After the Execution (21 page)

G
IDEON
C
RANE SAT
at the table next to his swimming pool
contaminating
the air with cigar smoke.

It was a cold night, but the whisky swirling around inside him stopped him feeling it. He’d downed half a bottle already and he was determined to finish it before going to bed. And why not? It was the only way to blunt his senses and deal with this whole fucking nightmare.

Crane hadn’t spoken to his wife since she’d stormed into his office to tell him that she knew about his affair with Beth. How long ago was it? Three? Four hours? He couldn’t remember.

He’d tried to talk to her, but she’d retreated to their bedroom and had refused to come out. He’d heard her crying and it had infuriated him.
He
was the one who should be shedding tears. It was
his
life and
his
political aspirations that were under threat like never before.

He knew he faced a stark choice. Stay with Beth and try to weather the storm after Pauline filed for divorce and branded him a serial adulterer.

Or end it with Beth – the woman he loved – in the hope that Pauline would stick with him and not ruin his chances of becoming President. But how could he ever trust her? She was a manic depressive who had already tried to kill herself. She was unpredictable at best and was certain to make his life hell from now on.

He stared up at the stars, as though beseeching them to tell him what to do. But instead their cold indifference filled him with an intense rage.

Crane took a deep pull on his cigar and spun what was left of it into the pool. His eyes felt dry and heavy and his head was starting to swim a little.

He shouldn’t have let it come to this. He should have dealt with Pauline a long time ago, when he first realized that she would never recover from finding out that she could not conceive. That was when she started to drift away from him and into her own tortured world.

Now he would suffer the consequences of standing by her out of self-pity and a misguided sense of duty. She was suddenly a woman scorned as well as a drug-dependent depressive. And that made her a lethal weapon.

He reached across the table for the whisky bottle and poured some into his empty glass. No half measures. He filled it to the brim and gulped down a mouthful before topping it up again.

His head thumped like a bass drum and blood pumped
supercharged
through his veins. He knew that in the morning he would have the mother of all hangovers. But he didn’t care. This was a pivotal moment in his life and he needed help in dealing with it. Alcohol was the great comforter in times of crisis. That was why he had drowned himself in booze after that night ten years ago when everything changed.

Then, as now, he’d been confronted with an agonizing dilemma. His mind sucked him back and the images of the carnage pressed in on him.

When he’d woken up from the blows inflicted by Lee Jordan he’d found Kimberley lying on the floor with blood on her face and head. Jordan’s gun was next to her. It was obvious he had attacked her before fleeing.

But she wasn’t dead.

Crane knew that as soon as he knelt beside her and saw that she was still breathing. At first he tried to wake her, but then something stopped him – the sudden realization that he had been presented with an extraordinary opportunity to solve a problem. He saw a way to avoid a costly divorce and hold onto his fortune; a way to embark on a new life with Pauline, his then mistress.

In that moment of clarity he was seized by an impulse that was so strong he couldn’t fight it. Probably because deep down he didn’t want to.

So he’d picked up the gun with his handkerchief, careful not to smear Jordan’s prints.

And then he’d shot his wife.

It had been as simple and as heartless as that.

The cops had never suspected a thing and the only person who knew the truth was Lee Jordan. But Jordan’s story that he had hit Pauline in self-defence when she attacked him, but had not murdered her, was never believed.

Crane felt no guilt or sympathy for Jordan because the bastard should not have broken into their home. He’d found it almost as easy to live with what he’d done to Kimberley. The guilt was there, of course, a dull ache inside him, but he had always been able to supress it, even after he stopped drinking heavily.

Now, as a bitter taste settled in his mouth, he wondered if it had all been worth it. He was right back where he began – in a loveless
marriage
and with a difficult choice to make. Only now things were much worse. He was on the edge of a precipice. And whatever decision he made, the outcome – in respect of his political ambitions – would almost certainly be the same. He’d be ruined. The campaign would be over and he’d become a pariah. It would be the end of his lifelong dream and the start of an endless struggle with shame and disappointment.

