The Pardon (34 page)

Father and son sat staring at each other. All right, the governor finally said, we don't bring in the police. But I have lots of friends in the private sector - retired FBI agents, retired Secret Service. They can help. They can at least give advice.

Jack wrestled with it. That makes sense, I guess. But any advisers have to be just that - advisers. Ultimately, it comes down to me.

No, the governor corrected him. You and me.

Jack looked at his father across the table. The governor gave him a reassuring smile that was meant to remove any doubt that he could count on his old man.

Let's do it, then, said Jack. We'll nail this bastard. Together.

Part Five Saturday, October 29

Chapter
48

Jack and Harry Swyteck reached the end of U. S. 1 and the city limits of Key West at about noon the next day. They followed the palm trees along the coastline and parked Harry's rented Ford Taurus near Duval Street, the main thoroughfare that bisected the tourists' shopping district. Both sides of Duval and the streets leading off of it were lined with art galleries and antique shops housed in renovated white-frame buildings, booths advertising snorkel tours, T-shirt emporiums, bicycle rental shops, and open-air bars blaring a mElange of folk, rock, and calypso.

At the north end of Duval was Mallory Square, a popular gathering spot on the wharf where magicians, jugglers, and portrait artists entertained crowds and turned sunsets into a festival every day of the year. During Fantasy Fest, the square was simply an extension of a ten-day party that stretched from one end of Duval to the other.

Fantasy Fest was already in its ninth day when the Swytecks arrived, and the party in the streets was still nonstop. Some tourists were buying their feathers, beads, and noisemakers for the annual but hardly traditional Halloween parade on Saturday night, others were just people-watching. Many were already in costume. Men dressed as women. Women dressed as Martians. A brazen few were undressed, covering their bare breasts or buttocks with only grease paint.

Check that out, Jack said from his passenger seat, pointing to a man outfitted in a lavender loincloth and a pink bonnet.

Probably the mayor, the governor deadpanned.

Harry parked the car in the covered garage near their hotel. They grabbed their overnight bags and a briefcase from the trunk and headed up the old brick sidewalk, grateful for the shade of hundred-year-old oaks and a cool ocean breeze. Hotel rooms were hard to come by during Fantasy Fest - especially if requested at the last minute - but the governor had a few connections. They checked in at the front desk and carried their own luggage to a suite on the sixth floor.

The sliding-glass doors offered a stunning, eight-hundred-dollar-a-night view of the Gulf of Mexico. Jack walked out onto the balcony and looked at the Pier Point, one of those outdoor waterfront restaurants where the food was never as good as the atmosphere. It all seemed so surreal, he thought. He wanted to think that at any moment Cindy would join them, and then they'd get caught up in the party, walk on the beach or head over to the original Sloppy Joe's and find the table Ernest Hemingway used to like. But they had business to tend to - someone to meet. And at 1:00 P. M., the man they wanted to meet was at their door.

Peter Kimmell, said the governor, meet my son, Jack.

Jack closed the balcony's sliding-glass doors and pulled the curtains shut. Glad to meet you, he said, reaching out to shake the man's hand.

Kimmell was tall, about six feet four inches, with a lean body that moved with catlike grace. His face registered little emotion, but his eyes seemed to be constantly assessing, processing information. They gave Jack the uncomfortable feeling that he was being evaluated, measured against some personal set of standards.

Old habits die hard. Kimmell was a twenty-year veteran of the Secret Service who'd burned out two years before and retired to his bass boat in the Florida Keys. But he'd quickly grown bored with fishing, so he took up cycling, then swimming, then running - and before he knew it, the same energy that had made him a top agent made him one of the top competitors in the age-fifty-and-above Ironman triathlon. He still did some work as a private investigator when he wasn't training, and Harry Swyteck used him as a consultant on special events that raised thorny security problems. The governor considered Kimmell the best in the business. And, most important, he was the only man Harry trusted to give Jack and him the expertise they needed without any danger of a leak to the press or police.

