The Inheritance

father and from everything I hear, you're a good one.”

  “I try,” Sam said. “But that would be a lie.”

  “You always did have an honest streak,” she said.

  “It's occasionally gotten me into trouble.”

  She smiled a bit at that. “I guess I should be grateful that you're willing to help at all,” she said. “But it seemed so unfair that you became a billionaire and I was left out in the cold with a kid to support.”

  That was a point Sam had trouble finding a counter-argument for. “Where does Kyle go to school?” he asked.

  “Wilson High.”

  Wilson High was widely considered the worst school in town. That settled it. No matter what Becky had done to him, or to herself in the years since, he wasn't going to let the kid suffer for it. “Get him out of there,” Sam said. “You can stay in my place on Knox for a while. Nobody's using it and you can send Kyle to Jefferson. It's a much better school.”

  “You'd give me your house?” Becky asked, astonished.

  “No, but I'll let you borrow it,” Sam said.

  “What will Tracie say about that?”

  “I doubt it will bother her. She's wanted me to be generous with you from the start.”

  “She sounds nice,” Becky said.

  “She's the best.”

  “You know, if I could do it over again...”

  Sam laughed. “Tell me about it,” he said.

  FIFTEEN

  The hand clamped over his mouth startled Sam awake. He tried to move but something heavy was pinning him to the mattress. “If you move or make a sound, your pretty wife here dies,” a man's voice whispered into his ear.

  Sam froze. He was being held down by a man wearing a black ski mask. His back was to Tracie so he had no way of knowing what was happening to her. What about the kids? Were they being threatened? Was he about to die?

  “I'm not here to hurt you,” the voice whispered. “I have a message. Nod if you understand.”

  Sam nodded. “You are an unbelievably lucky man, Harman,” he said. “People will kill for what you have. If you don't want to ruin everything, you will do exactly what you're told

  “First, call off your private detective. He'll never be able to prove anything and if he keeps trying, he will suffer. Second, you will do nothing to threaten Curtis Enterprises. You will agree to whatever we propose.

  “This is not a game, Harman. See how easily I got to you? I can do it again and again. I can slip in here at night and murder each of you in your beds. You won't stand a chance.”

  Sam felt something sharp jab into his arm. “It's just a sedative,”the man said. “Sleep tight.”

  “We've got a cordon around the house,” Sheriff John McCreary said later that morning. “And my deputies are searching the surrounding area but I have to be honest, Mr. Harman, the intruders are long gone. Are you sure you can't give a time for the attack?”

  “The way he had me pinned down, I couldn't see the clock,” Sam said.

  “And I don't remember a thing,” Tracie added. “Not even the injection.”

  Tracie had been jabbed with a needle as well, presumably before Sam's 'visitor' delivered his message. Sam Jr. had found them in their bed, seemingly asleep. When he failed to wake them, he called 911.

  They came out of it in the emergency room at St. Mary's Hospital a little after seven. It was nearly nine but they wouldn't be released until the preliminary blood work was done. There was no telling at this point what they'd been injected with.

  The home invasion case was being handled by the Sheriff's office, since the Atkins estate was outside the Port Mason city limits, but McCreary was coordinating his efforts with the PMPD. Chief Alan Huston was in the room with them along with a contrite Stan Tyler, who was deeply embarrassed by the breach of his security.

  “I've already contacted the Houston Police,” McCreary said. “They're going to bring the Curtis brothers in for questioning.”

  “That won't do much good,” Sam said. “Bill and Jerry have been questioned twice and they keep pulling this stuff anyway.”

  “If it was them,” Tracie said.

  “I don't see who else it could be,” Sam said.

  “We'll find out,” McCreary said. “That's a promise.”

  Sam regarded him with some skepticism, but held his tongue. McCreary did not have the most ethical reputation these days and he was an elected official, which always put Sam off. The sheriff and his department were the focus of corruption investigations. Sam guessed that his deep pockets were what attracted McCreary to personally handle this case.

  “We appreciate whatever you can do,” Tracie said.

  “We'll keep a close eye on your family,” McCreary said, with a glance towards Stan Tyler.

