“This is not about your girlfriend,” said the voice over the phone.
Jack exhaled. The phone obviously was not just for directions. “I’m at Elizabeth Street.”
“Keep going,” said Esteban, and then he immediately picked up his thought. “This is all about Raul Fernandez. You know that, don’t you?”
Jack kept walking. He didn’t want to agitate, but after two years of wondering, he had to keep him talking. “Tell me about Raul.”
“You know the most important thing already.” His tone was forceful but not argumentative. “It wasn’t Raul’s idea to kill that girl.”
“Tell me about him, though.”
There was silence on the line—one of those long, pivotal silences Jack had heard so many times when interviewing clients, after which the flow of information would either completely shut down or never shut off. He heard the man clear his throat. “Raul had been in prison in Cuba for nine years before we came over on the boat. And after nine years in jail, what do you think he wanted most when he got to Miami?”
Jack hesitated. The story about the boat fit Kimmel’s theory that the kidnapper was Esteban. But he wasn’t sure whether this was meant to be a monologue or a dialogue. “You tell me.”
“A whore, you dumb shit. And he was willing to pay for it. But there are so many whores out there who just won’t admit what they are. Just pick one, I told him. He did, but he still needed encouragement. So I went with him, to show him how easy it was.”
“You and Fernandez did it together?”
“Raul didn’t kill anyone. The knife was just to scare her. But the stupid bitch panicked and pulled off his mask. Even then, Raul still didn’t want to kill her. I was saving his ass by doing it. So how do you think it felt when he was the one arrested for murder? I did everything I could to keep him from getting the chair. I even confessed! But you didn’t do your part, Swyteck. The governor, the man who could stop it all, was your father, and you did nothing.”
Jack resisted the temptation to educate the kidnapper, but he felt a certain vindication—not for himself, but for his father. Since the murder had begun as a rape or attempted rape by Raul Fernandez, Fernandez was as guilty as the man who had slit her throat. By law, anyone who committed a felony that brought about an unintended death was guilty of murder, even if the murder was committed by an accomplice. It was called “felony murder.” It was a capital crime. And most important, it meant that his father had not executed an innocent man after all.
“So you and Raul were prison buddies. Is that it?”
“Prison buddies,” he said with disdain. “What do you think—we were a couple of fags, or something? Raul was my brother, you son of bitch. You fucking killed my little brother.”
Jack took a deep breath. It didn’t seem possible, but the stakes had suddenly risen. “I’m approaching William Street.”
“Stop now. Face south. Do you see it?”
“See what?”
“The house on the corner.”
Jack peered through the wrought-iron fence toward a stately old Queen Anne-style Victorian mansion that was nearly hidden from view by thick tropical foliage and royal poinciana trees. It was a three-story white frame house with a widow’s walk and a spacious sitting porch out front, due for a paint job but otherwise in good repair. Blue shutters framed the windows, purely for decoration. But the windows themselves and even the doors were covered with corrugated aluminum storm shutters—the kind that winter residents installed to protect their property during the June-to-November hurricane season.
“I see it,” said Jack. “It’s storm-proofed.”
“Yes,” replied the voice on the other end of the line. “But your girlfriend’s inside. And she’s not coming out. You have to go in and get her. And don’t even think about calling the police to go in and get her for you. It’s a big old house, and she’s very well hidden. Maybe she’s in the attic. Maybe she’s under the floorboards. The only way you’ll find her alive is if you stay on the phone and listen to me. I’ll direct you right to her. But you have to move fast, Swyteck. I fed her arsenic exactly five minutes ago.”
“You bastard! You said you wouldn’t hurt her!”
“I didn’t hurt her,” he said sharply. “The only one who can hurt her is you. You’ll kill her, unless you do as I say. She can last twenty minutes without an antidote. The sooner you find her, the sooner you can call the paramedics. The back door is open. I took the storm shutters off. So go get her, Jacky Boy. And stay on that phone.”