So you're Jack, Kimmell said, smiling. Your dad's told me a lot about you - all good. He shifted his gaze from son to father. You ready to get right to it, men?

Ready, they both answered.

Good. Now let me show you some toys I've brought along for you, he said with a wink. He hoisted onto the bed a gray metal suitcase that was nearly as big as a trunk. Voila, he said as he popped it open.

The Swytecks stood in silence as they peered at the cache inside. What did you do, asked the governor, mix up your bag with James Bond's?

You won't need half this stuff, said Kimmell. But whatever you will need is here. I got everything from voice-activated wires to infrared binoculars.

I think we should keep it simple, said Jack.

I agree, he replied. First, let's talk weapons. You ever fired a gun, Jack?

Jack smiled at the irony. How would Wilson McCue have answered that question for him? Uh-huh - he nodded - back when I was in college. I had a girlfriend who didn't feel safe at night without a gun in the apartment, so I learned to use it.

Good. Now, for you, son, he said as he removed a sleek black pistol from the holster, I recommend this baby - the Glock Seventeen Safe Action nine-millimeter pistol, Austrian design. It's completely computer-manufactured of synthetic polymer. Stronger than steel, but weighs less than two pounds even with a full magazine, so you can hold it nice and steady. Deadly accurate, too, so you don't have to be right in this lunatic's face to blow him away. And it's got a pretty soft recoil, considering the punch it packs: You got seventeen rounds of police-issue hollow-point para-ammunition that'll drop a charging moose with an attitude dead in its tracks. He handed it to Jack. How's that feel, partner?

Jack laid it in his hand and shrugged. Feels like a gun.

Like a part of your hand, Jack. That's what it feels like. He took the pistol back, then dug into his suitcase. Now, let's talk real protection: body armor. It's gonna be hot as hell, but you gotta wear a vest. This is the top of the line in my book. Made of Kevlar one twenty-nine and Spectra fibers. Full coverage. Protects your front, back, and sides, and the shirttails keep it from riding up on you. Stops a forty-four-magnum slug at fourteen hundred feet per second - that's point-blank range. Excellent multi-hit stopping power, too - he winked - but I think I'd still hit the deck if he pulls out an Uzi. Best of all, it weighs less than four pounds and gives you full range of motion. Beneath your baggy black sweatshirt, your kidnapper won't even know you got it on. Governor, got a Glock and body armor for you, too. I know you never used to like to wear the vest, but -

I'll wear one, he said without hesitation.

Good, replied Kimmell. Now - the plan. If I'm gonna help you men get ready to meet this character face-to-face, I need to get a fix on who he is. I need to know everything you know about him. So let's start at the beginning. Tell me about the murder he confessed to. Who was the woman he says he killed?

A teenager, actually, Jack answered. She got herself into a nightclub with a phony ID, then she was abducted in the parking lot on the way to her car. The next morning, they found her on the beach. Her throat had been slit.

What else - Kimmell asked, but he was interrupted by the shrill ring of the telephone. You guys expecting a call?

No, answered the governor.

The phone was on its third ring. Answer it, Jack, Kimmell directed.

Hello, he answered, then listened carefully. No, thank you, he finished the conversation, and then hung up. His father and Kimmell were staring expectantly. There's a package at the front desk for us.

From who? asked Kimmell.

No name on it. But it must be him. When he called me yesterday, he said we should just check into one of the big hotels and that we'd hear from him. There's only a handful of possibilities on the Key. Looks like he found us.

Kimmell nodded. Tell them to send it up.

Jack phoned the manager and asked him to deliver the package to their room personally. The manager was glad to accommodate. In two minutes he was at their door with the delivery. Kimmell answered, then brought the shoe-box-sized package inside and lay it on the bed. He took a metal detector from his suitcase and ran it across the package.

There's metal inside, said Kimmell.

You think he sent us a bomb? asked the governor.

