James Grippando - The Pardon

“And your dad?”

“We get along.” He smiled, but with a hint of sadness. “When I was a kid, we were real tight. Horsed around, went to the Hurricanes games. We took the boat down toward Elliot Key nearly every weekend. Came back with our limit every time, it seemed.” He paused. “After I got out of school, though, it was more formal-you know, brisk handshake and ‘how’s the business going, son?’ That sort of thing. But we’re always there for each other.”

Jack thought of that picture he’d seen on his father’s bookshelf the night of the Fernandez execution. Deep-sea fishing. Just the two of them.

“Waiter,” he called out. “Two more over here, p1ease.”

Driving back from South Beach at 1:45 that Saturday morning, Cindy leaned over, turned off the A.C. in Gina’s car, and opened her window to let in some warmer air.

“Why’d you do that?” Gina said petulantly.

“Because it’s getting cold in here.”

“I like the cold air. It keeps me awake-especially after I’ve had a few drinks. Besides, these pants I’m wearing are hot.”

Cindy looked over at her girlfriend. Oh, they were hot all right, but not in a thermal sense. The clingy black spandex molded Gina’s body perfectly-a body that could get her anything from dinner at world-class restaurants to full service at self-service gas stations. She was gorgeous, and she worked at it, still striving at age twenty-four for “the fresh book” that had earned her a thousand dollars a week as a sixteen-year-old model.

They’d first met six years ago in college, two eighteen-year-old opposites who were thrown together by the administrative fiat of dorm-room assignments. Cindy was the more serious student; Gina, the more serious partyer. For the better part of a semester they simply put up with each other. Then late one Saturday night Gina came back to their room in tears. It took until dawn, but Cindy finally convinced her that no college professor, no matter how good a lover, was worth a fifth of bourbon and a bottle of sleeping pills. Cindy was the only person who ever learned that a man had pushed Gina Terisi to the edge. A friendship grew out of that night’s conversation, and over the years Cindy had witnessed the slaughter of countless innocent men who came along later and paid for the sins of Gina’s first and only “true love.” Cindy knew that the predatory Gina wasn’t the real Gina; but it was hard convincing others who hadn’t seen her at her most vulnerable.

“Have you ever driven a car with your eyes closed?” Gina asked.

“Can’t say I have,” said Cindy as she fiddled with the buttons on the car radio trying to find something she liked.

“I have. Sometimes when I see there’s a car coming at me, I get this feeling that I want to hold the wheel steady, close my eyes, and wait for that whooooooosh sound as the car whizzes by.”

Cindy rolled her eyes. “Just drive, Gina.”

Gina made a face. “You’re in one hell of a mood.”

“Sorry. I guess I don’t feel like I should be out partying tonight. I’m having second thoughts about telling Jack I want to break up.”

“We’ve been over this a hundred times, Cindy-you’re getting out of that relationship.”

Cindy blinked. “It’s just that we were so close. We were even talking about making it permanent.”

“Which means that I rescued you without a moment to spare. Believe me, it’s no accident that the word married rhymes with buried, ” she said, mashing the pronunciation. “Life’s no dress rehearsal, okay? Find some excitement without standing on the side-lines and living your life through me. You’ve got a great opportunity right in front of you. It’s not every twenty-five-year-old photographer who gets hired by the Italian Consulate to go traveling around Italy taking pictures for a trade brochure. Jump on it. If you don’t-if you stay behind because you think you’re gonna lose Jack-you’ll end up hating him for it someday.”

“Maybe,” Cindy said. “But that doesn’t mean I have to dump him. I could just tell him that the time apart will give us both a chance to decide whether our relationship should be permanent or not.”

“Just stop it, will you? You’ve been living with Jack for months. After that much time, you either know it’s right or it’s wrong. And if you’re still saying you’re trying to make up your mind-believe me, it ain’t right.”

“It felt right at times.”

“That was a long time ago. I know you, Cindy. And I know you’ve been unhappy with Jack for months. Here’s a guy who claims to be talking about ‘making things permanent,’ yet half the time he won’t even give you a hint of what’s really on his mind. And whatever the hell this big secret is that keeps him from talking to his big-shot father is too weird. I think he has a screw loose.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Jack,” Cindy said defensively. “I just think the way his mother died and how his family handled all these problems has him confused about a lot of things.”

“Fine. So while he sorts it all out, you go have yourself a ball in Italy.”

“I don’t know-”

“Well,” Gina huffed, “do what you want then. But it’s a moot point, anyway. Once Jack hears who your traveling companion will be, it’ll be over between you two anyway.”

Cindy didn’t answer. Gina had a point, but she didn’t want to think about that right now. She just listened to the radio for a few minutes, until the early-morning jazz gave way to the local news at 2:00 A.M. The lead story was still Eddy Goss.

“. . the confessed killer,” said the newscaster, “who was acquitted by a jury Tuesday afternoon on first-degree murder charges.” This report was about Detective Lonzo Stafford’s diligent efforts to link Goss to at beast two other murders, to get him off the streets so that, according to Stafford, “Goss will never kill again.”

Cindy and Gina both pretended not to listen, though neither had the other one fooled. Jack’s involvement in the Goss case had brought this killer a little too close to home. Cindy thought of Jack, probably by himself, back at the house. Gina thought of Eddy Goss. Out there. Somewhere.

Gina steered her champagne-colored BMW, a gift from her latest disappointed suitor, into her private town house community, a collection of twenty lushly landscaped units facing the bay. Gina could never have afforded waterfront property on her salary as an interior designer, so she “leased” this place from an extremely wealthy and married Venezuelan businessman who, as Gina once kidded, “comes about three times a year, all in one night, to collect the rent.”

Cindy’s car was parked in Gina’s garage, so Gina parked in a guest space across the lot. They stepped tentatively from the car with the disquieting newscast about Eddy Goss still fresh in their minds.

“Nothing like a killer on the loose to make a marathon out of a two-minute walk to the front door,” Cindy half-joked as they briskly crossed the empty parking lot.

“Yeah,” Gina replied, her nervous laughter ringing flat and hollow in the stillness of the dark night. She ran up the front steps two at a time. Cindy trailed behind, moving not quite as fast in heels as her long-legged friend. The porch light was on and the front door was locked, just the way they’d left it. Gina fumbled through her cosmetic-packed purse for her key and poked awkwardly at the lock. Finally, she found the slot and pushed the key home. With two quick turns she unlocked the dead bolt, then turned the knob and leaned into the door, opening it-but just a foot, as her body jerked to an unexpected halt. The door caught on the inside chain.

They froze as they realized they couldn’t possibly have gotten out of the townhouse had they put the chain on the door.