Jack felt anger, fear, and a flood of other emotions, but he realized he had no time to consider his options. He yanked open the squeaky iron gate, sprinted up the brick driveway, and leaped over a three-foot hedge on his way to the back door—the only way into the desolate Key West mansion.
Chapter 52
•
Harold Swyteck was pacing nervously outside the waterfront warehouse where he’d been instructed to deliver the ransom. He was alone, but the noise from the nearby festival made it sound like he was in the Orange Bowl on New Year’s night. He was as close as he could be to the madness on Duval Street and still be in relative seclusion. Occasionally someone in costume passed by, coming or going to the dimly lit parking lot behind the old warehouse to have sex, take a leak, or smoke a joint.
The governor checked his watch. It was almost 1:00 A.M., and he still hadn’t heard from Jack or the kidnapper. Strange, he thought. He was alone in the dark with a suitcase full of money, and he wasn’t the least bit concerned about himself or the cash. He was worried about Jack. He stopped pacing and lifted the receiver on the pay phone to make sure it was still working. He got a dial tone, then hung up.
He sighed heavily. He was trying to stay alert, but the noise from the festival was impossible to block out. Laughter, screaming, and every kind of music, from kazoos to strolling violins, had him constantly on edge. A rock band was blasting from the nearby Pier House Hotel. He could hear the bone-rattling bass and the beat of the drum. It was annoying at first, like a dripping faucet in the night. Then it became a thunder in his brain. He wished it would stop, but the pounding continued. He shook his head—and then he froze as he realized that the bass and drum were coming from one direction, but the real pounding was coming from the opposite direction. He wheeled and checked behind him. The pounding was right there, coming from somewhere near the pay phone.
“Who’s there?” he called out. No one replied. The pounding grew louder and more frantic by the second, like the palpitations of his heart. He took two steps forward, then stopped. There was an old, rusted van parked just beyond the telephone. The rear doors bulged with each thudding beat. The pounding was coming from inside. It was like a kicking noise. Someone was trying to get out! The metal doors flew open. The governor drew his gun.
“Freeze!” he shouted. “Who’s there?”
The violent motion stopped, but there was no reply. The governor stepped closer to the van. He knew it would do no good to ask again. If he wanted an answer, he’d have to go in and get it.
Chapter 53
•
Jack threw open the back door of the old mansion and rushed into a pitch-dark kitchen. He ran his hand along the wall and found a light switch. He flipped it on, but the room remained dark—totally dark, since every window in the house was covered by hurricane shutters.
“There’s no power!” Jack shouted into the phone.
“It’s off,” said Esteban. “Take the flashlight from the kitchen table.”
Jack bumped into a chair and found the table, then snatched up the flashlight and switched it on. His adrenaline was flowing, but he suddenly realized that he was terrified. His white beam of light cut like a laser across the room, and he felt like an intruder—not just in this house, but in another world. The old wooden house seemed to come alive, creaking and cracking with each breath it drew. The Victorian relic had a musty, shut-in smell, and everything in it was ancient—the furniture, the wallpaper, even the old hand pu
mp by the sink. It was as if no one had lived here in a hundred years. No. It was as if the same people who’d lived here a hundred years ago were still living here now.
“Where’s Cindy?” he screamed into the phone.
“Go through the door on your right. Into the dining room.”
Jack shined the light ahead of him and walked hurriedly toward the door. The floorboards creaked with each step. He turned the crystal doorknob and entered the dining room. His flashlight’s bright beam skipped across the long mahogany dining table, chair by chair. Cindy wasn’t there. He searched higher, but the crystal chandelier only scattered the light. He scanned the walls, fixing on a hundred-year-old portrait of some crusty old sea captain who’d probably lived and died here. He almost seemed to scowl at Jack.
“Where is she!” he demanded.
“Easy,” said Esteban. “You’ve got time. You’ve got as much time as you gave me to convince you that Raul should live. And now,” he said, “it’s your turn to convince me.”
