Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates #2) - James Patterson Page 0,107
killed her. No one would bother looking deeper and noticing there was another toxic substance that actually did her in.
“Belladonna isn’t the kind of poison a medical examiner routinely searches for,” Freddy says. “If the body shows symptoms that point in that direction, a medical examiner might check. But in this case, whoever looked at her would have been distracted by all the swelling and redness of the skin. Belladonna actually causes a paralysis of muscle function. She probably died because her lungs stopped working. Or her heart.”
He explains that every part of the plant—seeds, roots, stems, flowers—is toxic. The berries are sweet and could be used in sugary desserts. The plant itself is dark green with either purple or yellow flowers and berries that resemble blueberries.
“Apparently,” Freddy says, “just brushing up against the plant can cause a terrible rash for some people. It’s that noxious.”
Ariana thinks of the rash on Rory’s hand and how they assumed he’d had an allergic reaction to something out on McCormack’s property. Maybe he’d brushed up against this deadly nightshade, not realizing what it was. She tries to remember if they saw any plants with berries or purple or yellow flowers when they were walking that path through the trees.
“So this grows naturally in West Texas?” Ariana asks.
“Oh, no,” Freddy says. “Absolutely not. It’s way too dry there. But someone could grow it—legally, I might add—in a greenhouse or garden.”
Ariana’s breath stops in her chest.
“You’re looking for someone who would have known about Susan Snyder’s allergies and is a skilled gardener,” Freddy says.
But he’s talking to an empty line.
Ariana has dropped the phone and is sprinting through the police station to her motorcycle.
Chapter 111
I’M ALREADY ON my knees, but I can’t even keep myself upright. I slump back against the wall. None of my limbs seem to be working. The viselike cramps that had gripped my muscles earlier have eased, and now I feel only numbness. Meanwhile, my heart is racing like a thoroughbred being flogged by a maniacal jockey. I try to take deep breaths to keep up with the oxygen intake my heart is demanding, but for some reason my lungs just won’t work fast enough. The room was so bright before, but now everything seems to be in shadow.
I’m close to passing out.
“What did you give me?” I mutter.
“I put deadly nightshade in the pie and the french toast,” Jessica says, smiling as if proud of her craftiness. “The sweetness of the berries blended with the other flavors. Just like in Susan’s cookies.” She gestures toward Willow. “I also roofied the coffee. I’m glad I did because she hardly touched the food. She ingested some of the poison,” she adds, unable to keep from grinning, “but not nearly as much as you.”
Jessica goes on to explain that a medical examiner might find benzodiazepine in Willow’s system, but he’d just think that she took something to calm herself before killing her cheating boyfriend.
“I’m sorry, Rory,” Jessica says, raising the gun and aiming it at my chest. “I need to make sure the bullet kills you before the poison does. That would raise some red flags during the autopsy.”
“You said you hated guns,” I sneer, suddenly mad about that betrayal on top of all the others.
She laughs. “I said I loathe guns. It’s true. I much prefer poison.”
She puts her finger inside the trigger guard.
“Good-bye, Rory,” she says. “I really did like you. I just wish you and Ariana had eaten the damn food I gave you the night you left.”
I remember the grocery bag of food she’d packed that was in my truck when it burned. It was only luck that Dale had brought pizza that night. Otherwise, we all would have died of poisoning out there in the desert hills.
But it looks like I only delayed my fate. I’m tempted to close my eyes and welcome death from the darkness behind my eyelids. And if it was only my life at stake, I might. But Willow is going to die, too, and I can’t stop fighting for her. My body is useless. The only thing working is my mouth. I have to talk Jessica out of this.
“Let Willow go,” I say. “Let the poison in me run its course. She’ll wake up sick but won’t die. Don’t make her pay for what I did.”
“Sorry,” she says. “It has to be a murder-suicide. Otherwise, the autopsy will—”
She stops, cocks her head, listening.
I hear it, too: the rumbling sound of a motorcycle.