Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row (31 page)

David grabbed her by the arm and started towing her back down the hall. “No you’re not, Jess. Not tonight.”

“Let go of me.”

She yanked free, and marched toward Doc’s room. David hooked her arm again, spinning her to face him. “Jess, the guy’s out cold.”

“Then I’ll wait in there with you.”

David sighed deeply, his limited patience draining. “There’s no telling when he’ll wake up. I’m keeping an eye on him. When he finally does come to, I’ll come get you, okay?” He was prepared to say anything to get her to go back to bed and leave him to his business.

She glared at him. Obviously, she didn’t believe him and was dissatisfied with the dictated compromise. “If he’s even still here when he wakes up.”

David didn’t reply, just stared at her.

“Where are you taking him?” she asked.

“I’m… nowhere.”

She rolled her eyes, slapped her thigh. “I’m not an idiot, David.” Her voice was giving out, and she rubbed her throat. “I just… I need to know about Mitch, alright? I need… I need closure, David. Will you at least give me that much?”

Jessica’s emotional closure was not high on his agenda. Nowhere near the top, actually. But he’d let her believe it was, and ask for forgiveness later.

“Sure,” he lied. Again.

Thomas Theodore Mackey thought David Morris would never leave. He was beginning to suspect he would have to lie there on that wretched cot all night, feigning unconsciousness until the morning. Or however long it took. David couldn’t stand over him, hovering indefinitely. Then again, maybe he could.

Tom cracked open one curious eye first. He deduced he was alone, but extreme caution promised a longer life. Seeing no one, he slowly opened both eyes fully, allowing his sight to adjust to the dim light while he strained to hear. His head throbbed madly.

Whispers. In the hallway, just on the other side of the door. Though ghosts of gunfire haunted his hearing, he was sure of it. They were vicious, breathy whispers, propelled by anger and emotion. Dissension in the ranks, perhaps. Or a disagreement of proposed actions. He recalled the arguing men he observed during his earlier stakeout. A house divided was a house easily conquered.

He smiled.
 

After pausing another few moments, he shifted slightly on the rickety cot. The creaking of the flimsy metal beneath him thundered on his ears, and he froze, grimacing. He glued his gaze back onto the door, expecting it to blow open. He held still for several seconds, observing the animated shadows in the sliver of space between the door and floor. When no one barged in or checked on him, he again tried to sit up. The cheap cot groaned, trying to tell on him. He just knew David would burst through the doorway, a mighty
Ah-ha!
launching from his lips at catching Doc wide awake and attempting to escape.

His stiff joints popped, and he swallowed hard, a powerful thirst now awakened. Feigning unconsciousness convincingly while imprisoned by the enemy demanded a disciplined, practiced exertion over his mind and body. The fight-or-flight response was not something easily suppressed. For the majority of his short captivity, Tom had remained genuinely unconscious, having been awake for maybe the last ten minutes. Thankfully, this required ‘faking it’ for a very short time.
 

Time to get moving, Doc. No telling how long Kate’s killer will be MIA.

I’m moving, I’m moving.

Well, fucking move faster.

No time to argue with inner voices. And why bother? They spoke the truth, for once.
 

Tom scanned the room, searching for a weapon, any weapon. Nothing. The space was as empty as David’s heartless soul. He didn’t expect to find Bertha and Bessie, but he thought maybe, just maybe…

His wrists were bound by boot laces, and a sudden shiver racked him. His long coat was gone, as was his wide-brimmed hat. These assholes stripped him of his identity, who he was. And what kept him alive. His coat—his armor—had spared him from many an overzealous biter’s rotting teeth. Now he’d have to practice extreme caution.

No time now. Find them later.

He didn’t count to three or anything before pressing to his feet. The cot scooted beneath him, scratching noisily across the floor before bumping the wall. He winced, stood completely still.
 

Then the doorknob spun.

Shit fire.

He launched himself, rocketing toward the door, hoping to get the jump on whomever passed over the threshold.

But the door remained closed.

The knob spun back into place, and he slid to a stop, knees bent and hands clasped together in one super-sized fist. He froze, waiting.

Still, no one entered.

More harsh whispers permeated the wood. Now nearer the door, he could better hear the heated discussion underway.

