Dying Declaration (42 page)

72

NIKKI BACKED HERSELF
into a corner of the closet and tripped over some shoes. The resulting noise, though small, sounded like an explosion. She waited a second, expecting Armistead to come bolting through the open closet door. Nothing.

The next noise she heard was the sound of glass breaking in the driveway. She strained to hear more, but only silence followed.

She reached into her back right pocket, pulled out her switchblade, and flipped it open, nearly slicing her hand. She started working her way toward the closet door. It was pitch-black, so she felt her way along the clothes till she got to the doorframe. The house was as quiet as it was dark. Not a sound came from the bedroom.

Nikki mustered enough courage to slip out into the master bedroom, hugging the wall. She glanced toward the open door and saw no light from the hallway, no light from downstairs—the entire house was dark. She scanned the room and saw nothing but stationary shadows of unknown objects. Either Armistead had turned off every light in the house, or someone had gotten to the fuse box.

What could it mean?
Perhaps Armistead was hiding in this room, watching her. Or maybe he was standing outside the bedroom door, biding his time,
waiting for her to exit so he could blow her away. But then she heard another noise, a few steps that sounded like they were coming from the front foyer. Now was her chance! Bolt through the door, make a sharp left, fly down the flight of back steps,
and exit through the back door of the family room.

There was no more time for indecision. In the darkness Nikki said a desperate little prayer, promising God if He got her out of this mess she would totally change; she would . . . well, she’d think of something important she could do later. Then she darted quickly out the bedroom door and turned hard to the left.

He grabbed her from behind. With one huge hand he covered her face, digging his fingers into her jaw, and covering her mouth with the palm of his hand. He wrapped his other arm around her chest, pinning her arms to her side, stopping her cold. The strength! She kicked and squirmed, but he had her in a death grip. Her switchblade dropped to the floor.

He quickly dragged her back into the bedroom, his hot and putrid breath moist on the back of her neck. Her scream became a muffled and pitiful groan. She twisted hard, but he wrenched her closer. She tried biting the hand but could not. He squeezed her tighter still, constricting her breath.

She trembled.

“Shut up!”
he whispered, coarse and deep. Her eyes grew wide with fear. He dragged her toward the closet, overpowering her efforts to resist.

She felt nauseous and terrified, ready to pass out because he was squeezing her so hard. But something wasn’t right. She had been so scared at first, she hadn’t noticed. The course and powerful hands, the deep baritone voice, the smell of body odor,
not cologne . . .

“I’m here to help,” Buster Jackson whispered. “And if you quit squirming and shut up, I’ll let you go.”

Nikki nodded and felt the hands release her. She turned to face her sweaty assailant. Over the sound of her labored breathing,
she could hear more footsteps—this time from the upstairs hallway.

“I followed you here from McDonald’s,” Buster whispered. “When I saw Armistead come back to his crib, I knew you were in deep trouble. I took out the fuse box—” Buster smiled his big gold-toothed smile—“yanked it out the wall. And I also yanked the doc’s cell phone from his car on the way in.” Buster reached into the front pocket of his baggy jeans, producing the phone.
“Had to bust through a window to get it.”

Despite Nikki’s terror, this brought a quick and uneasy smile. “It was already unlocked, Buster. Otherwise, the alarm would have sounded.”

Judging by the dumbfounded look on his face, this piece of information caught Buster off guard. “I knew that,” he whispered.

Nikki heard another noise in the hallway and nodded toward the closet. They slipped in just as the flashlight beam hit the bedroom.

Buster moved right next to Nikki, touching his lips to her ears. “When I make my move . . . get out. Don’t look back, dog.”

Nikki shook her head and turned to look in his eyes. “I’m staying with you.”

Buster took his huge hand and grabbed Nikki’s jaw, squeezing so hard the pain shot through her like a knife. “No.”

Nikki nodded her head quickly, and Buster released her. This guy scared her. The look in his eyes, the way he so quickly resorted to force.

“Promise me you won’t hurt him,” Nikki whispered.

Buster said nothing.

“Promise me,” she demanded.

He stared at her, jaw clenched, bloodshot eyes narrowed.

She folded her arms. “Then I’m not leaving.”

Buster grunted his frustration, rocking nervously from one foot to another. She watched those hooded eyes grow hard and cold,
an executioner’s look.

