Jack breathed a heavy sigh. No fear, he added, speaking only to himself.
Chapter
51
After some last-minute advice from Kimmell, Jack and his father told each other to be careful. Then they left the hotel and headed in separate directions. The governor went west toward Mallory Square, an assortment of big, wide piers that had once been a waterfront auction block for wine, silks, and other ship salvage hauled in by nineteenth-century wreckers. During Fantasy Fest, the square was more or less a breaker between the insanity on Duval Street and the peaceful Gulf of Mexico. Jack walked south on Simonton, a residential street that ran parallel to Duval. The neighborhood was a slice of wealthy old Key West, with white picket fences and one multistory Victorian house after another, many of them built for nineteenth-century sailors, sponge merchants, and treasure hunters, many of them now bed-and-breakfasts.
He walked two blocks very quickly, then slowed down, realizing that he had no official destination. The Flintstones danced by on their way to the festival, singing their theme song. Others in costume streamed by on foot or on motor scooter, since cars were useless during Fantasy Fest.
Jack's portable phone rang, startling him. Yes, he answered.
Turn left at Caroline Street, said Esteban, and stay on the phone. Tell me when you hit each intersection.
Jack crossed Simonton and headed east on Caroline Street. The noise from Duval was beginning to fade, and he saw fewer pedestrians on their way to the party. It was darker, too, since there were fewer street lamps, and the thick, leafy canopy blocked out the moonlight. The sidewalk was cracked and buckled from overgrown tree roots. Palm trees and sprawling oaks rustled in the cool, steady breeze. Majestic old wooden houses with two-story porches and gingerbread detail seemed to creak as the wind blew. Jack just kept walking.
This is not about your girlfriend, said the voice over the phone.
Jack exhaled. The phone obviously was not just for directions. I'm at Elizabeth Street.
Keep going, said Esteban, and then he immediately picked up his thought. This is all about Raul Fernandez. You know that, don't you?
Jack kept walking. He didn't want to agitate, but after two years of wondering, he had to keep him talking. Tell me about Raul.
You know the most important thing already. His tone was forceful but not argumentative. It wasn't Raul's idea to kill that girl.
Tell me about him, though.
There was silence on the line - one of those long, pivotal silences Jack had heard so many times when interviewing clients, after which the flow of information would either completely shut down or never shut off. He heard the man clear his throat. Raul had been in prison in Cuba for nine years before we came over on the boat. And after nine years in jail, what do you think he wanted most when he got to Miami?
Jack hesitated. The story about the boat fit Kimmel's theory that the kidnapper was Esteban. But he wasn't sure whether this was meant to be a monologue or a dialogue. You tell me.
A whore, you dumb shit. And he was willing to pay for it. But there are so many whores out there who just won't admit what they are. Just pick one, I told him. He did, but he still needed encouragement. So I went with him, to show him how easy it was.
You and Fernandez did it together?
Raul didn't kill anyone. The knife was just to scare her. But the stupid bitch panicked and pulled off his mask. Even then, Raul still didn't want to kill her. I was saving his ass by doing it. So how do you think it felt when he was the one arrested for murder? I did everything I could to keep him from getting the chair. I even confessed! But you didn't do your part, Swyteck. The governor, the man who could stop it all, was your father, and you did nothing.
Jack resisted the temptation to educate the kidnapper, but he felt a certain vindication - not for himself, but for his father. Since the murder had begun as a rape or attempted rape by Raul Fernandez, Fernandez was as guilty as the man who had slit her throat. By law, anyone who committed a felony that brought about an unintended death was guilty of murder, even if the murder was committed by an accomplice. It was called felony murder. It was a 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.
Try the cabinet. Beneath the breakfront.
Jack darted across the dining room, tripping over the Persian area rug. He pulled open the cabinet and shined the light inside. She's not -
Of course she isn't. Begging and pleading gets us nowhere - remember? Try something else.
Jack rose to his feet, taking short, panicky breaths as he squeezed the portable phone in his hand. You miserable son of a bitch. Just tell me where she is.
Anger, he taunted. Let's see where that takes us. Try the living room - the closet at the base of the stairway.
Jack pointed the light across the room, revealing a grand stairway worthy of Scarlett O'Hara. It curved majestically up to the second floor, then curled in tight, smaller steps all the way to the third.
The closet! ordered Esteban, as if he somehow sensed that Jack hadn't moved.
Jack felt the seconds ticking away. He was a puppet, but following orders was his only hope. He darted toward the stairway, leading with the flashlight as he zigzagged through a maze of antiques in the living room. He found the closet and yanked open the door. Nothing. You bastard! his voice echoed in the dark, cavernous stairwell.
Time is short, came the voice over the phone. What are you going to do now?
Just stop the game! I'm the one you want. Take me. Just take me.
Yessss, said Esteban, hissing with satisfaction. A confession. It's your last chance. That's exactly the conclusion I reached, Swyteck. See if it works this time. Confess to me.
I'll confess anything. I'm the one you want.
Why? he played his game. What did you do?
Whatever you say I did. Whatever you say. I did it -