Mitch. They’re discussing Mitch.

The voices in the hall were conversing about Mitch, alright. And blaming Doc for his murder. Good for them. They’d figured it out. Finally.

Have a goddamned cookie.

They’d discovered the dead man’s wallet. Old news. They’d be adding their own wallets to the collection soon enough. And besides, maybe the newfound knowledge would anger them further, rile up emotions, make them sloppy, careless. Easier to kill.
 

Now the voices were moving away, down the hall.

Now’s your chance! Get the fuck outta here!

Wait…

Wait? For what, Doc? Them to come back and kill you?

They think I’m out cold.

Do you wanna be? Again?

A sparkling opportunity just presented itself.

Stars sparkle, Doc. You ain’t no star. And you ain’t no Doc Holliday, Thomas Theodore Mackey.

In a sense, his inner critic was right on the money, as usual. He didn’t have his long leather duster. He didn’t have his wide-brimmed hat. And most importantly, his Ruger Vaqueros—Bertha and Bessie—were MIA. But it wasn’t about the clothes and accessories making the man, it was about the man inside making the man. He was the man. And he’d continue to be the man. Dead or alive, he was the man, and would always be
the man
.

Heavy steps emanated from the other side of the door. The knob twisted. It was time to show David Morris just who Thomas Theodore Mackey—the man—really was.

* * *

To ensure Jessica returned promptly to her room, David accompanied her and Randy to the nurses’ station. She wouldn’t stay put, of course. Tenacity was a trait buried deep in the Morris family line. It was the mantle of their world. Their tempers, the core.

David tried covertly signaling Randy. But he wasn’t positive that Randy had gotten the gist of the nonverbal request. Rather than outright tell him in front of Jessica, chancing yet another escalating argument, he decided on a different course of action.

“Randy.”

“Yeah.”

“Do me a favor?”

“Um, sure.”

“Watch Doc for a few while I try and talk some sense into Jess.”

His comment was met with another round of eye-rolling, huffy breaths, and pursed lips—his cousin not hiding any feelings.

“I’m right here, ya know,” she said.

Ignoring Jessica, David dipped his chin at Randy, urging him on.

“Um, sure. Yeah,” Randy said.

“I appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

Randy left, headed back to Doc’s makeshift cell.

With a gentle hand, David guided Jessica back into her room, closing the door quietly behind them. Now, he forced himself to focus on her. He planned to make his points quickly, intent upon getting back to his prisoner. Crossing to the nightstand, he twisted the lantern’s knob, bringing more light to the faintly lit room.

“What, David? What more is there to say? You made it perfectly clear that—”

“Jess, look, I didn’t come in here to fight.”

“Then why in the hell are you here, David? You’ve already made it clear you don’t want me talking to Doc.”

“I’m trying to make you understand.”

“You can’t
make
me do anything. And I don’t appreciate you trying to.” She crossed the room, collapsed onto the bed. Her hand went to her throat, and she coughed.

David exhaled an exhausted breath. “It’s been a long day, Jess. A long fucking day.”

“Well, that’s
one
thing we actually agree on.” Her natural voice eluded her, lost in the rasp and rawness. She swigged water in an effort to soothe the scratchiness and stay in the conversation.
 

Jessica didn’t know it, but David made a vow on the short jaunt back to her room. He intended to start shooting straight with her. No more lies, no more secrets. No more cryptic explanations or elusive answers. If he was going to nurture and grow a meaningful relationship in their garden of trust, then he had to quit dousing it in a deadly pesticide of deception.

“I was going to kill him.”

Jessica stared at David blankly. “I know. That’s why I wanted to talk to him. Before I couldn’t—”

“No… I was going to… kill Mitch.”

Her gaze simmered, processing what he’d just confessed. “What did you just say?”

David brushed his hands across his lips, then rubbed his razor-neglected cheek. “I… I was going to kill Mitch. The morning I took off after him on the Harley.”

Her eyes darted around the room, landing on everything and nothing. Finally, “Did you?”

“Jess—”

“Did you, David? Did you kill him? Were you the one?”

“No.”

“Are you lying to me? Again?”