“Promise me,” she insisted.

She saw Armistead’s flashlight darting around the bedroom. A few more seconds and he would be checking in the closet.
Why do I care if Buster hurts Armistead? The man certainly deserves whatever he has coming.
But something deep inside her knew this was the right thing to do, and so she stepped in front of Buster, feet planted shoulder width apart.
I’m not moving.
Nikki the mule.

The light flashed closer.

“Promise me.”

Buster grabbed the outside of Nikki’s arms, then picked her up and moved her like a mannequin to a spot behind him. “I promise,”
he snorted.

“Here.” Nikki shoved one of her cards in the back pocket of Buster’s jeans. “Call me.”

Just then she heard Armistead in the bedroom punching the numbers on his phone. He must have noticed that the receiver had been taken off the hook.

“He’s calling the police!” she whispered to Buster.

Buster quickly stepped to the door of the closet and threw Armistead’s cell phone across the room. When the flashlight pivoted in that direction, Buster bolted from the closet and headed straight toward Armistead. Nikki followed close behind.

Buster lowered his head and landed his shoulder squarely against Armistead’s back, sending him crashing through the nightstand and into the wall, sandwiched between Buster and the drywall, the flashlight falling on the floor. Nikki stood for a second,
frozen in the shadows.

“Go!” Buster barked.

She wanted to stay, see this through, but she knew they would get in enormous trouble with the cops. Why should they both take the fall? She would owe Buster big-time. She would make sure he got treated fairly. But in that split second of decision making, self-preservation won out. This was her chance! Her only chance!

She sprinted from the room, down the back stairs, and toward the rear door of the house. She heard scuffling and muted cursing from the master bedroom as she crossed the family room, then a sickening gurgle sound. She unlocked the back door, then hesitated for a second. Should she go back and make sure Buster didn’t do anything drastic? Had he already done it? Did Buster need her help?

The gun! She hadn’t heard any gunshots. If Armistead had struggled free and picked up his gun, she would have heard some shots. As long as no gun was involved, Buster would overpower him. What worried her was that she hadn’t heard anybody say anything.

“You okay?” she yelled.

“Get out!” the big man yelled.

Nikki opened the back door and sprinted across the patio surrounding the pool. She flew through the gate and ran across Armistead’s yard and the yards of neighboring houses. She was exhausted, but she never stopped until she reached her car. She tried to catch her breath but could not, looked to the right and left, then unlocked her car door and hopped in.

Nikki was nearly back to her condo before she started breathing anything close to normal. Her heart still pounded like it would explode inside her chest, and she didn’t remember much about the drive home. All she could think about was Buster and Armistead, the anger she had seen in Buster’s eyes, and the gun she had seen in Armistead’s hand. She went inside her condo and took a long hot shower, with her cell phone just within reach, wondering the whole time if she should call the police. She eventually talked herself into lying down on the bed, but she had no desire to sleep.

She picked up her cell phone four times to dial 911. Each time her trembling fingers stopped short. She tried to call Charles twice but couldn’t bring herself to do that, either. After she put the phone down for the last time, she lay back down in bed, and a wave of exhaustion flooded her body. Her limbs felt like they weighed a thousand pounds, and her swirling mind finally slowed. When it came, the elusive sleep hit hard. But with it came relentless nightmares that raced nonstop through her mind until they were interrupted by the sound of her phone ringing in the darkness more than three hours later.

73

BUSTER JACKSON
was almost to Williamsburg, heading west on I-64, before he pulled off the interstate to find a pay phone. He had been making good time, but he had also been carefully staying within five miles of the posted speed limits. He could not afford to be pulled over. A black man in a nice car, with a broken window, registered to someone else would invite a search. Buster knew a thing or two about racial profiling.

He found an exit with a gas station at the end of the ramp. He kept mulling over the blur of events in his mind. His sudden move on Armistead, then dragging the doctor to his feet and slamming him against the wall. Buster had wedged his forearm against Armistead’s neck, pinned him to the wall with it, actually lifting the doctor off his feet.

Buster wheeled right and pulled into the parking lot, his thoughts fixed on the bugging eyes of Armistead, the gurgle coming from the doctor’s lying throat, Armistead’s muffled pleas for mercy. It was ironic that this man, who had shown no mercy to Thomas at trial, would be begging for mercy himself. Most vivid of all, Buster remembered the feeling of Armistead’s body going limp.

