Ghost writer, p.36
Ghost Writer, page 36
“What is going to be hard to accept, Keaton,” he hissed, “is that I have won and you have lost.”
I clenched my jaw. I held nothing back. “Prove it,” I stated defiantly.
He stood motionless and stared hard at me for a few moments. I stared relentlessly back.
Then, suddenly, he began unbuttoning his shirt. He was careful with each button, as if he were handling a delicate creature. When his shirt was completely unbuttoned, he removed it, and then looked at me, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
I couldn’t imagine what he was doing. “Impressive physique. Is that your supposed clue? You’re big enough to kill a small female?”
“No,” he said smoothly. “This is.”
He turned suddenly and extended his left arm toward me. At first I saw nothing but bulging muscles. Then it hit me and I gasped. I saw it as clear as day, and as soon as I did, Donomar laughed hard, as if someone had just told him a good bar joke.
On the shoulder of his left arm was a tattoo in the shape of a heart. It perfectly matched the tattoo on Christy Krennel’s arm. I looked up at him, speechless. His laugh rolled into a quieter chuckle.
Then he said, “It’s been here all along. No one has ever mentioned it. No one has ever found the connection.” He touched it with two fingers. “Here is your clue, Keaton. Stained on my arm. Here to stay. You missed it.”
“No,” I said. “No!”
“Yes,” he said. “Joseph James is innocent. And tonight he’s going to die.”
I froze. My mind couldn’t imagine what I needed to do. All that spilled from my lips was, “Why?”
He was buttoning his shirt back up. He answered in a casual tone. “Why not? I love evil. And what can I say? I was bored.”
I couldn’t imagine how he had pulled all this off. I stood in dumbfounded awe.
“Well, are you just going to stand there, Keaton? Or do you need a shoulder to cry on?”
I turned and ran down the corridor. His laugh chased me all the way to the steel gate.
“Open it! Open it!” I demanded. A guard rushed over, assessed the situation, and then opened the gate.
“Agent Spade, is everything—”
I ran past him and made my way outside as fast as I could. I looked at my watch. I had an hour before Joseph James was to be executed.
It took me twenty minutes to get home. The five-o’clock traffic was thick as mud. I cursed myself all the way home for not bringing Esther’s number or having a cell phone. I had stopped at a pay phone and tried her through the general number but was told she wasn’t available.
My car came to a screeching halt on the curb outside my apartment. I ran the steps up to my door, and before I got to my door, I remembered the small white envelope that had been on my welcome mat. I took it out of my coat and opened it cautiously.
Written in neat printed letters with a light blue ink pen was:
Keaton Spade:
Let this be.
Lincoln Smith will find a new life, a better life, than before. This is what I want for him. I give it to him with confidence and peace.
This is what I choose. Grace makes a poor man wealthy, and an unworthy man more thankful.
Joseph
I reread the letter quickly and then froze with indecision. Should I take this to the governor? He wouldn’t reconsider without more evidence. What about Esther? She already believed they were both guilty. How would something like this alone persuade her?
Then I looked at the letter again. He was asking me to overlook this? To let him die without a fight? What kind of insane person was this? I didn’t know and quite frankly didn’t care. The truth contradicted the governor’s decision. My instincts had been right all along.
Without more hesitation, I got back in my car and drove as fast as I could to the governor’s mansion. I gambled he would be there. With an execution less than thirty minutes away, where else would he be?
The governor eased himself into a large, plush wingback chair and crossed his legs with smooth elegance. “Care for a cigar?”
I steadied myself. “A cigar? Sir, did you just hear me—” I had just spilled out all the evidence in my possession.
“I heard you, Agent Spade. Sit down. Take a load off.”
I randomly found a place on the sofa across from him. “Sir, we’ve got less than thirty minutes.”
He checked his watch and then pulled a cigar from his pocket. “You’re sure? They’re Cuban. I know, I know. Illegal.” He smiled. “But well worth the risk. You’re not going to turn me in, are you?” He snatched a lighter off the table and clipped the end of the cigar.
I swallowed, trying to focus on the situation in front of me. “Donomar showed me a tattoo on his left shoulder. It matched the tattoo that Christy Krennel had on her left shoulder. Exactly.”
Governor Wallace twisted the butt of his cigar in the flame of the lighter. “It’s important how you light a cigar. Did you know that? You don’t just light and go. It’s much slower. You light the entire end. Turning it, like this.”
I stood up. “Are you hearing anything I’m saying? An innocent man is about to be killed!”
