Dennis Larsen - With Cruel Intent

“There is nothing I would like more than to spend an evening with you Seymour, when will you pick me up?”

(Eight Years Earlier)

Jeremy Marshall sat in the office down the hall from his congressional boss, head in his hands, trying to weep but could not. The phone call had come out of the blue; his father was in the Emory University Hospital in Atlanta after suffering a massive heart attack in Valdosta. Emergency units there had responded, delivering him to the local hospital after stabilizing his vitals. The Valdosta doctors had concluded, under advisement from a local cardiologist, that his father’s condition warranted a transfer to a better-equipped cardiac unit in Atlanta.

The younger Marshall man had just celebrated his 28th birthday, but with the day’s events was feeling much older. Premature thick, grey hair, cut short at the sides and swept back, with no bangs, accentuated his thin face and slightly furrowed forehead. Green eyes, set back with narrow fissures, and long lashes almost made Jeremy look sinister, but a cosmetically altered row of teeth and a picture perfect smile, soon overcame most people’s first impressions. His nose, he’d inherited from his mother, was slightly angled to the left with an odd, little cleft right in the middle at the end. It drove him crazy but added character to his aging face. At almost 30, Jeremy’s lifestyle was already taking its toll. Too many meals at the mall and no exercise were wearing him down physically, but his brain was ever active, never a moment without something winding its way through the vast networks of his mind. Nights were often spent on the computer or reading material to keep his boss informed, but he could quite easily get by on four hours sleep without looking any worse for wear. Women found Jeremy Marshall attractive but he could not be bothered, the young clerks, interns and the occasional hooker were enough to satisfy his sexual urges, but a marriage relationship was nowhere on his radar, at least not yet.

The father and son had not spoken for months. The older Marshall’s wedding to a realtor, two years previous, had driven a wedge between them that seemed immovable. The woman, Beverly Davis, was a feisty piece of work, aggressive, motivated, and certainly not without merit, but Jeremy, from the beginning, believed the relationship was more about money than love. The weeks leading up to the marriage had put an unbearable strain on the father-son relationship; Jeremy had pushed for a pre-nup, which his father refused to consider. Blinded by love and lust, a man in the middle of his life would do all sorts of stupid things; at least Jeremy saw it that way.

His father had significant real estate holdings throughout the South, enough to make Beverly a very rich woman should he have an early demise, however, word of his heart attack had been a total surprise to the estranged son, and he suspected his stepmother had nothing to do with it. His interactions with Ms. Davis had been quite formal, with very little opportunity to get to know each other on a personal level, both lead very busy professional lives. She was likable and seemed to make his father happy, but two years for half his father’s estate was more than he could bear.

Jeremy was a top aide to a longstanding republican congressman who had a prominent position on the House Armed Services Committee. Most of his time was spent in Washington D.C. but he kept a home in Charleston, South Carolina, the place of his birth. It had been Beverly that had convinced his father to pull up roots and move his operation and home to Valdosta. The move had been more than troubling for Jeremy, what little control or influence he had with his father was gone, and he knew it. It was not that his father did not love him, he knew better, but the two men, both very independent, did not see eye to eye, and that was it.

The news of his father’s condition sent Jeremy’s mind into full, self-preservation mode. He wondered how much information, in regards to his father’s vast holdings, had been released to his new wife. Prior to the wedding he had warned his dad not to make his business affairs an open book to the realtor, but rather give it some time, see how the marriage went before disclosing everything. He hoped, as he sat in the office, that his father had taken that advice to heart. Jeremy had not been privy to the will since his father’s wedding, but suspected that it had been re-drafted over the past two years to include Beverly as a 50 % claimant.

He picked up the phone, but only after practicing speaking in a distraught, emotional tone, “Hello Bev, this is Jeremy, how’s my dad?” He needed some firsthand information before he’d be able to make any concrete business arrangements, didn’t want to appear too greedy, too quickly.

“Jeremy, you poor thing, all the way up there in DC by yourself,” she spoke in a sickening sweet Southern accent that he saw through in an instant. “How you holding up?”

Like she really cared. He again kept his voice quivering and full of concerned emotion, “I’m trying to keep it together but it’s hard, not being there and not knowing what to expect.” He played this game of chess better than most; his political career had taught him well.

“I’ve just spoken to the cardio specialist here at the hospital and he’s optimistic. They’ve got his vital signs stable for now, but he’s weak, very weak,” she repeated. “Are you going to catch a flight?”

“Just as soon as I can.” His mind reeled; he needed some time to do a few things before he showed up as the grieving son. “I’m thinking I’ll be there sometime tomorrow night at the earliest.” Needing to know the possibility of his father’s likely death, but not wanting to sound anxious, he was careful in the delivery of his questions. Mustering his best possible performance and even squeezing a tear from his eyes, he asked, “Is he expected to survive? Is my dad going to live?” That said, he listened carefully to the answer and the intonation. Chess was more than just making moves; it was knowing the mind of your opponent.

“It’s just too early to tell, like I said, they are trying to be optimistic, but I’m praying he’ll pull through for all our sakes,” she said, through real life sobs and tears. Maybe he’d read her wrong but on the other hand maybe he’d just met his match.

“Me too, me too,” he quietly said. “Listen, I’m going to get there as quick as I can, you’ve got my cell number so update me as needed, okay?”

“Sure, will do dear, goodbye.”

Jeremy spent the next three hours in his office making notes, running some through a shredder and setting others in a file folder situated prominently on his desk. At the end of that time he had devised what he considered to be a foolproof plan contingent upon two very key factors. One, that the will, did indeed, split the estate between himself and Beverly, and two, that in the event of his stepmother’s death the entire estate would revert to the sole heir, himself.

Jeremy looked at his watch, 2:30 p.m., he’d read between the lines of what his stepmother had said, knowing as well as she did that there was little chance of his father’s survival. Every minute between now and then would be critical. The aide walked down the hall, peering into offices, offering a friendly hello to his co-workers until he found an office that was unoccupied. Pulling the door closed behind him, he sat at the computer and searched for Lowndes County Land and Title, it appeared at the top of the search field. He clicked on the link that opened a homepage; scrolling to the bottom he found a contact number, which he dialed from the phone sitting on the same desk.

A woman answered the phone in a very professional manner, an accent, but not Southern, perhaps Texan, he asked to speak to the director and was put on hold while she patched him through. Mr. Ignatius Savard answered the phone, “Hello, this is Director Savard, how can I help you?”