Southern Comfort - Fern Michaels [2]
“Get him out of here. Have the ME look at him.”
“Where are the kids?”
“Not now, Tick. Please,” his captain said.
“Where are my kids?” Tick roared.
“In their room. Tick, please, let us handle this. I’m begging you, don’t go there.”
“Get the hell away from me . . .”
Tick found them huddled together in the closet, which was full of toys and balls. There was blood everywhere. Too much blood for two tiny little creatures who once carried his life’s blood. Now it was a river on a hopscotch-patterned carpet. He wanted to bend down, to scoop up his children, to hold them close, but they wouldn’t let him. He wanted to run his hands through his daughter’s curly hair, which was just like her mother’s, but it was matted with blood, and he couldn’t see the curls. He looked at his son and fainted dead away. He felt himself being carried someplace, heard voices he couldn’t identify, then he felt something prick his arm. Ride, Sally, riiiide.
The Governor’s Mansion
Tallahassee, Florida
August 2009
Thurman Lawrence Tyler checked himself in the mirror one last time. He adjusted his Hermès tie, examined the crease on the French cuffs of his custom-made shirt, brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his imported Italian suit, inspected the shine on his shoes, and smoothed a thick white errant hair in place before stepping into the foyer, where Elizabeth waited. At six foot one, he had an athletic build and sharp blue eyes that rarely missed a beat, and she thought her husband still as handsome as the day she had met him. Maybe even more so.
“Thurman, dear, you look as handsome as you did the day of our wedding.” Elizabeth Tyler, his wife of forty-six years and right hand of Governor Thurman Lawrence Tyler, looked every bit the elegant wife of a dignitary. Perfectly coiffed blond hair, her grandmother’s pearl earrings and necklace glowing next to her porcelain skin. A pale blue Chanel suit brought out the cornflower blue of her eyes. Both were tall, slim, and in excellent physical condition, and they appeared almost perfect as they scrutinized one another.
“And you, my dear, look like the innocent that you were.” Thurman studied his wife for a moment longer. She’d aged extremely well, unlike many of her friends. Elizabeth was always careful to protect herself from Florida’s punishing sun, never smoked, and rarely drank anything more than an occasional glass of white wine. She played tennis three times a week, had a facial once a week and her hair touched up every third Thursday of the month. Of course, he wasn’t supposed to know this, so he pretended her blond locks were as natural as those of a newborn.
“You’re too kind,” she replied.
“Nonsense,” he responded.
Without another word, he escorted her to the elaborate dining room where they had their breakfast. Each consumed two cups of coffee, his with skim milk and hers black. Both had one-half of a Florida ruby red grapefruit with one slice of homemade dry wheat toast. After they’d consumed their meal, they took their daily doses of vitamins with a bottle of mineral water imported from Switzerland.
Their morning routine was like clockwork and had been since Thurman was elected governor of the fine state of Florida almost eight years ago. With his second term coming to an end, both were preparing for the next step of their career—president of the United States. Yes, it was their career because Thurman never made a decision without first consulting his dear wife.
When they finished their meal, the governor went to his office, and Elizabeth went to hers, where she spent the morning going over the menu for an upcoming gala they were hosting. With nothing more on her agenda, she went to the personal