  “Be nice, John,” Huston said. “Stan had a good perimeter in place.”

  “Not good enough,” Tyler said. “If it had been, these creeps wouldn't have gotten in. We're going to have people in the house from now on, Sam. This won't happen again.”

  “That's fine,” Sam said. “I don't blame you for this.”

  “I blame myself,” Tyler replied. “And I'm very sorry.”

  The ER doctor came in with the preliminary lab work. “You were both injected with small doses of Propofol,” she said. “It's a general anesthetic, and very dangerous if not handled properly.”

  “Isn't that what killed Michael Jackson?” Tracie asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Like I said, it's dangerous stuff. Based on these numbers, though, each of you was given the proper dosage to keep you under for four hours or so.”

  “So that would put the injection time at around three,” McCreary said “Plenty of time for them to get away.”

  “Have you called Steve Bennett yet?” Chief Huston asked. “That threat needs to be taken as seriously as the one made to you.”

  “Can I use your phone?” Sam asked.

  Huston handed it to him, but, as Sam expected, his childhood friend was not frightened by the threat. “I'll have more luck finding a connection if I stay,” Steve said. “We've just found out something interesting about Peart's background.”

  “What's that?” Sam asked.

  “He doesn't have one until he came to work for the Curtis family,” Steve explained. “No prior work record, no credit history, no driving record, no previous residence and, this is the kicker, no fingerprints in any official database.”

  “How does that happen?” Sam asked.

  “That's what I'm working on right now,” Steve said. “If you really want me to come home, I will, but I'm close to something here. I can feel it.”

  “Okay, but keep your head down, will you?” Sam said. “I don't want to have to explain anything to your folks.”

  “Neither do I,” Steve agreed. “I'll get back to you later.”

  Sam gave the phone back to Chief Huston. These intruders, they could have murdered his whole family. They hadn't, praise the Lord, but they could have. It shook him to his very core. He couldn't allow that to happen again.

  Hank Curtis' murderer looked up from a computer screen to see an angry older woman storm through the door. “You said he wouldn't be hurt!” she exclaimed.

  “He'll be alright.”

  “Your guys shot him up with something!”

  “A perfectly safe anesthetic. The dosage was calculated by a doctor who owed me a favor. Now settle down.”

  The woman tried to calm herself but the killer could see that she was having trouble. “We're very close now. A couple more days, at the most, and it will all be over.”

  “You're not going to do anything else to him?”

  “I don't need to,” the killer said.

  “I want your word.”

  “You have it,” was the reply. “I swear he won't be hurt.”

  SIXTEEN

  Early Saturday morning, a Tyler Security SUV drove onto the grounds of the state pol
ice academy, just north of Port Mason. The sprawling facility, considered one of the best in the country, trained officers from throughout the state. The only other time Sam had been here was years before, when Steve Bennett graduated.

  Sam's presence here was the result of a favor called in by Charley Bennett. Once admitted, he was taken to the shooting range, where Charley and a uniformed state police sergeant were waiting for him. Charley held a small duffel bag.

  “Are you sure about this, Sam?” Charley asked. “Conceal carry's legal, but not something you should rush into.”

  “They were in the house,” Sam said. “They could have done anything to my family. I won't let that happen.”

  “Okay,” Charley said. “This is Sergeant Mike Dunleavy. He's in charge of small arms training and the firing range. He'll take good care of you.”

  “Sergeant,” Sam said, shaking hands with him. “Thanks for doing this.”

  “It's not a problem,” Dunleavy said. “Charley has too much dirt on me to refuse a favor.”

  “Don't let him fool you,” Charley said. “He has just as much on me.”

  Dunleavy led them into a building. “We generally don't operate on the weekends,” he said. “So the range is all ours. Have you ever fired a gun before?”

  “Steve took me once,” Sam said. “I didn't do very well.”

  “How far were you from the target?”

  “I'd guess about fifteen, twenty feet,” Sam said.

  “That's the problem right there,” Dunleavy said, unlocking a door. “Come on in.”

  He turned on the lights and explained that this was the room they used for close-up weapons training. A target had been set up on a wall of sandbags. A table with three pairs of safety glasses and three sets of ear