Suddenly a thought wormed its way into his brain and he realized there
was
a way out for him. It sparked a surge of optimism. It was
actually
quite simple. He would do to Pauline what he’d done to Kimberley, only this time he’d make it look like suicide. It would be easy enough, considering her history.

All he had to do was go upstairs and get the gun he kept in the drawer beside the bed. He’d stick the muzzle in her mouth and blow the top of her head off. Then he’d put the gun into her hand and raise the alarm.

Sure, he would have to pull out of the race for the Republican
nomination
, but not for long. He’d stage a miraculous comeback before the Primaries, claiming it was what his troubled wife would have wanted.

As the idea grew in his head he felt his face flare with hope. This was his way out. He was sure of it. It was the solution to his problem, a way of getting both Beth and the Presidential nomination. Pauline’s brother would be an issue, but he’d solve that by throwing money at him. He was sure that would work.

As he warmed to the idea he reached again for the whisky bottle, but this time he fumbled with it and it fell off the table. He tried to catch it, but in doing so he lost his balance and his chair toppled over, throwing him onto the patio. The bottle exploded next to him, the glass
shattering
into dozens of pieces, some of which rolled into the pool.

‘Shit,’ he yelled.

He tried to pull himself up, but he felt dizzy and disoriented. So he just lay there for about half a minute.

Then he struggled to a sitting position, closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath.

When he opened his eyes again he discovered he was no longer alone.

A figure loomed over him. A familiar figure.

It sent a chill through every fibre of his being. He was so stricken with terror that he couldn’t even scream.

All he could do was stare.

At the ghost of Lee Jordan.

T
HE MAN WHO
wanted to be the next US President looked absolutely terrified.

His eyes bulged out of their sockets as he stared up at me from where he sat on the glass-strewn patio. I pointed the gun at his chest but I don’t think he even saw it. His gaze was locked on my face and it was clear that he thought I was an apparition.

His fear and confusion filled me with a heady sense of satisfaction. What he’d done had festered inside me for so many years. I’d had to accept that he had got away with murder by incriminating me. Nobody believed my story. In the face of all the evidence and Crane’s emotional testimony it wasn’t surprising.

That was why it had been impossible for me to resist the temptation to come here. Having been given the opportunity I knew I had to
confront
him and then to kill him. For what he had put me through and for what he had put Marissa and Emily through. Not to mention what he had done to his own wife.

I’d been watching him from the bushes at the edge of the lake before climbing the fence into his garden. Getting here had been relatively easy considering it was a gated community. A sign at the entrance had stated that the development was protected by a company called Security Inc., but I’d figured that even if the alarm was raised it would take them time to respond and then they’d have to find me. In the dark I’d been able to mount the perimeter fence without being seen and because the houses – all modern colonials – were so far apart, it’d taken only a few minutes to locate Crane’s property.

Killing him was going to be easier than I thought. I hadn’t expected him to be outside smoking a cigar and getting slowly drunk. And now
that he was in front of me all I had to do was pull the trigger and leave.

‘I know you killed your wife,’ I said. ‘I’ve always known. I didn’t mean for her to get hurt. I hit out in a blind panic and the gun struck her on the head. But she was alive when I ran from the house. I made sure of it. I didn’t shoot her so it must have been you.’

He clasped his hands together as though in prayer and said, ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’

And there it was. An admission. Given willingly because he was drunk and thought I was a ghost that had come back to haunt him. It was almost laughable.

‘You let me rot in a cell for ten years,’ I said. ‘All the time you knew I was innocent.’

‘Forgive me,’ he said, his voice pleading. ‘Please.’

‘My wife died because of what you did, Crane. And so did my sister. You’ve destroyed so many lives.’

He was sobbing now. The high-flying, powerful politician who cut a sharp and authoritative figure on TV was now a whimpering wreck. It made me want to drag this out, to watch him suffer, to wallow in his pain. But there was no time.

‘You’re a piece of shit, Crane,’ I said. ‘You don’t deserve to live.’

A frown creased his brow suddenly and he leaned his head to one side.

‘You’re not a ghost,’ he said. ‘You’re real.’

