waited, the worse it would get. He had to tell them, and soon, before it was too late.
He desperately needed a drink. He crossed the room to the bar, spotted the empty silver ice bucket, and knocked it to the floor. When Catherine had been alive, she had made sure the bucket was always full of ice, no matter what time, day or night. Such a stupid little detail, but suddenly important to him. She ran the house from her bed, just as she tried to run him ragged with her whining and her demands.
He poured a full glass of whiskey and carried it back to the desk. Leaning against the side, he drank it down, hoping it would steady his nerves for the ordeal ahead of him.
The phone rang again, but this time he answered it.
It was Preston. 'Where are you? We've been waiting to celebrate your windfall. Get your butt over here.' Music and laughter clattered in the background.
John took a breath. His heart felt as though it were going to explode. 'There isn't any windfall.''
'What?'
'We've got a problem.'
'John, I can barely hear you. Did you say you didn't get the windfall yet?'
'Are the others there with you?'
'Yes,' Preston answered, his voice cautious now. 'We even ordered you a drink and-'
'Listen to me,' he said. 'We've got a serious problem.'
'What kind of a problem do
'It's not something I want to talk about over the phone.'
'Where are you?'
'At home.'
'You want us to come over there? Is this problem something we need to talk about right away?'
'Yes, it is.'
'What the-*
'It's bad,' he shouted. 'Just get over here.'
John hung up before any more questions were asked. He refilled his glass at the bar, then returned to his desk. He sat staring
at the glowing monitor screen as darkness descended.
Cameron and Preston rode together and arrived at his doorstep fifteen minutes later. Dallas was right behind them.
John showed them into the library, hit the light switch, and pointed to the letter he'd unwadded and left on the desk blotter.
'Read it and weep,' he muttered. He was well on his way to getting drunk.
Cameron picked up the paper and silently read it. When he was finished, he tossed the letter back on the desk and went for
John's throat. Preston blocked him.
'Are you crazy?' Cameron shouted as his face turned red. 'You let your wife have access to our records? My God…'
'Calm down, Cameron,' Preston demanded as he pulled him back.
'You read the letter, and then tell me to calm down,' Cameron shouted back.
Dallas got out of the chair, reached for the letter, and read it aloud to Preston.
Dear John,
Long good-byes are tiresome, and so my farewell is going to be short and sweet.
It was my heart, wasn't it? Forgive me for being trite and saying I told you so, but it was as I suspected all along.
I died of heart failure, didn't I? Do you believe at last? I wasn't such a hypochondriac, after all.
By now you must be reeling from the shock of finding out that I have changed my will and have left you nothing.
I know you well, John, and right now you're determined to contest it, aren't you? Perhaps you'll claim that I was out of
my mind or too critically ill to know what I was doing. I suggest, however, that by the time you finish reading this, you
will have decided to go away quietly and hide. One thing I am certain of is this-you won't contest.
You're also thinking about all the expenses you've incurred since my death. I've requested that the will not be read
for six weeks from the date of my passing because I know that you will go on a little spending frenzy, and so I want you
to be left high and dry. I want you to have to hide from your creditors too.
Why have I treated you so cruelly? Retribution, John. Did you truly believe I would let you have one dollar to spend
on your whore? Oh, yes, I know about her. I know all about the others too.
Are you fuming, my darling? Get ready for more. I've saved the best surprise for last. I wasn't such a 'stupid cow.' That's right, I've heard you on the phone with your whore, calling me such names. I was crushed and angry at first, and
so disillusioned, I cried for a week. Then I decided to get even. I began looking through your office for evidence of your affairs. I was obsessed with knowing how much of my money you had spent on your sluts. When you would leave for
your office, I would get my 'fat ass' out of bed and go downstairs to your library. It took quite a long time, but I was
finally able to come up with your password and get into your secret little files. Oh, John, I never realized how twisted and corrupt you and your Sowing Club friends are. What will the authorities say about all of your illegal investments? I made copies of every single file, and just to make certain that you will know I'm telling you the truth, do hurry home and pull up the file labeled 'Acquisitions.' Scroll down to line sixteen. I've inserted a little message in one of your latest transactions, just to let you know I've been there.
Are you worried? Terrified? I, on the other hand, am gloating. Imagine my joy in knowing that after I'm gone, you
will spend the rest of your life rotting in prison. The day you get this, the printouts are going out to someone who will do
the right thing.
You shouldn't have betrayed me, John.
Catherine
CHAPTER NINE
Michelle had just finished the paperwork to dismiss one of Dr. Landusky's patients and was sitting in his cubicle on the surgical floor of St. Claire Community Hospital, trying to summon up enough strength to finish dictating her charts. Nine were completed, and she only had two more to go. Most of the patients belonged to Landusky. She'd been taking calls for him for the past two weeks while he went on a whirlwind tour of Europe, but he would be back at work tomorrow, and Michelle would officially start her first vacation in so many years she couldn't remember the last one.
She couldn't go anywhere, though, until the charts were finished. And the mail. My God, there was a stack of unopened mail
she'd carried from her cubicle to Landusky's, and she vowed she wouldn't stop until she had sorted through it all. Exhausted,
she looked at her watch and groaned. She'd been on her feet since four-fifteen this morning. A ruptured spleen from a motorcycle accident had gotten her out of bed an hour earlier than usual-and it was now five o'clock in the evening. She propped her
