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 pump 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 steady 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.”
“Roger,” replied Kimmell. He punched a button on his terminal. In seconds, it would pick up the signal from Jack’s pulsating transmitter. At least it should have picked it up. He punched it again. Still nothing. Again. Nothing.
“Dammit, I’m not getting a reading,” he said.
“What?”
“It’s not coming through.”
“How can that be?”
Kimmell shook his head, trying to think. “I don’t know-maybe, maybe he lost the transmitter? I’m sorry, Governor. I can’t find him.”
The words cut to Harold Swyteck’s core. “God help him,” he uttered. “Dear God in heaven, please help him.”
Chapter 55
A determined Esteban stepped quietly down the staircase, beneath Rebecca’s dangling corpse. He’d left the flashlight on the top step, pointing into the stairwell. He needed light, but he didn’t want to reveal his whereabouts by being its source. In the eerie yellow glow, his tall, lean body cast a lengthy shadow into the living room. His movements were quiet as a snake’s. The gun felt warm in his hand. His heart actually beat at a normal pace-just another day at work for an experienced killer. He could either wait for Jack to come out of hiding, or he could go and get him. The choice was easy. Esteban loved flushing his quarry out of the bush.
Behind the staircase, at the end of the long. Dark hallway, the heat in the tiny bathroom was nearly suffocating Jack. Sweat poured from his body. The bulletproof vest cloaked him like a winter parka, but he didn’t dare take it off. It had saved his life once already-though a constant sharp pain told him the blow from the bullet had probably cracked a rib. He drew shallow breaths to minimize the pain. But pain was the least of his problems. He had no gun, no flashlight, and no contact to the outside world. He’d lost everything in the tumble down the stairs, and the gunshot had destroyed Kimmell’s transmitter. Surprise was his only weapon. He stood perfectly still, hiding behind the open bathroom door with his back against the wall. He listened carefully for his stalker and accepted the brutal fact that only one of them would walk out of the house.
Leading with his gun, Esteban crept down the hall behind the stairway, one slow and silent step at a time. The fuzzy light from the stairwell grew dimmer with each step, but this was familiar territory. He had walked the entire house several times before Jack’s arrival. He knew that just a few feet ahead, just beyond the faint glow from the flashlight, there was a bedroom on the right and a bathroom straight ahead. He moved closer to the wall and stopped just five feet away from the open bathroom door.
Jack was in total darkness, but his eyes were adjusting. From behind the open door he peered with one eye through the vertical crack at the hinges. There was light in the living room at the other end of the hall, but the hallway itself was barely illuminated. Jack’s night vision improved with each passing second. Finally, he could see Esteban-a black silhouette with a gun in its hand.
Jack could feel his hands shaking and his heart pumping even more furiously. He could taste his own blood from a cut on his lip. The shadow slowly inched closer. He couldn’t see his eyes or the features of his face. But there was enough light in the background to know he was right there. He was staring into the face of the enemy-but the enemy was a shadow. He wondered whether Esteban-or whoever he was-could see him, whether he was toying with him, knowing that his prey was unarmed and defenseless. Jack would find out in a moment. Esteban had two doors from which to choose-the bedroom or the bathroom. Jack held his breath and waited.
Go into the bedroom, he prayed.
Time stood still. Then Esteban moved-just a few inches. He was coming closer. He’d chosen the bathroom.
Jack could hear Esteban breathing. Jack’s own lungs were about to explode, but he didn’t dare take a breath. He was frozen against the wall. The open door was in his face. Esteban was at the threshold. His hand had crossed the imaginary plane. Another step and he’d be inside.
Suddenly, Jack pushed against the door with all his might, slamming it shut Esteban cried out. His wrist was caught in the door, and his hand with the gun was in the bathroom. A shot roared in the pitch-dark bathroom, shattering the mirror. Another shot exploded the basin. Esteban was firing wildly. Jack put all his weight behind one last shove, and then he heard the sound of metal crashing on ceramic tile. The gun was on the floor. And Esteban was pinned.
Still braced against the door, Jack groped with one foot in the darkness, searching for the gun. He found it. His foot was right on it He heard a piercing sound above his head, like a nail puncturing wood. Another piercing sound, and Jack cried out with pain as the point of Esteban’s switchblade passed through the door and punctured his forearm. Jack dove to the floor and grabbed the gun, expecting Esteban to come crashing through. He pointed and shot twice in the darkness. But no one fell. Through his terror, he registered the sound of footsteps in the hall. Esteban was running. Jack opened the door and fired another quick shot, but his target had already turned the corner.
Jack dashed from the bathroom and followed in Esteban’s footsteps. He heard a crash in the kitchen. The killer was escaping. Jack sprinted to the kitchen just as the back door slammed shut, then ran out to the porch. He looked left, then right. He saw a man dressed in black running down the sidewalk toward Duval Street. Jack knew Esteban would disappear forever if he made it back to the madness at Fantasy Fest. Jack’s ribs were sore from the gunshot, his forearm had a puncture wound, and he was bleeding badly from the forehead, but his fall hadn’t broken any bones in his legs. So he tucked the gun into his belt and began sprinting.
The Pardon js-1 Page 28