Mercy

CHAPTER EIGHT

John was frantic. He broke every law imaginable as he sped up St. Charles, weaving in and out of traffic like a drunk driver

at seventy miles an hour.

Catherine's obscene letter was clenched in his hand. He kept slamming his knuckles into the leather dashboard, wishing it were her face he was smashing. That bitch! That conniving bitch!

He couldn't believe what she had done to him, wouldn't believe it. It was all a bluff. Yeah, that was it. Even in death, she was

still trying to manipulate and control him. She couldn't possibly have gotten around all the safeguards he'd built into his computer. She hadn't been that smart, damn it.

By the time he pulled into his driveway, he had almost convinced himself that it was all a hoax. He misjudged the distance and hit the garage door when he slammed on the brakes. Cursing, he jumped out of the car and ran to the side door and only then realized he'd left the motor running.

He cursed again. Stay cool, he told himself. Just stay cool. The bitch was still trying to get under his skin, unnerve him. That was all. But he had to be sure. He ran through the empty house, knocking over a dining room chair in his haste. When he reached the library, he kicked the door shut behind him and lunged over the desk to turn the computer on, then sat down in the padded chair.

"Come on, come on, come on," he muttered, drumming his fingertips on the desktop while he waited for the computer to boot up. The second the icon appeared, he slipped in the disk and typed the password.

Scrolling down the documents, he counted the lines as Catherine had instructed in her letter, and there on line sixteen, right

smack in the middle of the transaction made over a year ago, five words had been inserted. Thou shalt not commit adultery. John roared like a wounded animal. "You fat bitch," he screamed. Stunned, he fell back in his chair.

His cell phone began ringing, but he ignored it. Cameron or Preston or Dallas was calling to find out what was keeping him.

Or maybe it was Monk calling to find out when and where to meet him to collect his money.

What in God's name was he going to tell Monk? John rubbed his temples while he thought about the problem. Dallas was the solution, he decided. He would let Dallas handle Monk. After all, Monk didn't belch without Dallas's permission, and he would surely agree to wait for payment if he were told to.

But what would John tell the group? Lying wasn't going to get him out of his nightmare, and the longer he 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 we have?"

"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