“Dr. Waters, this is Tyson Cade. I’m sure you know who I am. Your wife owes me $50,000. She hasn’t paid, though she’s done other things to grant herself more time.” There’d been a pause, and Braxton had forced himself not to respond. “I’ve run out of patience, Dr. Waters. I want my money, or there will be consequences.”
“How soon?” he’d managed.
But the line had gone dead, and Tyson Cade hadn’t called back. Braxton had broached the subject with Jana last night, but she’d bolted before he’d gotten any of the details. “I’ve got it under control,” was all she’d said.
Braxton cringed, thinking about the sheer lunacy of his wife’s response. Nothing was “under control” in Jana’s life. She’d been a spiraling typhoon for years, which was why Braxton would be filing for divorce. He’d hired an attorney, told Jana, and let the girls know. All that was left was filing the paperwork, which he planned to do as soon as he figured out how to handle Mr. Cade.
He’d tried to call the dealer back today, but the cell number had already been disconnected. It had probably been a burner phone purchased at Walmart. Braxton figured that the methamphetamine king of Sand Mountain had a basket full of such devices.
“Tyson Cade,” he whispered. “What have you done, Jana?”
He’d thought her shenanigans would only hurt him financially. In fact, for a while, he’d embraced the concept of separate lives, having his own side fun, but Jana’s drug use and volatile behavior had finally forced him into pursuing divorce.
Dealing with Tyson Cade, though, was a new low, even for Jana. She’d put Braxton and their daughters in peril. He stumbled back to his beer, then took another sip and poured himself an additional shot of Patrón. He toasted the sky and chased the tequila with another long pull from his pint.
Braxton figured that, if Cade really wanted his money, the drug lord would call back. He’d been waiting all day. Nothing.
He’ll call back, Braxton knew. There was no way in hell Jana could come up with that kind of cash by herself, and Cade wasn’t going to kill the golden goose. Braxton had already called his banker. He could put together the funds, but it was going to hurt.
He stumbled back toward the mat but decided against hitting any more balls. Darius was now singing “For the First Time,” and Braxton collapsed into the lawn chair. He gazed up at the moon and wondered, as the song went, when was the last time he’d done something for the first time.
Yesterday, he thought. Yesterday I spoke with a meth dealer.
He reached for the pint glass on the ground and knocked it over. Too tired and drunk to get up for a refill, he gaped up at the sky. “Fuck it,” he said out loud.
“Fuck it all.”
4
The plan had been to kill the doctor inside the house.
Waylon would walk around the side of the home and use the key he’d been given to enter the laundry room before sneaking downstairs to the man cave, where he would find the surgeon either shooting pool, fiddling around on his computer, or watching TV. If possible, he’d come up behind him and kill him without being noticed. If Dr. Waters did see him, Waylon would feign having to come by and pick up a tool he’d left in the workshop attached to the man cave. He’d go inside, come out with a hammer or a screwdriver, and then try to catch the doctor unaware and shoot him in the head.
Was it a good plan? Waylon was by no means a criminal mastermind, and he knew that Braxton Waters lifted weights and was in good shape. There could be a scuffle, which might leave a trail that he’d been in the house.
Waylon had begun to doubt the wisdom of his scheme as he approached the mansion. Then he heard music coming from the dock.
He grinned as he ambled down the grassy slope toward the water. He couldn’t believe his luck. Braxton Waters was lying down on a lawn chair. Waylon edged to within ten feet of the doctor and saw that Waters’s eyes were closed. Then he noticed the quarter-full tequila bottle and the knocked-over pint glass.
A ripple of relief ran through his body. There’d be no confrontation. Waylon studied the lake. He could see the boathouse of the neighboring home, but the lights were off, and it was at least four hundred yards away. In the other direction, he saw fireworks still being shot over the lake. Perfect, he thought.
He tiptoed forward and took out his 9 mm pistol and held it in his gloved hands.
Waylon Pike glanced to his left and right and then back up at the house. He saw nothing suspicious, no movement. He peered out at the lake. No boats were in the area.