The Governor's Sons (50 page)

Caldwell still gloated over the suicide note he’d written.
 
To make it sound genuine, he’d done a little research by reading one of Hall’s articles from a past issue of
The Crier.
 
For a colored boy, Hall sure knew a whole lot of fancy words.
 
Still impressed by his craftiness, Caldwell silently recited a few lines from the note:

I, Harland Hall, do administer to commit murder on Gavin Kroth as an attribute of revenge.
 
Through this action, it will be seen that I persevere to avenge Willie Cane’s family.
 
By committing suicide on myself, I will display my adherence to the white race.

No one, Caldwell was convinced, would ever think those words weren’t written by Harland Hall himself.

****

After Harland left his office, he headed to the Governor’s Mansion.
 
From there, he and Gavin rode in an armed security car to the NAACP meeting location, Friendship Fellowship, a Negro church across the bridge.

Harland glanced stiffly at Gavin, who sat next to him in the backseat.
 
Probably the first time he’d been that close to a black person who wasn’t shining his shoes.
 
“So,” Harland began to make small talk, “your dad said you practiced your presentation in front of him and did a good job.”

“I think I did okay,” Gavin said.

“Are you nervous?”

“No! Why should I be?” Gavin answered defensively.

Harland suppressed a smirk at the rich white child’s abrasive response.
 
What a spoiled kid, Harland thought.
 
In an attempt to cool him off, Harland asked, “Are you—pretty confident when it comes to public speaking?”

“I can manage,” Gavin said coldly.
 
“It’s something you gotta do sooner or later when you come from a political family.”

Harland raised one eyebrow.
 
In a condescending tone, he said.
 
“I—uh—suppose so.”
 
Harland rethought his behavior.
 
He wouldn’t stoop to the kids’ level.
 
Instead, he’d try to be civil for the remainder of the evening, no matter how much the brat got on his nerves.

****

Caldwell sat in his car observing the traffic crossing over the bridge.
 
According to the contact, the meeting would start at half past 7:00.
 
Hall would arrive about 15 minutes early, while the majority of attendees wouldn’t get there until much later.
 
Colored people were always late.
 
The contact said they go by C.P. time.
 
Caldwell learned that stood for Colored People’s Time.

Traffic wasn’t too heavy now.
 
It was after dinner and after rush hour.
 
Caldwell didn’t want to have to blow up anybody besides Hall and the Governor’s son—and of course, the unlucky driver.
 
Right now there weren’t any pedestrians on the bridge.
 
Caldwell hadn’t seen anyone on foot for quite a while, but just then, he saw a young woman pushing a baby carriage.
 
Slowly, she began walking across the bridge, seeming to enjoy a leisurely stroll.

Caldwell glanced at his watch.
 
She’d have plenty of time to get across and out of the way, as long as she didn’t dilly dally.
 
A fast car sped by and that appeared to make her move a little more quickly.
 
Caldwell didn’t like killing women, and he drew the line at killing kids.
 
There was just something too sick about that.
 
After a few minutes, the woman had safely crossed the bridge and was now out of sight.
 
Caldwell was relieved.
 
He had a job to do, and he’d have to do it, no matter what.
 
But he’d have a hard time living with a baby’s death on his conscience.

Caldwell gazed at the bridge beams.
 
A one pound stick of dynamite could do the job, but he’d used four.
 
Caldwell had secured them to the beams with duct tape near the mid-point of the bridge, which stretched about the length of a football field.

For the explosion, Caldwell had decided on electric caps.
 
Each dynamite stick was implanted with one and he’d detonate them using his car battery.
 
He’d strung the necessary wires from the caps along the side of the bridge to his car.
 
 
Caldwell would start his engine to detonate the explosion from where he was.
  
He’d parked in an area partially camouflaged by trees.

He climbed from the car, then opened the hood, to look like he was having car trouble.
 
That would appear innocent enough, he thought.
 
And he was wearing his glass eye, not his patch, so if anyone did notice him, he wouldn’t stand out like a--one eyed man.
 
Caldwell laughed to himself, despite the slight discomfort of the artificial eye he rarely wore.
 
He couldn’t wait.
 
His hands itched with anticipation.

Luckily, around 7:10, there were no other cars near the bridge except for a large black Oldsmobile.
 
It was a government car.
 
Caldwell had seen it or others like it, coming and going from the Governor’s Mansion.
 
The countdown was on.
 
As the car sped on to the bridge, Caldwell readied himself for the explosion.
 
When the car had traveled about a third of the way, Caldwell started his engine to detonate.
 
Nothing happened.

This wasn’t the time for a hangfire!
 
Caldwell was on the verge of panic.
 
The Organization wouldn’t tolerate an explosive failure.
 
He figured there was either too much current or a short in the wire.
 
The car was now beyond the midpoint.
 
Time was of the essence, and once again, Caldwell tried to detonate.

****

As the large black car rolled over the bridge, Gavin tugged at the knot in his tie. “I hate wearing these.”

“Yeah.” Harland glanced at his watch. “I’m hoping folks will be on time tonight.
 
I’ve promoted your visit.” Harland smiled.

To Gavin, it seemed like Harland was trying to ease the tension between them, so Gavin gave a slight smile in return.
 
He might as well be nice, since he’d be stuck with the guy—along with a bunch of other colored people—for the next couple hours.

“Negroes want to hear what you have to say,” Harland continued, “especially the young ladies.
 
They say you’re pretty cute for a white boy.”