I grinned sardonically. ‘Of course I’m real, you idiot.’

He was stunned. ‘But I was there in the death chamber. I saw them kill you.’

‘You
thought
that’s what you saw,’ I said. ‘But it didn’t happen. And now I’m here to kill you.’

‘This is not possible,’ he said. ‘It can’t be.’

‘Why did you kill your wife?’ I asked him.

Crane unclasped his hands and raked his fingers through his hair. His body shuddered with an involuntary spasm.

‘Answer the fucking question,’ I yelled. ‘Why did you kill your wife?’

A sudden panic overcame his features and he said, ‘It was too good a chance to pass up. I had an opportunity to get rid of her. It was a way out of the marriage.’

‘You bastard,’ I said.

I raised the gun and thought about the woman he had killed and all
the years I’d spent on death row waiting to die.

And then I thought what a tragedy it would be if this vile man ever became President of the United States.

I started to squeeze the trigger.

But just then a voice behind me said, ‘Don’t shoot, Mr Jordan. If you do I will kill you.’

I
TURNED MY
head slowly. Pauline Crane was standing there in a
light-coloured
dressing gown aiming a pistol at me.

I recognized her immediately from the TV and from the witness room in the execution chamber. She looked pale and dishevelled and her body was ramrod stiff.

The light from the pool danced in her eyes and her face was taut and serious.

‘Please put the gun down,’ she said. ‘I promise I’ll shoot if I have to.’

Her husky voice contained a controlled determination that left me in no doubt that she would.

I lowered my arm, placed the gun gently on the table, and cursed under my breath. I should have been more careful. Seeing Crane outside by the pool had caused me to drop my guard.

‘Thank God,’ Crane said, getting quickly to his feet. ‘This bastard was going to kill me.’

But his relief was short-lived. As he took an unsteady step towards his wife she shifted the gun away from me and pointed it at him.

‘That’s far enough, Gideon,’ she said.

He stopped dead and stared at her.

‘What the fuck is this?’ he hissed.

She regarded him with utter contempt and said, ‘When I was upstairs I heard breaking glass. Then I heard voices. Just before I came outside I heard what you said about Kimberley. What you did to her.’

The sudden silence was electrifying. I watched the blood drain from Crane’s face. Then he curled his lip and shook his head.

‘I made it up, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘It’s not true. None of it.’

His wife’s eyes lit up with a sudden fury.

‘You’re a liar. You murdered Kimberley. And likely as not you’ll do the same to me so you can be with your whore.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said. ‘Please, Pauline. Stop this.’

She turned to me and said, ‘I’ll apologize on his behalf, Mr Jordan. I honestly had no idea.’

Crane snorted, a phlegmy back-of-the-throat noise.

‘Are you crazy?’ he ranted, slurring his words. ‘This guy has come back from the fucking dead. He wants to kill me and he’ll kill you too. So wise up and shoot him.’

But she kept the pistol trained on Crane. His anger mounted, fuelled by shock and whisky.

‘Pauline, listen to me,’ he said. ‘I love you. I’d never hurt you. And I didn’t kill Kimberley. You have to believe me.’

‘I know what I heard,’ she said. ‘And right now it’s all I can do just to look at you.’

‘If you pull the trigger you’ll be making a terrible mistake,’ he said. ‘We need to talk.’

‘There’s nothing to talk about. I’m going to kill you because I don’t want the world to know what you did. People will think I was a party to it.’

Crane snapped his eyes on me and said, ‘This is a dream, right? It’s the whisky. I’m hallucinating.’

For just a split second I thought of pleading with Pauline to spare him so that he could face a trial and clear my name. But of course there was no guarantee it would work out that way. He would simply deny what he’d said and there would be no way to prove it.

So I kept my mouth firmly closed.

‘You’re a despicable man, Gideon,’ Pauline said. ‘It shames me that I actually fell in love with you.’

Crane turned back to his wife and then suddenly lunged at her. But with all the whisky inside him there was no way he was going to reach her in time.

She squeezed the trigger and the gun went off with a sharp retort.