Not in the Heart (30 page)

C
HAPTER
47

48 MINUTES BEFORE EXECUTION

One step at a time, one foot in front of the other, letting the truth take me where it would, I headed for the governor's mansion. I was slowed by the rain pooling on the streets, in gutters, on my windshield, and generally raising the water table several inches. When it rains in Florida, it's not a slow, steady drizzle; it's usually a go-for-broke, all-out onslaught of pelting droplets big enough to bludgeon small animals.

Phone service was in and out but I managed to get in touch with the aide of the governor's aide to tell him I needed to speak with the governor. That was met with a swift and curt push of the Hold button, followed by a “That would be impossible, I'm afraid.”

I asked to speak with Reginald, who promptly reiterated the “much too busy” schedule and added another “impossible” to the mix. A dinner party with some foreign dignitary, probably from some far-flung, exotic place like Pennsylvania. The aide actually laughed out loud when I said I was on my way for a private, face-to-face meeting. I explained the matter was urgent, dealt with my son and the execution. He explained some more. I made a couple of threats and then pulled out the one card I had left, which was the PR nightmare this would be for the governor if my son didn't make it through the surgery. He was supposed to be holding our hands in the hospital waiting room, not dining with the queen of Sheba.

I simply said I was on my way and left it at that, hoping someone would be there to greet me when I arrived, or at least that there wouldn't be anybody with a shotgun at the security checkpoint.

About a mile before the exit, a car pulled beside me, which wouldn't be a big deal or out of the ordinary on most days. However, for conditions like these and how fast I was already going, it seemed a little obtuse for someone to try to race me for the middle lane. Instead of passing me, the car stayed there splattering my windshield and side windows.

I could barely see with the torrent cascading. The sun had descended and the cloud cover made things pitch dark. Amid the water streams along the side of the car I noticed the passenger window coming down in the car next to me. Upon closer examination I saw a man smiling—another dead giveaway that something was wrong because sane people don't smile in rainstorms. The guy had a handlebar mustache. I suddenly recalled the glint of a tire iron and searing pain in my face.

I hit the brakes and the car zoomed ahead, then hit its own brakes. We were now off the interstate, heading for town, and I couldn't turn around and go the other way because of the median. But never let a little thing like that stop a determined reporter. I swung the car around and went the wrong way, unable to see anything in my path. In my rearview, I noticed my friends doing the same thing, following me with haste and bravado.

Don't these guys know I have something important to do?

The first semitrailer I met sounded his air horn and I nearly flooded the driver's seat, if you know what I mean. He swerved to miss me, and my friends from the interstate zoomed up to my rear with brights and flashers on, which was not a bad idea. I thought it was going to be one of those chase scenes from the movies where the main character drives amazingly well against traffic, bobbing and weaving through oncoming cars, but as soon as I hit the next intersection, a line of cars met me, blocking my way, honking their horns and being generally unhelpful in my getaway.

When the passenger door of the car behind me opened, I mashed the accelerator and went up on the median, a concrete barrier that was tall enough to prevent drivers, but the old Sequoia did admirably well. That is until my back window blew out. I ducked way too late, but it was reflex. When I sat up, I was headed north, this time flowing with traffic instead of against it. There's one advantage to having your back window blown out by a shotgun and that is you can actually see. And what I saw was the car chasing me smash into the front end of a Camry or a Civic—I can't tell the difference anymore—spinning that car around before it continued.

It was at this moment that I remembered the gift I had received from Helen. All unwrapped and ready to go. Instead of speeding up, I slowed a bit. My heart surged with adrenaline, my body alive and alert. I rolled the window down and let the car catch up. I wanted to shout some epithet toward the guys about Mickey and what a loser he was, but I knew they wouldn't hear me over the roar of the road and rain.

