James Grippando - The Pardon

“It’s in the envelope,” came the familiar, thickly disguised voice.

The governor shuddered. Of course it would be him, but he was disturbed by the voice nonetheless. “What’s in the envelope?”

“You have to ask, Governor?” came the reply. “I have your money, and you’ve got the proof it was me, not Raul, who killed the girl. That was our deal, wasn’t it?”

The governor was silent.

“ Was that our deal, Governor?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Good,” said the caller in a calmer voice. “Now open the envelope. Just open it. Don’t take anything out.”

Harry tucked the phone under his chin and unsealed the envelope. “It’s open.”

“There’s two photographs inside, both of the girl Raul got the chair for. Take out the one on the left.”

The governor removed the snapshot from the envelope and froze. It was a photo of a teenage girl from her bare breasts up. She was lying on her back with her shoulders pinned behind her, as if her hands were bound tightly behind her back. A red bandanna gagged her mouth. The long blade of a knife pressed against her throat. Her blood-shot eyes stared up helplessly at her killer. The rest of her face was puffy and bruised from unmerciful beatings.

“You see it, my man?”

“Yes,” his voice trembled.

“That’s real fear in those eyes. You can’t fake that. Sometimes I wish I’d videotaped it. But no need, really. I play it over and over again in my mind. It’s like a movie. I call it ‘The Taming of Vanessa.’ Vanessa was her name, you know. It’s nice to know their name. Makes it all more real.”

The photograph shook in the governor’s hand as his whole body was overcome by fear and disgust.

“Take out the next picture,” said the caller.

Harry closed his eyes and sighed. It would have been difficult to look under any circumstances, but it was doubly painful now, realizing that Raul Fernandez was not responsible for this girl’s death. The enormity of the governor’s mistake was beginning to sink in, and all at once he was filled with self-loathing. “I’ve seen enough,” he said quietly.

“Look at the next one. Look what I did with the knife.”

“I said I’ve seen enough,” Harry said firmly as he shoved the photo back into the envelope. “You’ve got your money, you monster. Just take it. That was our deal. Take it, keep your mouth shut, and don’t ever call me again.”

The caller chuckled with amusement. “Harry, Harry-that’s not how the game is played. We’re just getting started, you and me. Next installment’s in a few days.”

“I m not paying you another cent.”

“Such conviction. I guess you still can’t feel that noose around your neck. Here, give this a listen.”

The governor pressed the phone closer to his ear, straining to hear every sound. There was a click, then static, then a clicking sound again-and then a voice he clearly recognized as his own: “You’ve got your money, you monster Just take it. That was our deal. Take it, keep your mouth shut, and don’t ever call me again.”

Another click, and the caller was back on the line. “It’s all on tape, my man. You, the esteemed Governor Harold Swyteck, bribing an admitted killer to keep his mouth shut to save your own political skin. Every word of it s on tape-and ready to go to the newspapers.”

“You wouldn’t-”

“I would. So consider your piddling ten grand as nothing more than a down payment. Because you’re gonna a take another ten thousand dollars to four-oh-nine East Adams Street, Miami, apartment two-seventeen. Be there at four A.M., August second. Not a minute before not a minute after. The door will be open. Leave it right on the kitchen table. Be good, my man.”

“You son of a-” the governor started to say, but the caller was gone. A wave of panic overcame him. He pitched the phone and the envelope into the box beside him, holding his head in his hands as a deep pit of nausea swelled in his stomach. “You idiot,” he groaned aloud, sinking in his car seat. But it wasn’t just his own stupidity that had him shaking. It was the whole night that sent a current of fear coursing through him. The “history lesson” in the park, the photographs of the young girl, the tape recording in the car-and, most of all, the dawning realization that in this confrontation with a cold-blooded killer, he was clearly overmatched.

Jack Swyteck bent low to avoid the doorway arch as he carried the last stack of boxes into the house. Behind him, carelessly flicking ashes from a fat cigar and obviously enjoying his friend’s huffing and puffing, was Mike Mannon.

“I do believe you’re out of shape,” Mike needled.

“Excuse me, Mr. Schwarzenegger, but I didn’t notice you setting any weight-lifting records today. And get that stink-rod out of my house.”

Mike shrugged and blew a thick cloud of smoke at Jack. “Not my job to lift. You said you needed wheels because your ‘stang was in the shop. You didn’t say I had to play donkey.”

“Well, I guess that’s about it,” Jack said, surveying office haul. “God knows why I went back to get all this stuff, but I suppose it’ll come in handy one of these days when I find a new job.”

Mike looked down at the stack of legal volumes poking out of the biggest carton. “Yeah,” he said, “McDonald’s crew chiefs find frequent reason to cite legal precedent.”

“I’ll remember that, Mannon, next time some collection agency’s breathing down your deadbeat neck.” Jack smiled bitterly. “Hell, what am I saying. I’ll probably be the guy breathing down your neck. That’s about the extent of my options in this town until this Goss thing blows over.”

“Ah, don’t sell yourself short, old boy. One of those big law firms can always use an unscrupulous man like you.”

Jack gave a short laugh, then turned serious. “Sure you can’t hang out for a while?”

“Nah, got to get back to the shop. It takes Lenny about two and a half hours to create a major crisis.” He looked at his watch. “One should be brewing about now.”

“Okay, then,” Jack said, following him out the door. He looked down to see Thursday wriggling through his legs with a bookend in his mouth. “Hey, give me that,” Jack said, reaching down and patting his head. He called out after Mike, who was walking down the wood-chip path. “Thanks for the help.”

“No problem,” Mike said, turning around. He gave a short wave as Thursday bounded after him and nipped at his heels. In a few seconds the car had pulled away from the curb, and Jack was left alone with his thoughts.

He closed the door and headed to the living room. The sofa felt good as he fell back onto it and propped his feet on the hassock. He looked around. Emptiness-a lot of emptiness. Sitting there, it seemed as if he were the only occupant of a grand hotel. Why had he ever bought such a huge house? Cindy once told him that as a girl she’d dreamed of living in a mansion. Sharing a small apartment with her parents and three brothers probably had something to do with it.

There he went again. Thinking of her. Ever since yesterday morning, when he’d made such an ass of himself and insisted she leave, he couldn’t get her out of is mind. For perhaps the thousandth time since watching her go, he marveled at his stupidity. Deep down, he’d been worried that her relationship with Chet might be starting up again, and what did he do but drive her into his arms.

Brilliant move, Swyteck. Jack was tempted to call her, plead for forgiveness, but some inner voice told him he needed to get his life together-that he was too much at loose ends these days. For now, he stalled.