The Pardon

she got ready. Cindy was Gina’s roommate back then, and she kept Jack entertained while he waited. He and Cindy clicked. Boy, did they click. He spent the rest of the evening with Gina just trying to find out about Cindy, and Cindy was the only woman he’d dated ever since. At first, Gina had seemed upset by the turn of events. But as he and Cindy became more serious, Gina came to accept it.

He checked the traffic at the curb, waited for the light to change, then started across the boulevard toward the Institute’s parking lot. He was still wrapped up in his thoughts and struggling under the weight of the boxes when he noticed a car rolling through the red light. He picked up his pace to get out of the way, but the car increased its speed. Suddenly, it swerved sharply in his direction. He dove from the street to the sidewalk to keep from getting run over. As he tumbled to the concrete, he caught a glimpse of the retreating car. The first letter on the license plate was a Z. In Florida, that meant it was a rental.

His heart was in his throat. He couldn’t stop shaking. He looked to see if there were any witnesses, but he saw no one. The Freedom Institute wasn’t in a neighborhood where many people strolled the sidewalks. He remained on the ground for a moment, trying to sort out whether it was an accident, some street gang’s initiation rite, just another crazy driver-or something else. He didn’t want to be paranoid, but it was hard to dismiss the event as an accident. He picked himself up, then froze as he thought he heard a phone ringing. He listened carefully. It was his phone, a cheap but reliable car phone he’d installed at Neil Goderich’s insistence, just in case his twenty-year-old Mustang happened to leave him stranded in one of those questionable areas that were breeding grounds for Freedom Institute clientele.

He looked around. He was still alone. The phone kept ringing. He walked to his car, disengaged the alarm with the button on his key chain, and opened the door. The phone must have rung twenty times. Finally, he picked up.

“Hello,” he answered.

“Swyteck?”

Jack exhaled. It was that voice-that raspy, disguised voice on his home telephone two nights ago.

“Who is this?”

There was no answer.

“Who is this?”

“You let the killer loose. You’re the one who let him go.”

“What do you want from me?”

There was a long pause, an audible sigh, and then the response: “Stop the killer, Swyteck. I dare you.”

“What-” Jack started to say. But he was too late.

The line clicked, and they were disconnected.

Chapter 8

At 11:40 A.M. Harry Swyteck put on his seersucker jacket, exited the capitol building through the rear entrance, and headed to Albert’s Pharmacy at the busy intersection of Tenth Street and Monroe. The bright morning sun promised another insufferable afternoon, but the air wasn’t yet completely saturated with the summer humidity that would bring the inevitable three o’clock shower. It was the perfect time of day to hit the streets, press the flesh, and do some grass-roots campaigning.

He reached the drugstore a few minutes before noon, masking his anxiety with campaign smiles and occasion handshakes along the way. Albert’s was a corner pharmacy that hadn’t changed in forty years, selling everything from hemorrhoidal ointment to three-alarm chili. Most important for the governor’s purposes, though, it was one of the few places in town that still offered the privacy of a good old-fashioned phone booth out front. Harry wondered if his attacker had that in mind when he selected it.

“Mornin’, Governor,” came a friendly greeting. It was seventy-nine-year-old Mr. Albert, sweeping up in front of his store.

“Morning,” Harry said, smiling. “Great day to be out, isn’t it?”

Mr. Albert wiped the sweat from his brow. “I suppose,” he said as he retreated back inside. Harry felt that he, too, should be on his way. But he couldn’t go anywhere until his phone call came-and, above all, he couldn’t arouse suspicion by hanging around in front of a drugstore. So he stepped inside the booth and tucked the receiver under his chin, giving the appearance that he was deeply engaged in private conversation. He casually rested his hand on the cradle, concealing from passersby that he was pressing the disconnect button. He checked the time on a bank marquee down the block. Exactly twelve o’clock. He was suddenly very nervous-not about taking the call, but about the possibility that it wouldn’t come at all. To his quick relief, the phone rang, and he immediately released the disconnect button.

“I’m here,” he said into the phone.

“So you are, my man.” There was still that thick sucking sound to the man’s speech. “Let’s make this quick.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not tracing the call.”

The man seemed to scoff. “I’m not worried at all. You’re not about to call in the cops.”

Harry bristled, annoyed that the caller had him figured for an easy mark. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I can read you like a book. I saw the way your eyes lit up when I told you I had information about Fernandez. You’ve been thinking about that one for a while, haven’t you?”

The governor listened carefully as pedestrians and buzzed by outside the booth. It disturbed him that this stranger understood him so well-this stranger who spoke like a punk but had the insight of a shrink. Part of his disguise, he figured. “What’s your proposal?” he asked.

“Simple. I’ll give you the evidence. The same evidence I showed your son two years ago, so you can see with your own eyes it was me who slit the bitch’s throat. All you gotta do is come up with the cash.”

Harry’s mind was reeling. This was the man who had visited Jack the night of the Fernandez execution? Could he be on the level-could he really be the killer?

“Wait a minute, you’re saying you killed that young girl?”

“You need a hearing aid, old man? That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

The governor felt as if a deep chasm were opening up in front of him and he was plummeting downward with no end in sight. It took a few seconds to collect himself. “You said something about money?”

“Ten thousand. Unmarked fifties.”

“How do I get it to you?” he asked, though he could hardly believe he was actually negotiating. “And how do I get this evidence you claim you have?”

“Just bring the money to Bayfront Park in Miami. Go to where the carriage rides start, by the big statue of Christopher Columbus. Get in the white carriage with the red velvet seats. The driver’s an old nigger named Calvin. Get the nine p.m. ride. When you get to the amphitheater, he’ll stop for a break and get himself an iced tea from the roach-coach senorita with the big tits. When he does, check under your seat on the right-hand side. The seat cushion flips up, and there’s storage space underneath. You’ll find a shoe box and a note. Leave the money, take the box, read the note-and do exactly as it says. Got it?”

“What if the carriage driver doesn’t stop?”

“He’ll stop, if you get the nine o’clock ride. You can set a fucking clock by him. He always stops.”

“I can’t just go for a carriage ride with a sack full of money.”

“You can-and you will.”

The governor quickly sensed the nonnegotiability of the terms. “I’ll need a little time. When do you want it?”

“Saturday night. And like I said: Take the nine o’clock ride. Gotta go, my man. I don’t think you’re tracing the call, but just in case you are, my seventy seconds is about up.”

The governor heard a click on the other end of the line. Slowly he placed the receiver back in the cradle, then took a deep breath. He worried about getting in deeper, but he had to be certain that what this man was telling him was the truth. He didn’t know what he’d do once he confirmed it, how he’d be able to live with himself or explain it