“What’s that supposed to—”

“Oh, cut the crap.” She coughed, then said, “You and I both know you’re a chronic liar. And you hated him.” A tear zipped down her cheek. “Just answer the goddamned question already.” She sipped more water, wiping away stray drops with the back of her hand. “Truthfully. No more lies, no more bullshit.”

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t kill Mitch.”

“Why don’t I believe you? Oh, I know why. You’re a liar, David. You lied about Natalee. You lied about Mitch. Who knows what else you lied about.” She shook her head. “I can’t trust my own blood. How fucking sad is that?”

“But… that’s why I’m telling you this now. I want to come clean, Jess. I don’t want any more secrets between us. I get why you’re hesitant to believe me. Hell, I would be, too. But I’m telling you, I didn’t kill Mitch. I thought about it, I wanted to. God knows I wanted to. But things just kind of… worked themselves out.”

Fluttering, her eyes went wide again. “Worked themselves out? What kind of shit is that, David? I wanted to leave him, not
kill
him. Christ almighty.” She swiped at another tear. “I… I just don’t know if I can make it in this fucked up world. A month ago”—she coughed, cleared her throat—“I was standing in line at the mini-mart, buying M&M’s and Twinkies for my abusive pothead husband, bitching about the price of gas and how my friends looked like sluts in their stupid selfies. And now we’re talking about killing people.” She tossed her hands up, letting them fall, slapping her thighs. “Oh, and dead people are walking around trying to eat us. Can’t leave out that minor detail.” Her face fell into her palms, and she began to sob.

He sat on the bed beside her and rubbed her back. “We’ll make it, Jess. We’re survivors.”

“Are we, David? Are we really? I hated my job as an insurance agent. Hated it with a passion. Couldn’t wait to quit. Now, I’d give anything—
anything
—to be back behind that stupid desk, processing stupid claims, arguing with stupid people. Anything. Hell, I’d even take Mitch back with no divorce option if it meant the world would just… go back to normal.” She exploded into another coughing/sobbing fit.

“I know, Jess. I know.”
 

David released a heavy sigh. Should have known better than to attempt such a critical confession at that moment. Especially after such an emotionally and physically demanding day. But as usual, his timing sucked ass, and his secret supplication for a sympathetic reaction proved unheard and unanswered. No surprise there. Frankly, it was unrealistic to expect as much. He certainly wasn’t looking for hugs and kisses and kudos for his voluntary avowal. Just the love and support and understanding anyone attempting to conquer a disease would expect.
 

Several moments passed. Waving her hand, she said, “Go. Go kill your precious prisoner.”

He stopped rubbing her back. “My precious prisoner? Jess—”

“I get it,” she said. “He only tried to choke me to death. Feed me to a shuffler. And he only killed my husband. I don’t deserve any restitution in this deal. Go on. Go ahead. Kill him, since you’re such a killer now.”

He exhaled another weighty sigh. “Jess, look. I want the guy to suffer. I mean, I’m no killer. I’ve never killed anyone before. The thought of it’s just… hell, I’m not even sure I can go through with it. But every time I think I can’t, I think about what he did to Natalee. I think about her hand in that box. I think about her heart in that box. I think about those stupid, mocking poems. And when I think about it, I get so fired up and so… goddamn furious, I can’t even think straight. My emotions take over.”

Jessica dragged her forearm under her nose, sniffled. “But that’s exactly what he wants. Don’t you see that? He wants you fired up. He wants you pissed beyond belief. He wants your emotions ruling you, because then he controls you. You’re his. He
owns
you.”

“He doesn’t own me.”

“Yes, he does. You’re his bitch.”

David flinched. “His bitch?”

“Yes, his bitch.”

“How do you figure?”

This time, Jessica sighed deeply. “Weren’t you listening to me?” She arced a dismissive hand through the air. “Whatever. When’re you gonna do it?”

“Kill him?”

“What’ve we been talking about?”

Come clean. Remember your promise to her, and yourself.

“I… I was going to take him tonight.”

“Where?”

The question caught him off guard. “I’m not sure. Was gonna make him take me to—” He stopped abruptly, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“To where, David?”

He hesitated a moment, gathering the strength to answer the question. “To where… he was keeping Natalee.”