The Pardon

around.”

“Well, an hour and a fucking half is long enough to look. Out, pal.”

Goss stood rigidly, his furor-filled eyes locked in an intense stare-down. At first the clerk’s expression was tough, but after a few seconds he seemed to lose heart. Just three weeks on the job and already he’d seen hundreds of weirdos in the shop. No one, however, had ever looked at him with such bone-chilling contempt.

“Do you know who you’re talking to?” Goss seethed.

The clerk swallowed hard. “I don’t care who-”

“I’m Eddy Goss.”

The clerk froze. He’d seen the news coverage on television, and suddenly the face was familiar.

Goss took a couple of steps forward, toward the bin in the center of the room that was full of plastic dildos and other adult paraphernalia. He stopped short and stared at the clerk. “I’m Eddy Goss,” he said, as if there were no need to say more. Then, with a quick jerk of his hand he sent an armful of merchandise sailing across the store.

The barrage of paraphernalia galvanized the clerk. Instinctively, he reached under the counter and came up with a pistol aimed at Goss. “Get outta here.” his voice trembled. “Or I’m gonna blow your fucking head off!”

Goss scoffed and shook his head.

“You got ten seconds!” the clerk warned.

Goss just glared at him.

The clerk shifted his weight nervously. His arms strained to hold the pistol out in front of him. Beads of sweat began building on his brow, and the gun started shaking. “I’m not foolin’, asshole!”

Goss was unshaken, convinced that this clerk didn’t have the nerve to shoot him. But he’d had enough of this place for one day. “I’m outta here,” he said as he headed for the door and stepped outside.

The sun had been shining brightly when he’d arrived at the bookstore, but it was overcast now, and dusk was near. He was hungry and thirsty, so he cut through the parking lot to the 7-Eleven next door. The store was empty, except for the Haitian clerk behind the counter. Goss opened a pack of Twinkies on his way down the aisle and stuffed them into his mouth as he reached the coolers in the back. He opened the glass doors, tossed the Twinkie wrapper behind the cold six-packs, and grabbed himself a tall can of malt liquor. He paid the clerk for the drink and left. He checked over his shoulder to see if the man was looking. He wasn’t, so he grabbed a newspaper from the stand. He tucked it under his arm and headed down the dimly lit alley that led to the back of the store. He chugged down his malt liquor and threw the empty can onto the pavement. He found a secluded spot behind the store, by the Dumpster, and sat on some plastic bread crates beside a tall wooden fence that offered plenty of privacy. It was time.

Goss tore into the paper and pitched the sports, classifieds, and other useless sections onto the ground until he found something suitable-a Victoria’s Secret special advertising pullout. He flipped the pages until he found the right girl, one with a particularly demure expression, then he spread the pullout on the ground at his feet. He hurriedly unzipped his pants, spit into the palm of his hand, and reached down between his legs. His eye narrowed to slits as he imagined himself on top of the girl. His breathing became deeper and more rushed as his hand moved rhythmically back and forth.

“Fucking bitches,” he gasped as his body jerked violently. He closed his eyes completely, then a second late opened them and inspected his handiwork. Son of a bitch.

Slowly he stood up and zipped his fly, towering over the smeared pictures on the ground. He reached inside his pocket and tossed down something tiny that landed with a tick on the wet surface. It was a seed. A chrysanthemum seed.

“My card,” said Goss with a quick, sinister laugh.

Chapter 7

Governor Swyteck woke at six o’clock Thursday morning. As he showered and shaved, his wife, Agnes, lay awake in bed, exhausted after a night spent tossing and turning. Harold Swyteck was not a man who kept secrets from his wife. Yesterday he’d fabricated a story about a bad fall to explain his disheveled appearance to his security guards. But he told his wife the truth-as much out of concern for her safety as out of a need to be honest.

Agnes listlessly flipped on the television with her remote, tuning in to the local “News at Sunrise.” Harry was in it again, this time appearing with a group of ministers, priests, and rabbis who were endorsing his candidacy. As her husband gratefully acknowledged the clergy’s words of praise, she felt a surge of pride, but then her thoughts returned to what he’d told her the previous evening.

Agnes had always feared that a lifetime of public service could put her Harry in danger-that eventually or of his enemies might do something more than just threaten. But her fear gave way to more complicated feelings when Harry told her that this particular attacker had special knowledge about the Fernandez case. Agnes knew all too well how her husband had anguished over the decision not to grant a stay of execution-how he’d second-guessed the clarity of his own judgment. She understood her husband’s pain. She shared it. Not just because there was no way to know whether the right decision had been made, but because of Jack.

She’d pretty much botched it as a stepmother. She knew that. She’d tried to reach out to her stepson countless times, but there was nothing left but to accept the reality of his bitterness. She might have had a fighting chance of winning his love but for a low moment twenty-three years before. It had happened the day that her doctor broke the news that she and Harry would never have children, and the awful truth had caused her to reach for the bottle.

She’d been too drunk to pick Jack up after kindergarten, so a neighbor had dropped him off. Jack came in quietly through the back door, making a conscious effort to avoid his new “mother,” whom he still didn’t trust.

“Jack,” Agnes had muttered as her eyes popped open. Her tongue was thick as frozen molasses. “Come here, sweetie.”

Jack tried to scoot past her, but Agnes reached out and managed to grab him by the back of his britches as he passed. She wrapped her arms around him in an awkward embrace and mashed her lips against his cheek. “Give Mommy a big hug,” she said, stinking of her gin martini. He struggled to get out of her grip, but Agnes squeezed him tighter. “Don’t you want to give Mommy a hug?” she asked.

“No,” he grimaced. “And you’re not my mommy!”

Resentment flared within her. She pushed little Jack off her lap but held him tightly by the wrist, so he couldn’t go anywhere. “Don’t you dare talk to me that way,” she scolded. Then she slapped him across the face. The boy burst into tears as he struggled to get loose, but Agnes wouldn’t release him.

“Let me go, you’re hurting me.”

“Hurt is the only thing you understand, young man. You don’t appreciate anything else. I’m the one who changed your dirty diapers. I’m the one who. . who”-she struggled to find the words-“lost sleep with all your crying in the night. Not your mother. I did it. I’m your mother. I’m all you’ve got!”

“You’re not my mommy. My mommy’s in heaven!”

Agnes didn’t know where the ugly words were coming from, but she couldn’t stop them. “Your mother isn’t dead, you little brat. She just didn’t want you!”

Jack’s hands trembled as he stared at his stepmother. “That’s a lie!” he cried. “A lie, lie, lie! That’s all it is! That’s-”

“. . the news at sunrise,” The anchorman’s voice drew Agnes out of her past. “From all of us at channel seven, have a great day.”

Agnes hit the off button as she returned from her memories. The governor stepped from the bathroom, dressed and ready to take his phone call at the corner of Teeth and Monroe, ready to find out the truth about Rau1 Fernandez. However, last night he’d promised his wife that he wouldn’t go without her blessing. She’d promised to sleep on it. As he stood at the foot of the bed, adjusting his necktie, she knew it was time for her to give him an answer.