wasn’t she? You told us it was her heart, a congenital defect . . .” He stopped and turned helplessly to Cameron. Then he whispered, “My God.”

  John’s lips were pinched together. His eyes blazed with fury, his gaze fully directed on Cameron. “What gave you the right to spy on me?”

  Cameron laughed harshly. “You arrogant ass. You’ve got the balls to be outraged that I spied on you and your little Barbie doll?” Glancing at Dallas, whose complexion was rapidly turning green, he asked, “Want to hear something else really funny? You’ll get a kick out of this news. I know I did.”

  Dallas picked up the folder and asked, “What?” John lunged to grab the file, but Dallas was quicker.

  “Catherine introduced this woman, Lindsey, to John. She hired the bitch to redecorate her bedroom. Isn’t that right, John? The affair started almost immediately after you met her, didn’t it? But you had already decided to kill your wife.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea to talk about this here,” Preston said with a worried glance around the bar to see if anyone was watching them.

  “Of course we should talk about this here,” Cameron said. “This is, after all, where we planned the mercy killing.”

  “Cam, you’ve got it all wrong,” John said. He looked earnest now, sincere. “I’ve only had one date with Lindsey, and it wasn’t really even a date. It was a business meeting.”

  Eager to believe John was telling the truth, Preston vigorously nodded. “If he says it was business, then that’s what it was.”

  “Bullshit. He’s lying. I followed him home. I saw Lindsey’s car parked in his garage, and she was there waiting for him. They were all over each other. She’s living with you now, isn’t she, John? And you’re hiding it from everyone, especially the three of us.” Cameron began to rub his temples. He’d had a pounding, relentless headache off and on for the past week, ever since he discovered John’s nasty little secret. “Don’t bother to answer. I’ve got all the facts right here,” he said, pointing to the folder Dallas had just opened. “Did you know Lindsey thinks you’re going to marry her? I got that bit of information from her mother. She’s already planning the wedding.”

  “You talked to Lindsey’s mother? All that alcohol has gotten to you, Cameron. It’s made you delusional . . . paranoid.”

  “You pompous ass,” he scoffed.

  “Lower your voice,” Preston pleaded. His brow was covered with perspiration, and he wiped it away with the bar napkin. Fear made his throat dry.

  “Shall we discuss Catherine’s little trust fund that John was so worried would run out?”

  “What about it?” Preston asked. “Was there any left?”

  “Oh, yes,” Cameron drawled. “About four million dollars.”

  “Three million, nine hundred seventy-eight thousand to be exact,” Dallas read from the folder.

  “Dear God . . . this can’t be happening,” Preston said. “He told us . . . He told us he took her to Mayo, and they couldn’t do anything for her. Remember, Cameron? He told us . . .”

  “He lied. He lied about everything, and we were so damned trusting we believed him. Think about it, Preston. When was the last time any of us saw her? A couple of years ago? It was right before she went to Mayo, wasn’t it? We all saw how bad she looked. Then when she got back, John said she didn’t want to see anyone. And so we respected her wishes. For two years, it was John who told us how her condition was deteriorating and how much she was suffering. All that time, he was lying.”

  They all stared at John, waiting for him to explain.

  John lifted his hands, palms up in mock surrender, and smiled. “I guess the game’s over,” he said.

  Stunned silence followed the announcement.

  “You admit it?” Preston asked.

  “Yeah, I guess I do,” he said. “It’s kind of a relief, really, not to have to sneak around you guys any longer. Cameron’s right. I’ve been planning this for a long time. Over four years,” he boasted. “Did I ever love Catherine? Maybe, in the beginning, before she turned into an obsessive, demanding pig. It’s funny how love can turn into hate so quickly. Then again, I might not have loved her at all. It could have been her trust fund. I did love the money.”

  Dallas dropped a glass. It landed with a thud on the carpet. “What have you done to us?” The question came out in a choked whisper.

  “I did what I had to do,” John defended. “And I don’t have any regrets. Well, no, that isn’t exactly true. I regret inviting Lindsey to move in. I mean, I’ve loved every minute I’ve had her. She’ll do anything in bed, anything at all that I ask, and she so wants to please me. She’s getting clingy, though, and I’m sure as hell not going to get tied down again.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Cameron snarled.

  “Yes, I am that,” John agreed smoothly. “Want to know the best part, besides the pig’s trust fund? It was so damned e

asy.”

  “You murdered her.” Dallas closed the folder.

  John shifted in his chair. “No, that’s not exactly true. I didn’t murder her. We did.”

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” Dallas stammered, and then bolted for the bathroom.

  John seemed amused by the reaction. He motioned to the waiter to bring another round of drinks.

  They sat stiffly together, like strangers now, each lost in his own thoughts. After the waiter had placed fresh drinks on the table and left, John said, “I bet you’d like to kill me with your bare hands, wouldn’t you, Cameron?”

  “I’d sure as hell like to,” Preston said.

  John shook his head. “You’re a hothead, Preston. Always have been. And with your muscle-building regime, you could break every bone in my body. But,” he added, “if it weren’t for me, you’d already be in prison. You don’t think things through. You don’t have what it takes. I guess you just don’t have a calculating mind. We’ve had to push you into every financial decision. And we had to pressure you into agreeing with us to pay Monk to kill Catherine.” He paused. “Cameron, on the other hand, does have what it takes.”

  Cameron inwardly cringed. “I knew you didn’t have much of a conscience, but I never figured you’d screw us. We’re all you’ve got, John. Without us, you’re . . . nothing.”

  “We were friends and I trusted you,” Preston said.

  “We’re still friends,” John argued. “Nothing’s changed.”

  “The hell it hasn’t,” Cameron shot back.

  John was completely unruffled. “You’ll get past it,” he promised. “Especially when you remember how much money I’ve made for you.”

  Cameron propped his elbows on the table and stared into John’s eyes. “I want my cut now.”

  “It’s out of the question.”

  “I say we dissolve the club. We each take our share and go our separate ways.”

  “Absolutely not,” John said. “You know the rules. None of us touches a dime for five more years.”