They seemed genuinely excited to pull up close, but that look of excitement changed when they saw Helen's .38. One of the things my dad had done well was teach me how to shoot. I hadn't held a gun in my hand in twenty years, but I took dead aim and fired three times before I saw their right front tire deflate. That sent them swerving toward me and I accelerated. Through the rearview I watched the driver try to regain control before the tire disintegrated. The passenger put his gun out the window and fired again but I was gone. Long gone with a date at the governor's mansion.

C
HAPTER
48

31 MINUTES BEFORE EXECUTION

A security guard in a trench coat met me at the gate and pointed to the parking area. He looked askance at the holes in the side of my car and the missing back windshield, but I kept moving. In the parking area I was met by an aide's brother's pet sitter (it must have been someone like that) who came to the car with an umbrella the size of Iowa and ushered me to an entrance, the rain thundering on the roof and rushing from the eaves. Heart beating wildly, looking behind me for Mickey's goons, I was at the door before I remembered Helen's gun in my jacket pocket. Fortunately it was a rear entrance and there was no metal detector.

The music of Mozart wafted from surround-sound speakers in the small meeting room at the back of the mansion. I hung my jacket on a coat tree near the door and watched it drip into a pool on the immaculately vacuumed carpet. The jacket sagged grotesquely to one side, the weight of the .38 pulling it down, and I positioned it as well as I could, taking the
People
magazine from under my arm and placing it on an end table.

The pet sitter left and it was just Amadeus, me, and my thoughts about the conversation ahead. I was so focused on getting here and taking the next step that I hadn't let the full force of my actions sink in. Could I really do what I was about to do? Pulling the plug on the execution automatically meant pulling the plug on Aiden. Which choice could I live with more? Which choice would haunt me the most when I was old and gray?

I've heard of atheists having deathbed conversions. Was it this type of situation that caused them to turn toward God, or were those reports just the imaginations of hopeful believers interpreting last-gasp words as honest confessions?

Instead of dealing with eternity or shooting up a halfhearted prayer, I turned to Mozart. Classical music has a tendency to make people feel calm and collected. It makes me want to find an overstuffed chair at Barnes & Noble and read
Jane Eyre
or sip a double latte frappe-whatever so I can experience the yang to the yin of all that calmness, the caffeine stirring up the inside while the cells try to float along unhindered and happy. But tonight the violins caused more stress and I was unable to focus. All that
ba da ba bum bum bum bum bum
stuck in my craw. That's the funny thing about Mozart: you can't turn him down like you can Billy Joel or U2. Mozart will seep into your soul and force you to deal with him.

Mozart is like God in that way, I guess, because through all of the day's events I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being followed, hounded, pursued, not just by Mickey's goons but by the hand of some unseen being. Maybe Ellen was right. Maybe there was something to this Jesus thing. It had certainly given her a measure of peace in the midst of the storm. It had also changed Terrelle's life and given him freedom inside that prison that I had never known outside it. Was God better than the slots? Could I trust him?

What was I doing? I couldn't think about the God quotient right then, but that's what flooded my mind. And if I gave him a chance, if I simply said, “God, if you're up there, I'm open,” what would happen?

I stayed away from the window for obvious reasons and glanced at my watch. According to the timetable set in motion by the state, Terrelle Conley would at that very moment be on a gurney in his cell, strapped and prepped for the surgery that would take his life. In less than thirty minutes two groups assembled outside the execution chamber would hear his last words. Terrelle would be given the chance to make that statement with his head turned sideways, facing his family and friends. Then the curtain would be drawn, and he would be taken to a sterile operating room prepared by the warden at the request of the governor, a cost the taxpayers would shoulder. When the procedure was complete, the warden would reappear with a doctor who would pronounce the prisoner deceased, and everyone would either celebrate or grieve.

I found the radio clicker in the top drawer of the ancient end table Ponce de León had probably used on his last vacation trip. That's when the governor waltzed into the room in a tuxedo and black shoes so shiny I could have applied mascara—if I used mascara, that is. Reginald tagged along, as well as a buff bodyguard type who looked like he could tag-team wrestle after his stint with the government.

“Truman, I'm surprised to see you. Why aren't you at the prison?”