When Gavin felt his cheeks flush, Harland laughed.

But suddenly, there was a loud explosion. The blast blew out the car windows, showering the interior of the vehicle with glass.
 
The driver lost control. The car spun wildly, screeching on the pavement.
 
Everything happened so fast, Harland and Gavin had no time to react.
 
The Oldsmobile was catapulted over the side of the bridge and crashed into the river a few stories below.
 
Once they hit the water, there was no sign of the driver, but Gavin and Harland managed to escape through the windowless openings.

****

Caldwell left his car after detonating the dynamite.
 
He watched as the Oldsmobile hit the water, disappointed that his explosion hadn’t achieved the magnitude of greatness he’d expected.

“Damn it.” Caldwell swore softly.
 
The dynamite was somehow defective, and not all of it had blown up.
 
And to Caldwell’s dismay, far off in the river, he saw the boy—alive.
 
Well, alive for now, anyway.
 
With the look of the current, he’d likely drown.
 
Caldwell didn’t have time to stick around and see if Hall survived.
 
He knew the place would be swarming with cops pretty soon, and he had to get away.
 
But first Caldwell wanted to remove the undetonated dynamite.
 
He prided himself on never leaving a trace of evidence behind on a job.

No cars were near the bridge, but he heard a police siren far away.
 
For now, the coast was clear.
 
Caldwell quickly made his way up the hill and through the trees from where he’d parked his car.
 
As he ran toward the middle of the bridge, his gut told him instead to flee the scene and leave the explosives behind, but he ignored it.
 
Caldwell grabbed at the first dynamite stick he reached.
 
When he began cutting through the duct tape with a pocket knife, he heard a sharp sizzle.

“Oh, sh—”

Over the roaring river, Gavin heard another explosion off in the distance.
 
The river’s current was rough, but Gavin was a strong swimmer, unafraid, and determined not to die.
 
His mind raced as he was infused with the unquenchable quest to survive.
 
As the cool water sloshed loudly around him, he was able to rid himself of his jacket and shoes.
 
Gavin knew not to fight a strong current, but to swim with it.
 
When he saw Harland struggling to stay afloat, he swam aggressively in his direction to save him.

“Harland,” he yelled strongly, over the thrashing current, “Stay calm!” When Gavin reached him, he said, “Hands on my shoulders--spread your legs!” Harland did as he was told. With Harland holding his shoulders Gavin leaned back and began swimming a heads up breast stroke downstream with the current.

Harland coughed. “You gotta know--”

Gavin was breathing hard.“What?’

“Your dad…”

“Huh?”

“He’s my dad, too,” Harland gasped.

For Gavin, no other emotion registered besides survival. His strokes were broad and strong. “We’re gonna make it.”

But all of a sudden, they went through a hydraulic, a churning spot in the river that tore them apart.
 
Although Harland was visible one moment, by the next, he’d disappeared underwater.
 
Gavin tried frantically to find him, but when he did, Harland was face down in the river.
 
Quickly, Gavin swam toward him and grabbed his shoulders.
 
Spinning him around, Gavin positioned himself beneath Harland.
 
While holding him across the chest with one arm, he allowed Harland to ride on his hip.
 
With his free arm, Gavin swam sidestroke with the current.

As Gavin took deep breaths, dirty silt filled water sloshed into his mouth, then burned as it pushed its way out through his nose.
 
At one point he almost lost Harland again, but with all his might, Gavin held fast to his brother.

Dry land seemed incredibly far away.
 
For a moment Gavin was about to lose hope.
 
“God,” he gasped, “please help me to make it—please help me to hold him.”
 
Gavin then felt a sudden surge of invigoration.
 
And now as he swam, the riverbank almost appeared to move toward him.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the bank was within reach, and Gavin saw a police officer and two medics rushing to help.
 
The medics ran into the water for Harland and immediately began administering CPR.
 
After the policeman helped Gavin to dry land, Gavin fell down exhausted on his hands and knees.
 
Belching up air, water and silt, he watched as the medics tried to resuscitate Harland.

****

It was a fatal accident.
 
The driver’s body still hadn’t been found, so he was assumed dead.
 
Ash’s press secretary had given a statement to the newspaper and T.V. reporters earlier, and he’d asked that they stay away from the hospital and respect the privacy of the governor’s family and Mr. Hall.
 
Security personnel were now stationed outside the hospital at various points to make sure no journalists or suspicious looking characters appeared anywhere near the facility.

Now in the emergency room waiting area of Clarkstown Memorial Hospital, Ash paced nervously, while Charlene, her eyes glazed over in shock, sat on an orange upholstered chair.

“Governor and Mrs. Kroth,” Dr. Banner, the young emergency room physician said, as he approached them, “your son is fine.”
 
Banner was fair, with thick red hair that was almost orange, and a freckled face.
 
“But we’re keeping him overnight for observation.
 
The X-rays show no broken bones, but he does have some cuts, from the glass and shrapnel, and some bruising.”

Ash exhaled.
 
He hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath.
 
“Thank God that’s all that’s wrong.”

“When can we see him?”
 
Charlene asked quickly.

“In just a few minutes; he’s leaving emergency now and being moved to a room. His nurse will let you know when he’s situated and take you to him.”

By the time Dr. Banner had completed giving them an update on their son’s condition, the nurse was ready to show them to Gavin’s room.
 
Ash told Charlene to go on.
 
He wanted a chance alone with the doctor to ask about Harland.