Jack felt a sinking dread. It was dawning on him that he was way out of his depth, that he was a pawn being manipulated at will. Sweat poured from his brow as he pressed the portable phone to his ear. “Listen, please—”
“I said convince me! Convince me she shouldn’t die!”
“I’ll give you anything you want. Just name it—whatever you want.”
“I want you to feel what I felt. I want you to feel as helpless as I did. Let’s start with groveling. Beg me, Swyteck. Beg me not to execute her.”
Jack stood speechless for a second, fearful that precious time was wasting. He shined the flashlight into the living room and down the long hall. He wanted to sprint away and search for Cindy. But the house was huge. He could never find her in time. “Please,” his voice shook, “just let her go.”
“I said beg!”
“Please. Cindy doesn’t deserve this. She’s never hurt anyone.”
“Try the cabinet. Beneath the breakfront.”
Jack darted across the dining room, tripping over the Persian area rug. He pulled open the cabinet and shined the light inside. “She’s not—”
“Of course she isn’t. Begging and pleading gets us nowhere—remember? Try something else.”
Jack rose to his feet, taking short, panicky breaths as he squeezed the portable phone in his hand. “You miserable son of a bitch. Just tell me where she is.”
“Anger,” he taunted. “Let’s see where that takes us. Try the living room—the closet at the base of the stairway.”
Jack pointed the light across the room, revealing a grand stairway worthy of Scarlett O’Hara. It curved majestically up to the second floor, then curled in tight, smaller steps all the way to the third.
“The closet!” ordered Esteban, as if he somehow sensed that Jack hadn’t moved.
Jack felt the seconds ticking away. He was a puppet, but following orders was his only hope. He darted toward the stairway, leading with the flashlight as he zigzagged through a maze of antiques in the living room. He found the closet and yanked open the door. Nothing. “You bastard!” his voice echoed in the dark, cavernous stairwell.
“Time is short,” came the voice over the phone. “What are you going to do now?”
“Just stop the game! I’m the one you want Take me. Just take me.”
“Yessss,” said Esteban, hissing with satisfaction. “A confession. It’s your last chance. That’s exactly the conclusion I reached, Swyteck. See if it works this time. Confess to me.”
“I’ll confess anything. I’m the one you want.”
“Why?” he played his game. “What did you do?”
“Whatever you say I did. Whatever you say. I did it—”
“No!” he said bitterly. “You have to mean it. Confess to me and mean it!”
“I did it!”
“You killed Raul! Tell it to me!”
“Where is she?”
“Confess!”
“Yes! Yes!” he shouted into the phone. “I killed Raul Fernandez, all right? I did it! Now where is Cindy?”
“She’s right behind you.”
Jack wheeled, looked up into the stairwell and saw a body plunging like a missile through the stale air. “Cindy!” he cried out. But the next awful sound was the cracking of a neck at the end of a rope. Her feet never hit the ground. Jack screamed in agony. He recognized the clothes. A black hood covered her head—execution style. “Oh, God, no . . .” he cried, all of his senses recoiling in horror. He dropped the portable phone and rushed halfway up the stairs to try to pull her down. But he couldn’t reach her. He climbed a couple more steps and stretched out as far as he could. He still couldn’t reach. He ran to the living room to grab a chair on which to stand, then rushed back toward the stairs.
“It’s no use,” came a deep, booming voice from somewhere in the pitch dark stairwell. “She’s dead.”
Jack’s body went rigid. He was not alone.
He dropped the chair and drew his gun. He shined the flashlight behind him, then swept it forward and above. He didn’t see anyone. “I’ll kill you!” he shouted into the darkness.
“Revenge!” came a thundering reply that rattled the stairwell. “Now we both want it! Come get me, Swyteck!”