The governor smiled as if I’d just complimented his pansy garden and then rose from his chair and walked toward the television. “An innocent man is being released even as we speak.” He turned on the television. A picture came up quickly. It was Lincoln Smith being interviewed outside the gates of the prison.
“I cain’t believe it. I cain’t believe I’m free,” he said in response to an unheard reporter’s question.
“Are you mad at the system? You’ve been in prison for over ten years.”
Lincoln Smith formed his words carefully. “I ain’t mad. I’m gettin’ outta this place. I’m gonna go find myself a good job. Maybe get a wife.”
“Do you have anything to say to District Attorney Caladaras?”
He paused. “Nothin’ to say.”
“What about to anyone else?”
He paused again. “I guess I thank the govern’r. Fer makin’ this decision in my behalf.” He looked around at everyone and his eyes fell as he said, “I’d also like to thank a special friend. He is one good man. One good man.” Lincoln Smith teared up, his emotions so evident that even the governor took more notice. “He knows who he is. He gave me this gift. I’m here ’cause of him.” He then backed away from the microphones and refused to take any more questions, wiping his eyes and turning from the cameras. I looked at the governor.
“What about this?” I opened the envelope and let him read the letter Joseph James had sent to me.
He folded it neatly and handed it back to me, avoiding my eyes. “Sounds to me like he wants to die.”
“That’s not the point! The point is that there is hardcore evidence proving James didn’t kill that girl!”
The governor turned toward me. “Who do you think you are, coming in here and questioning me like this! I’ve made my decision! It’s based on evidence!”
“I’m telling you the evidence right now!”
His eyes cut into me. “You don’t tell me anything. Not one, single thing. You think you’re going to go out there and convince the world that I’m wrong? That we released the wrong prisoner again! Think twice. I’ll smear you. I’ll ruin you forever. Do you understand that?” His face was red and sweaty. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“I don’t, sir. Not at all.”
Suddenly his wife came back in. She glanced at me and then said, “The president is on the phone for you.” She smiled. “He sounds happy.”
“I’ll be right there.” As his wife excused herself again, he said, “Get one thing in your head right now. Don’t try to be the hero. Don’t try to change this. Lincoln Smith is going to remain a free man. Joseph James is going to die as scheduled. And everyone’s going to be happy. Our state will be commended for its bravery in reopening the case and finding the right evidence. I will be reelected and will draw votes from both parties.” He blew a ring of smoke from his cigar. “And I could care less which criminal is released.”
I could hardly remain standing. “Are you saying that you believe Lincoln Smith is guilty and you’re releasing him anyway?”
“You’re putting words in my mouth.”
I shook my head. “This is all a political move for you after all, isn’t it?”
The governor gently set his cigar in a nearby ashtray and said, “Excuse me. I can’t keep the president of the United States waiting any longer. You’ll see yourself to the door?”
The two security officers stepped in my direction and indicated that I was to leave immediately. I checked my watch. I had one more option. I had to go see Joseph James myself. Maybe, just maybe, I could convince him to change his mind.
“Honey?” Kathy stood in the doorway of Jonathan’s study. Jonathan flipped over the last page of the manuscript.
“That’s all . . .”
“What?” Kathy came to his desk.
He sighed and stared at the ceiling. “This is it. This is all that Clyde has written.” Kathy stayed still as she eyed his desk. Jonathan laughed out loud a little. “I don’t even know how it ends!”
“The manuscript gives you some indication, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know,” Jonathan said as his head fell onto his desk. “How am I supposed to write a proposal for a book that’s three-fourths of the way finished, with no clue of how it’s supposed to end?”
“Clyde didn’t leave any notes?”
Jonathan threw his pencil down in frustration. “No. I thought so. He had a folder labeled Notes, but it was just filled with some sort of Bible study or something.”
Kathy started to say something but paused instead.
Jonathan looked up. “Did you need something?”
“Yes. A Francis Flowers is here to see you.”
chapter 25
Jonathan sat up in his chair. “What? Zippy’s here?”
“Yes.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“I don’t know. I opened the front door to take the garbage out and there he was, standing on the porch. Scared me to death. But he seems nice enough.”
“No one’s ever described Zippy as ‘nice,’ ” Jonathan sighed as he stood. “How does he know where we live?”
“We are in the phone book, you know. He’s in the living room. I sent the girls upstairs. Should I make coffee?”
“No. He’s high-strung as it is. You might just stay out of the room. He has a habit of offending just about anyone he comes in contact with.”
