The Pardon

Chapter 26

Harry Swyteck may not have liked the way his campaign manager had phrased it, but if Jack wasn’t actually “killing” him, the publicity certainly wasn’t doing his campaign any good. It was only August, and the November election was still arguably far enough away to dismiss the plunging public-opinion polls as not the pulse of the people but merely the palpitations of the times. The governor, however, was not one to sit around and wait for things to change. A road trip was in order-one of those whirlwind, statewide tours that would allow him to press the flesh and pick a few wallets in face-to-face meetings with Rotarians, Shriners, and virtually any other group that wanted a breakfast or luncheon speaker.

He finished the first of what would be many fifteen hour days on the speaking circuit at 9:30 p.m. and retired to his motel room. The Thunderhead Motel was one of those roadside lodges familiar to any traveler who’d been forced to spend the night in some small town where the nicest restaurant was the Denny’s across from a bowling alley. It was typical of those long and narrow two-story motels where the rooms on one side faced the parking lot and the rooms on the other faced the algae-stained swimming pool. The rooms facing the parking lot, however, didn’t directly abut the rooms facing the pool. An interior service corridor ran through the middle of the building, for use by housekeepers and other hotel employees. That didn’t seem very important, unless you also knew that the walls in the corridor were a paper-thin sheet of plaster-board, and that employees sometimes poked holes in them to satisfy their perverse curiosity.

Harry, in his second-floor room, was completely unaware of this as he peeled off his clothes and stepped into the tub for a nice hot shower. The incredibly tacky brown, orange, and yellow floral-print wallpaper made it impossible to detect any holes in the wall that separated the bathroom from the service corridor. In fact, there was a small hole right next to the towel rack, which offered a full view of the governor’s left profile. Eight inches below that was a larger hole that accommodated the barrel of a.38-caliber revolver pointed directly at the governor’s ear.

“Don’t move,” came a muffled voice from the other side of the bathroom wall.

The governor was both startled and confused by the sound of a strange voice over running water. He froze when he saw the barrel of the gun.

“I’ll kill you if you move,” came another warning, followed by the cocking of the hammer. “You know I will. You do recognize the voice, don’t you, my man?”

Goose bumps popped up beneath the soap and lather on the governor’s body. He knew the voice all right. “You’re still alive?” he said with a mix of fear and wonder. It hadn’t been Eddy Goss who was blackmailing him; and it couldn’t have been Eddy Goss who confessed to Jack. “Why are you here?”

“Just wanted to make sure you knew it was me who fucked up your press conference, Governor.”

Harry swallowed apprehensively. “And what about the reporter-Malone? What does he know?”

“Squat. I just told him Fernandez was innocent. That’s all. Just enough to let you know I’m serious about going to the press. Didn’t show him any proof-yet.”

The governor trembled. He could barely find the nerve to ask another question, but he had to know: “Did you tell him I received a report that Fernandez was innocent before”-he paused-“before he was executed?”

“No. But I will, my man. Unless you pay up.”

“You already have ten thousand.”

The scoff was audible even over the sound of the still cascading shower. “You stiffed me on the last installment. You went all the way to Goss’s apartment, just like I told you to. I watched you walk right up to the fucking door. And you chickened out. You turned and walked away. You didn’t leave my money. And now, with interest and all, I’d say you owe me an even fifty grand.”

“Fifty thousand! I don’t have-”

“Don’t lie to me!” he snapped. “You and that rich society bitch you married have it. And you will give it to me. Don’t forget, Governor. I still have our last conversation on tape. No money, and the tape goes right to Malone-along with the proof that Fernandez was innocent. You hear me?”

Silenced by fear and utter disbelief that this could be happening to him, the governor stood quietly as the water from the shower pelted his body.

“Do you hear me!”

The governor shifted his eyes slowly toward the gun. “This is the end of it, right? This is the last installment.”

“That’s why it’s fifty grand, my man. I want the whole enchilada in one big bite. So shut the fuck up and listen. Since this is the last one, I want you to buy a big bouquet of flowers-chrysanthemums, to be exact. Get one with a nice big pot. Put the money in the pot. And just for fun, put your shoes in there, too-those Wiggins wing tips you like to wear. This Friday night, seven o’clock, take the whole thing to Memorial Cemetery in Miami. Row twelve, plot two thirty-two in the west quadrant. Leave it right there. It’s a flat marker.”

“How do I find plot two thirty-two? Who’s buried there?”

“It’s a new grave. You’ll recognize the name on it.”

“Eddy Goss?” the governor swallowed his words.

“Raul Fernandez, asshole. Go pay your respects.”

The barrel of the gun suddenly disappeared through the hole, and the quick footsteps and the slam of a door in the service corridor told the governor that his blackmailer was gone-for now.