Dead by Midnight - Beverly Barton [168]
But how many times had he watched that damn movie—Midnight Masquerade—and drank himself into a stupor, often with Tyler at his side. Tyler, who had been just a little boy. God in heaven, what had he done to his son by forcing him to watch that movie with him, over and over and over again? He could barely remember the things he’d said, horrible things, about Terri and the other actors.
Late this afternoon when Ransom had finally been able to understand that his ex-wife was trying to tell him that their son was the Midnight Killer, he had wanted to deny his own gut instincts. And he had, at least at first. But then Lila had shown him the newspaper articles about each murder that Tyler had brought Terri and stored in her beside table.
“How do you know for sure that Tyler killed all these people?” Ransom had asked Terri.
“Tul mu.”
“He told you?”
Terri had nodded.
“When? Last night or before then?” Realizing that was two questions, he had rephrased. “Before last night.” She’d nodded. “And last night, did he threaten you?” She had nodded again.
“Why would he tell you?”
Tears had pooled in Terri’s eyes and he had known she couldn’t answer, that whatever reason their son had confided in her, no one would know unless Tyler chose to tell them.
“I know what you’ve done,” Ransom said to his son. “Your mother told me.”
Tyler’s flushed face dripped with perspiration. “Her words are just a jumbled mess. How could she have possibly told you anything?”
“We understood enough to figure out what she was trying to say.”
“We?”
“Lila Newton and I.”
Tyler dropped the pillow on the floor, then reached out, grabbed the form lying in the bed, and shook it. “Mother! Mother, tell them it’s not true. Tell them that they misunderstood.”
The figure in the bed turned slowly and a pair of dark brown eyes stared up at Tyler.
The door flew open and armed FBI agents quickly surrounded Tyler as the agent who had been lying in Terri’s bed rose to her feet.
“Mother!” Tyler screamed.
“Your mother isn’t here,” Ransom said. “She was moved into a different wing of the center a few hours ago, shortly after I got in touch with Special Agent Wainwright.”
Right before his eyes, Ransom watched his son—his only child—emotionally disintegrate. He blamed himself. He and Terri had done this to the boy. When he had looked into his ex-wife’s eyes as she had tried so desperately to tell him that Tyler was the Midnight Killer, he had seen not only terror, but regret. He realized that she accepted her share of the blame for the damage they had done to their son.
Tyler dropped to his knees, covered his face—that beautiful face so like his mother’s—and wept uncontrollably.
The FBI agents circling Tyler waited and watched. When Ransom moved toward his son, every instinct within him urging him to comfort and protect, the agent in charge grasped Ransom’s shoulder and shook his head. He looked the agent squarely in the eye and nodded.
Two agents holstered their weapons, reached down and grabbed hold of Tyler under either side of his arms. As quickly as he had burst into violent tears, he stopped crying, came to his feet wildly, and struggled against the agents’ tight hold.
“I had to do it,” he screamed. “It was the only way I could be free.”
Emotion welled up inside Ransom and it was all he could do not to weep.
Shoving Tyler facedown onto the bed, the agents used force to subdue him. He kicked and flailed and screamed.
“Please, don’t hurt him.” Ransom barely managed to get the words past the lump in his throat.
Turning his head sideways, Tyler laughed hysterically. “You don’t want them to hurt me. Such fatherly concern. Too little too late, you son of a bitch.”
Ransom sighed heavily as the agents handcuffed his son and yanked him off the bed