The Pardon

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 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.”