“They’re on the way,” Rourke answered.
Harry entered the lanai, his Glock out in front, eyes scanning ahead. Sliding doors led to both the living room and the master bedroom. A trail of Vicky’s blood headed back toward the darkened bedroom where the sliding door stood open. Harry entered in a shooter’s crouch, weapon swinging from corner to corner. Vicky stood against a far wall, deep in shadow.
“Hello, Harry. Aren’t you the clever one?”
Jim Morgan’s voice seemed to float out from behind her, and as Harry’s eyes adjusted to the dark Morgan gradually came into view. He was standing behind Vicky, back against the wall, and he had pulled her body tight against him. The hunting knife was in his left hand, the edge resting along her neck. One slicing move and Vicky’s life would pour out onto the bedroom floor.
“It’s time to give it up, Jim. There’s no place left to go.”
“Maybe I’ll just go to Jesus,” Morgan said, ending the sentence with a cold laugh. “Maybe I’ll take Vicky with me. Do you believe in Jesus, Vicky? Do you believe in everlasting life?”
“Fuck you, Jim,” Vicky rasped.
Jim pressed the knife against her throat, drawing a thin line of blood. “Uh-uh. Wrong answer, Vicky.” He let out a disjointed laugh. “Besides, no one’s done that to me since I was a small boy. Betty Higgins was the first, she and her husband. They took turns; first one and then the other. They took turns watching too. They liked to watch, you see. They said it was fun. But it wasn’t fun for me, Vicky. It was never fun for me.” His eyes seemed to glaze as he spoke.
“Drop the knife, Jim.” Harry took a step forward. Carefully, he placed the sawed-off shotgun on the floor, pulled his Glock from its holster, and leveled it at Jim’s head. His thumb disengaged the safety and his finger tightened on the trigger.
“Shoot the son of a bitch,” Vicky said.
Jim slipped his head behind Vicky’s, only one eye looking out just past her right ear. “Put it down, Harry. Put it down or she’ll die right now.”
Harry lowered his weapon and raised the radio to his mouth.
“Don’t…” Morgan said, but Harry was already speaking.
“This is Doyle. He’s in the house. He’s holding Vicky hostage.”
“Harry, are you sure?” It was Pete Rourke.
“He’s five feet away from me.”
Morgan glared at him. “That wasn’t very smart, Harry.”
“You’re not going anywhere, Jim. That’s the bottom line.”
“Then Vicky’s dead!” he shouted.
Harry took another step forward, until his legs were almost touching the bed that separated them.
“Stop!” Jim yelled.
Harry continued the conversation, grasping at anything that might distract him, anything that would keep him from slicing Vicky’s throat. “Are you going to Jesus with an innocent woman’s blood on your hands, Jim? She’s not a sinner like the others. She hasn’t hurt any children. She hasn’t lusted. She’s gone to church her whole life.”
Jim shook his head vigorously. “No, no, she hasn’t. She told me she stopped going to church. She’s a sinner, Harry.”
“What if you’re wrong, Jim? What if she lied to you about that? Maybe she was afraid you’d laugh at her. No, Jim, you can’t take the chance. You can’t go to Jesus that way.”
The words seemed to confuse Morgan. His eyes blinked several times, then suddenly hardened. “No!” he shouted. “No, no, no!” He jabbed the knife at Harry as he repeated the word.
Vicky felt his grip slacken and she slammed her heel into his instep, then drove an elbow into his solar plexus. Jim gasped and she threw herself to her right.
Jim recovered quickly and swung the knife, trying to catch her fleeing body, but Harry had already launched himself over the bed and grabbed his wrist, slamming it against the wall as he drove his Glock into the side of his head. Jim crumpled to the floor with Harry on top of him, one hand still holding his wrist, the Glock jammed up under his chin.
Vicky moved in and pried the knife from Jim’s hand. From the living room they both heard a key twisting in the lock securing the front door. Moments later Pete Rourke was in the bedroom, a small army of deputies behind him.
“Looks like the gang’s all here,” Morgan said from the floor.
“Lock your fingers behind your head,” Rourke ordered.
Morgan complied and Harry grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and helped him stand.
Rourke frisked him, quickly removing his Glock from a holster at his waist and a backup revolver in an ankle holster. As Rourke pulled out his handcuffs, Harry stepped in front of him.
“Not yet,” he said. He brought a right hand up from somewhere around his waist and it caught Morgan flush on the jaw, buckling his knees and sending him back to the floor.
“Damnit, Doyle, what the hell are you doing,” Rourke roared.
Harry ignored him and crouched down to Morgan. “That was for Jeanie,” he said.
“Who’s Jeanie?” Morgan wheezed.
“The woman you pistol whipped when you broke into my house.”
CHAPTER TWENTY — FIVE
The size of the room surprised Harry. It was small with a long table dominating its center. There were chairs for witnesses lining three walls, and a lone chair, positioned just inside the door and set several feet back from the table, clearly reserved for the inmate seeking parole. Everything-the walls, the floors, even the furniture-was institutional green, a near sickening color that gleamed under the harsh neon ceiling lights.
Walter Lee Hollins had met Harry when he arrived at the prison. His tall, slightly overweight presence had been a welcome sight. He saw Harry to the hearing room, explaining that the board would arrive together.
“It’s their way of avoiding witnesses. They only want to hear from them when they’re in session, only when the hearing is underway,” Walter Lee said.
“What do you think her chances are?” Harry asked.
“You want me to be honest, Harry?”
“Yes, I do.”
“The prison’s overcrowded, Harry. Hell, all the prisons are overcrowded. The administration, and I mean the big boys in Tallahassee, are pushing them to free up some space.” Walter Lee finally raised his head and looked Harry in the eyes. “I think her chances are damn good, Harry. And I don’t think what you or anybody else says is gonna make a damn bit of difference.”
Harry said nothing. Minutes later the door opened and the members of the board entered, a mix of everyday men and women who would decide whether or not he would live his life with his mother’s shadow hovering over him. They were followed by two prison guards, a state psychologist who Harry had seen testify in court, and Calvin Morris from the state’s attorney’s office. Morris positioned himself on the opposite side of the room, distancing himself from Harry. It was not a good sign, Harry thought.
The board chairman called the meeting to order and introduced the other members, along with Morris and the psychologist, who he identified as Dr. Edgar Meeks. He then turned to Harry and asked his name for the record.
“Harry Santos Doyle.”
“And what is your relationship to the prisoner?”
“I’m her son… Twenty years ago I was the other child she murdered.”
The board chair glanced around uncomfortably; the latter part of Harry’s statement had taken him by surprise. “We have received some evidence, some letters written by the prisoner, Lucy Santos, to a John and Maria Doyle. Are they related to you?”
“They’re my adoptive parents,” Harry said.