“That was the plan. But the plan has changed.”

“You should be with Ellen, then. This is a big night for your son.”

“It's a big night for you, too, isn't it?” My tone was not conciliatory.

It was getting a little tight in the room, all four of us, and the governor decided to thin the herd with a glance and a nod. The two others reluctantly left. The governor held out a hand to the nearest leather chair that smelled like a cow had very recently given its last full measure. I stood, preferring to look down on him.

“What do you mean, it's a big night for me? The dinner?”

“In a few minutes your problems are all going to fade. You'll be hailed as the magnanimous hero who turned sewage into wine.”

“I'm not sure I understand. You're getting everything you wanted. Your son is getting a new lease on life. What's the problem?”

“The problem is Terrelle Conley didn't kill Diana Wright and you know it.”

“That's preposterous. I have a signed confession.”

“From a guy who knew he was going to die anyway. A confession you forced.”

He ran a hand through his perfectly combed hair. “After all I've done. After all the chances I took. I'm under considerable political scrutiny here, and I took those risks to help you and your family.”

“You took the risk to cover your mistake.”

“What mistake?” he said, his eyebrows arched, his brow furrowed.

“Your relationship with Diana.”

Ba da ba bum bum bum bum bum.

He stared at me.

“You put her on a monthly retainer to trim your hair. This was when you were in the legislature—even before you stepped into the mansion. You sent the limo to pick her up in some undisclosed place, swore her to secrecy. Paid her well.”

His face was tight now. “I don't know what you're talking about and I resent the insinuation that I am part of this conspiracy you've concocted.”

“Well, why don't we just forget the formalities here, Carlton. Stand up and drop your pants.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Diana described your tattoo. Gave the exact location. So let's see if I'm concocting or if—”

“That would prove nothing.”

“Diana said you two were going to run off and be soul mates. That your hearts beat as one. That she'd never felt as loved and as whole as when she was with you. How does it feel, Townsend, to have that girl on your conscience when you go to sleep? You covered it well. You framed a drunk and figured nobody would care.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Conley's defense thought he was guilty. The prosecution followed blindly along the crumb-strewn trail. You and your German friend—Dieter, or whatever his name is—did a good job.”

I plopped the magazine in his lap and pointed to the picture where the blond man was shown behind Townsend in a rally a few years earlier. He was inside the perimeter, obviously part of the governor's detail.

“This is the guy who's been following us, accosting my daughter. He's probably the one who broke in to my house. Maybe even planted bugs. Ever seen him before?”

Something like fear coursed through Townsend's eyes. His mouth opened but nothing came out. For once in his political life.

“Diana did more than your hair, didn't she? She believed the tripe you shoveled her way, just like your voters.”

He sat forward, a blank stare, his hands on his face. Then he looked up. “I didn't kill her or have her killed. Our relationship was innocent. At first. She was not a beauty queen. We agreed she would be good—personal appearance is important in this line of work, as you know. And she didn't pose quite the threat that others may have.”

“Threat?”

“To my marriage, Truman. You've heard the stories of my indiscretions. There are others who have knowledge of my tattoo.”

Yeah, I know.

“But I know nothing about her death. I was as shocked as anyone when her body was found. You can't know the pain.”

Amadeus had turned to a more happy tune, lots of frolicking and high string action. Tugging at the heart. Kind of like a sound track to the sob story Townsend was spilling.

“I wouldn't talk about your pain on the witness stand.”

Townsend continued, “I've gone under the same assumption as the authorities. Conley was the killer and deserved full punishment.”

“Well, Carlton, I'm not buying it. There are too many trails leading back to you.”

There was a quick knock at the door.

“Not now,” the governor snapped.

The door opened anyway and in walked Mrs. Townsend in a stunning black dress, low-cut neckline, and shiny shoes just like her hubby's.

“What is it, darling?” she said. “We're waiting for you.”