He jumped out of the car and hustled over to the outdoor pay phone, never taking his eyes from the vehicle. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Nikki’s card. He called her collect.

She answered on the first ring.

“Hello.”

“I have a collect call from a Buster Jackson. Will you accept the charge?”

“Yeah . . . sure.”

“Nikki Moreno?”

“Buster!” Her voice was crisp, wide-awake. “Where are you? What happened?”

“Can’t say.” He glanced around to make sure nobody was listening. “But the doc is ready to sing. Take a subpoena to his crib tomorrow morning. If he doesn’t come to the door right away, go ahead and enter. You’re good at that.” Buster chuckled. “Tell Pops his homey came through.”

Buster did not wait for a response. He heard Nikki calling his name through the receiver, but he placed the phone back on the hook.

He glanced around nervously for the third time since he had pulled into the parking lot. He was thirsty, but he would not go inside; he would not allow a convenience store clerk to ID him.

He walked toward the car and watched a minivan pull in next to the Lexus. He saw a father stumble from the driver’s seat,
a mother rubbing her eyes in the passenger’s seat, and a few kids snoozing in the back.

He wondered how they would feel if they knew that they had just parked next to a car with a dead man in the trunk.

74

NIKKI WAS STILL AWAKE
when the sun came up Monday morning. She missed shaking the little guys out of bed, missed the sweet disposition of Stinky,
even missed the morning wars with Tiger. She got ready quickly’a short miniskirt and white blouse for court, hair pulled back in a simple clip—and rushed into the law offices of Carson & Associates. She typed up a witness subpoena, thankful that the courts now allowed lawyers to do this on their own, so long as they filed a copy with the clerk. She signed Charles’s name. The subpoena commanded Armistead to appear in court for the ten o’clock sentencing hearing or risk contempt of court.

By the time she pulled into the Woodard’s Mill subdivision, it was nearly eight o’clock. Her hands became moist on the wheel as the possibilities raged through her mind. She hoped for the best—that Buster had somehow talked Armistead into confessing the truth, whatever that might be. But she also contemplated the worst—finding Armistead dead in the master bedroom. But if that were the case, why would Buster call her and tell her to subpoena Armistead to court? Maybe Buster was just trying to protect Nikki, give her a legitimate reason to go to the Armistead house and get her fingerprints on things. That way the cops wouldn’t ask a thousand questions if Armistead was dead and Nikki’s prints were everywhere.

No, she didn’t think Buster was that sophisticated.

She pulled into the long tree-lined drive and parked directly in front of the three-car garage. She noticed that Armistead’s car was gone. Just a few hours ago she had been here and endured one of the longest nights of her life. It looked so different in the daylight. So . . . peaceful.

As she walked toward the front door, her skin felt clammy. It was quiet, eerily quiet. She climbed the steps and rang the doorbell, just as she had done last night. It didn’t work. Then she remembered what Buster had done to the fuses. She knocked loudly.

After a few minutes, it was obvious there would be no answer. The silence mocked her hopes that Armistead would somehow appear,
ready to testify. She took a deep breath and pulled the key out of her pocket, reaching down to insert it in the door. Just to be sure, she first checked the knob. It turned and the door flung open.

Not a good sign.
If Buster had killed Armistead and wanted Nikki to have an alibi for having her fingerprints everywhere, then he would have left the door unlocked so she could enter without having to explain why she had a key. It was all adding up to a scenario that Nikki didn’t like.

“Anybody home?” she called from the marble foyer. “I’m serving a court subpoena.”

No answer.

She planned to retrace her steps from the night before, purposefully touching things she had touched the previous night. That way she would have a truthful explanation for her prints. She started in the study. Everything seemed to be the way she had left it except—

“Oh, my gosh,” she murmured, putting her hands over her mouth. She was staring at Armistead’s desk, looking at a neat pile of paper, the top page a handwritten memorandum addressed “To Whom It May Concern.”

She started reading and groaned. Her hands trembled. “You promised,” she cried. She quickly finished the first page, cursing Buster Jackson as she read. “You promised,” she said again. “You promised!”

She slumped into a chair, every bit of her energy sapped by this letter, and pulled out her cell phone.

“Charles Arnold.”

“He’s dead,” Nikki said. “Armistead is dead.”