Can't be, Kimmell answered. If he was going to blow you up, he would have done it two years ago. Open it.

Jack carefully removed the string and cut the tape with the care of a surgeon. He lifted the lid. Inside the bubble wrap was a cellular phone. Across the top lay a business-sized envelope with a handwritten message on the outside. Switch on the phone at midnight, it read.

At least we know your kidnapper hasn't lost his nerve, said Kimmell. He's still in the game. Which means there's still hope.

What's in the envelope? asked the governor.

Kimmell opened it and unfolded its contents. It's a certificate of death, he said.

Not Cindy? the governor asked with sudden fear.

Raul Francisco Fernandez,' he read from the first line. It's from the County Health Department. An exact duplicate, except for Box thirty - the cause of death. You can still make out the original, typewritten entry. Cardiac arrest,' he read aloud, as a consequence of electrocution.' But someone has crossed out the coroner's entry and penciled in a different cause of death. He handed it to the governor.

Jack Swyteck,' Harry read aloud, his voice cracking.

A heavy silence permeated the room. Then Kimmell took a closer look at the certificate. Why'd he do this? he asked.

That's been his message all along, Jack said. He's blamed me from the beginning.

I'm talking about something different, said Kimmell. There's another message here - one that's a little less obvious. Maybe even unintended. Box seven, he said as he pointed to it, is the space for the informant.' That's the person who provides personal data for completion of the certificate. The named informant here is Alfonso Perez.

Who's that? asked Jack.

There are lots of men named Alfonso Perez. But from my days in law enforcement I know that at one time it was also one of the aliases used by a guy known as Esteban. Every federal agent based in Miami in the eighties knew about this character. Brilliant guy. Speaks English as well as he does Spanish. Every so often he changes his name and identity. The feds can't keep up. I heard they almost nabbed him two years ago, but he took off to somewhere in the Caribbean. Anyway, he's a suspect in at least five murder-kidnappings in this country alone.

He's wanted in other countries, too? asked Jack.

Came here from Cuba. He was a thug in Castro's army, years ago. Trained with the Russians during the war in Angola, then distinguished himself by torturing political prisoners - a merciless bastard. Earned himself a nice promotion to the Batallon Especial de Seguridad, Castro's elite military force. But when they cut off his daily routine of driving nails into molars and bashing heads with bayonets, they say he snapped. He craved the violence. Went on a killing spree. Raped and murdered about a dozen women in Havana - all prostitutes. The Cubans threw him in a booby hatch for a couple years. Then Castro sent him over to Miami in 1980, when he opened the jails and asylums and turned the Mariel boat lift into a Trojan horse. Esteban just snuck in with the hundred and fifty thousand other Marielito refugees. FBI and Immigration have been looking for him ever since.

Raul Fernandez came to Miami in the Mariel boat lift too, said Jack.

Probably not a coincidence, Kimmell speculated. That doesn't mean Fernandez was a criminal, though. Only a small number of the Marielitos were.

Jack and his father sat in silence. You think it could be him? Jack asked.

Kimmell sighed heavily. I really can't say for sure. But for your sake, he added, I sure as hell hope not.

Jack rose and stepped toward the window, pulling back the drapes just enough to peer out at the vast ocean. It's not me who I'm worried about, he said with more than a touch of fear.

Chapter
49

On the other side of Key West, near the tourist landmark designated The Southernmost Point in the Continental United States, beneath the rotting pine floorboards of an abandoned white frame house, Cindy Paige blinked her eyes open. She wasn't sure if she was awake. Although her eyes were open, her world was total blackness. She tried to touch her eyes to make sure she wasn't blind, but her hands wouldn't move. They were bound. She struggled to get loose, but her feet were bound too. She screamed, but it didn't sound like her. She screamed again. It was muffled, as if a hand were covering her mouth. Was someone there? Was someone with her? Suddenly it came back to her - the last two things she could remember: a sack being thrown over her head and then a jab in her arm.