He looked up at her with something akin to childhood pleading. A diabetic kid with his hand in the Snickers jar. “Truman believes I'm responsible for that hairdresser's death. I told him she cut my hair, but . . .”

Jennifer strode toward me, head straight, posture perfect. “Truman, this is counterproductive to your son's situation. It's idle talk. Tabloid conjecture.”

“Mrs. Townsend, did you know about Diana Wright and your husband?”

She looked at him, then back at me.

“I hate to break this to you, but he was getting more than a haircut,” I said.

She put a hand to her mouth in mock horror. “My husband? An affair? There's a shocker. You think I haven't heard this before?”

“I don't know what you've heard, but it's true. And when the media gets hold of it, you can put a nail in the coffin of moving this little political road show to DC.” I turned to the governor. “Now I suggest you get on the bat phone to the warden and tell him to stop the execution.”

“Not yet,” Jennifer said. “He has no proof. An out-of-work reporter trying to put together something to land him another job. Obviously he's emotionally distraught.”

“Let's say I'm wrong,” I said. “Let's say CT here didn't actually have her killed. He had a dalliance with a young hairdresser who knew how to keep a secret. That alone is enough to plunge the public opinion polls. And then the cover-up. That's not exactly what the American people are looking for in a leader. They've been there, done that. And the fact that this young lady had her life snuffed out only adds fuel to the story.”

“How would you know what the American people want in a president?” she sneered. “I couldn't care less what you think or know or think you know.”

“Well, you're going to care; I can guarantee you that.” It was as close to a John Wayne line as I could get.

Jennifer put out her hand and walked closer, touching my chest. “Truman, listen to reason. Of course this raises troubling questions. But think of your son. This means life or death to him.”

I looked her straight in the eyes. Behind all the shadow and eyeliner were dead, blue pools. Eyes that desperately wanted an all-expense-paid trip to Washington for eight years.

“For once I
am
thinking of him. He wouldn't want an innocent man's heart. Even if it cost his own life. And if he pulls through this somehow, I want him to know his old man finally did something right. Something good.”

I looked at my watch. Precious seconds ticked away. I hoped my words were true. I hoped Aiden would forgive me. I hoped Ellen and Abby would forgive me. And to tell the truth, I hoped God could.

There, I said it.

And right then I opened up just a little bit to the thought that perhaps he had been part of all that had gone on. Perhaps he had been not only hounding, but calling out to me all this time.

Forgive me,
I prayed.
Show me what to do.

It wasn't that hard. And something washed over me as soon as I said it in my head.

I glanced at the governor. “Call the warden.”

Jennifer turned and opened the door. “Ron? Would you mind stepping in here a moment?”

Townsend put his head down. A man stepped into the room. Jennifer smiled at the look on my face as the blond guy passed her. He wasn't in a tux and shiny shoes, but he also wasn't in camouflage. He smiled, and after he let it sink in, he reached into my jacket pocket for Helen's gun. I had the feeling early on that it was a little too easy getting past security into the mansion. Now I knew why. I was a fish lured into a barrel. And Mozart, good old Amadeus himself, would play the benediction at my demise. Ignoramus. Incompetatus. Benedictus Dominoes falling all around me.

“Jennifer, what are you doing?” the governor said. It was the most believable thing I had heard from him all evening.

“I'm taking care of this,” she snapped. “Something you should have done long ago.”

The governor looked at his wife and her aide. “You?”

She rolled her eyes. “Please, Carlton. You were as subtle as a dog in heat. I had to put a stop to it.”

Townsend stood. “You had her killed?”

“After it came to light, we tried paying her. She wouldn't let go of the fantasy.”

“Wait,” I said, not in any position to ask questions, but still, I'm a reporter. It's kind of in the bloodstream. “You and
Ron
had contact with Diana before the murder?”

“It wasn't murder. It was a good plan that . . . got out of hand.”

My mind reeled. “So it was you, Jennifer. You found a frumpy stylist for him. One you felt your husband couldn't possibly fall for. But he and Diana began this relationship—he scheduled extra sessions—”