Jack thought only of Cindy hanging from her neck, and for one crazy moment he was willing to trade his own life for her killer’s. He ran up the stairway with no conscious thought of his own safety, his gun in one hand, the flashlight in the other. He was at full speed when he reached the top of the steps. But as he turned the corner and started down the hall, a deafening blast sent him flying backward. Pain . . . feet leaving ground . . . falling back . . . out of control.
His gun and flashlight flew out of his hands as he crashed through the wooden banister. He was falling in what felt like slow motion. He heard himself cry out as he crashed onto a table and tumbled to the living-room floor. Then he sensed himself lying on his back. Can’t breathe . . . God, the pain.
Seconds passed. The room was total blackness. Then a bright beam of light hit him in the eyes.
Esteban stared down from the top of the stairs. A smile crept onto his face at the sight of the body squirming and writhing on the floor. It pleased him that Jack was still alive. He pointed his flashlight up into the towering stairwell, as if admiring his work. The limp, lifeless body dangled overhead, twirling slowly on the rope. He tucked his gun into his belt, then pulled out his switch-blade. “Let the games begin,” he said dryly. Then he shined the flashlight back down the stairway toward Jack—and his satisfied smile disappeared. In the few seconds he’d taken to savor the moment, his prey had quietly vanished.
Esteban scanned the living room floor with the flashlight. A look of confusion crossed his face. He saw no blood. No blood at all—anywhere. He grit his teeth in anger, realizing that his quarry must have been wearing a vest. Quickly, he jerked the flashlight from downstairs to upstairs. Jack’s gun and flashlight were lying on the floor.
Esteban’s smile returned. Jack was unarmed, and he couldn’t have gone far. The house was completely dark, yet he’d snuck away without a sound. To do that, he had to have stayed within the glow from Esteban’s flashlight. Esteban laid the flashlight down on the floor right where he stood at the top of the stairs, so as to mark the outer limits of Jack’s escape. The dim, eerie glow extended all the way across the living room, into the parlor on one side, down the hall that led to the library on the other. It was large enough to make this fun. Esteban put his knife away, then pulled out his pistol. This time, Jack Swyteck would not get away.
Chapter 54
•
Outside the warehouse four blocks away, Governor Harold Swyteck stepped cautiously toward the wide-open doors of the old Chevy van. His gun was drawn and his heart was racing. He froze ten feet from the van when he saw that a sack the size of a body bag was lying across the van’s floor, jerking back and forth.
“Don’t move!” he shouted.
The motion stopped, but a stead
y whimpering followed. It was a muffled, desperate sound. The governor stepped closer and focused on the license plate. It was a Dade County tag—from Miami.
“This is Harold Swyteck,” he announced as he reached the back of the van.
The whimpering grew louder, more urgent.
“Lie perfectly still,” he ordered. “I have a gun.” He stepped up into the dark van and knelt down beside the body. He pointed the gun with one hand and quickly untied the strings on the sack with the other.
“Cindy!” he said, recognizing her from Jack’s description.
She stared up at him with wide, horrified eyes.
“It’s okay,” he tried to calm her. “I’m Jack’s father.” He began to open the sack, then stopped, realizing she was naked. The monster had taken her clothes. He untied the gag.
She drew a deep breath and tried to move her stiffened jaw. “Thank God,” she cried in a trembling voice.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes!” she answered. “But you have to call the police. He’s going to kill Jack! He told me he would, right before he knocked me out with some injection. He was moving to another house, said you’d find me in this van. I’m his messenger to you.” She raced on without catching her breath. “He said he’s going to kill Jack, and he wants you to find the body. We may already be too late to save him. He said Jack would be dead by the time I woke up.”
“Where are they?”
“He didn’t tell me. He’s not looking for a showdown with you. He wants you to search for your son, hoping you can save him. He wants you to be too late. He just wants you to find Jack’s body.”
The governor snatched a portable phone from his vest and punched the speed dial. “Code red, Kimmell! I’ve got Cindy. She’s okay. Jack’s in trouble. Need a location.”
The Pardon Page 28