Jonathan followed Kathy out as he straightened his shirt. “He can’t be that bad,” Kathy said. “I’ll bring in some water, at least.” Kathy went in the direction of the kitchen as Jonathan slowly made his way into the living room. Zippy was sitting on the couch staring into space.
“Francis,” Jonathan said, extending a tired hand. “I’m surprised to see you.”
“Is that so? You shouldn’t be. You’re proposing my novel Monday, are you not? You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”
Jonathan smiled and offered him a seat back on the couch. Zippy chose to stand, so Jonathan sat in the recliner. “Everything’s ready to go.”
Zippy seemed stunned. “It is?”
“Yes. I’ve just got a little tweaking to do. Nothing major. I’m looking forward to it.”
Zippy sat down and pushed his glasses up his nose. “If this is just another line to put me off—”
Jonathan laughed. “Why would you think I’m lying?”
“We haven’t talked. I thought you’d blown it off.”
“No. Not at all.” He leaned forward in the recliner, his forearms resting on his knees. “I have been preoccupied. I apologize for not returning your phone calls.”
Zippy seemed defensive and understanding all at once. “Oh. Well. I suppose Clyde Baxter croaking has been one factor.”
Jonathan silently reminded himself Zippy wasn’t worth getting upset over. “Yes. And Thanksgiving. I took my family upstate for a small vacation. A needed one.” Jonathan caught Zippy’s eye.
“Oh. Sure.” He smiled suddenly. “It’s going to committee!”
Jonathan couldn’t hide his surprise in Zippy’s glee. “Yes. Of course it is. Francis, it’s a good novel. I’m looking forward to getting feedback from everyone else.” He paused before saying, “But I must be honest. There is some reservation from those who think that you won’t be able to cross over.”
Zippy leaped up from his seat. “But you know I can!”
“Yes . . . that’s why I’m proposing your novel. Francis, this is going to happen. Rest assured. Your book’s going to committee. Beyond that, I can’t promise anything.”
Zippy’s eyes moistened and he hid his face in a handkerchief. Jonathan stood. “Are you . . . okay?”
“Fine. Fine. Allergies. Always make my eyes water. Just allergies. Nothing else.” He glanced over at the coffee table. “Look at the dust on that thing! No wonder my air passages are closing. Look at the dust.”
Kathy appeared with glasses of water. “Mr. Flowers, would you like some water?”
“Yes, thank you,” Zippy said, snatching a glass from her. He gulped it down as Jonathan collapsed back into his chair. He wiped his eyes one more time. “Ma’am, I’d recommend you get busy with some Endust in here. Or next time I’m going to have to bring my inhaler.”
Jonathan smiled as Kathy shot him an astonished look, then quickly left the room.
Zippy folded his handkerchief back in his pocket, wiped his nose with his hand, and looked at Jonathan through his thick glasses. “You look terrible.”
Jonathan managed a half laugh. “Thanks.”
“I hope you’re not sick Monday. You’ve got to be on top of things.”
“I’m not sick, Francis,” Jonathan said with deliberate heaviness. “I’m trying to figure out what to do with the other proposal I’m expected to present.”
“Bad writing? Bad plot? Bad dialogue? Why the heck did you pick it?”
Jonathan tried to be patient. “It’s actually none of those. It’s Clyde Baxter’s last book. He didn’t finish it. I’m sort of at a loss as to how it’s supposed to end.”
“Did you look at his outline?”
“He apparently didn’t have an outline or notes or anything. It was like he sat down and wrote chapter one and kept going.” He sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know if it’s a masterpiece or if the man lost his mind.”
Zippy took a seat near the end of the couch that was closest to Jonathan. “Is it a good plot?”
Jonathan shrugged. “So far. It’s based around a serial killer. That’s always interesting.”
“If he’s the protagonist you’ve got a problem.”
That made Jonathan laugh, a tired laugh that released a little stress. “No. He’s definitely the bad guy.”
“How much did he get finished before he went riding off into the wild blue yonder?” Zippy smiled at Jonathan’s questioning look. “Before he went to heaven in a blaze of horse dust glory?”
“The whole story revolves around three men on death row. And the serial killer actually killed one of the victims one of the men is accused of murdering. So this FBI agent and the district attorney are trying to figure out which one it is before the first execution.” Zippy cleaned his glasses on his shirt sleeve, revealing fat, bloodshot eyes. Then he looked intently at Jonathan as he continued. “But what I don’t know is how the story ends. It’s been suspense all the way so far. But the question is, does the innocent man live or die?” Jonathan smiled as he said, “He sort of left me with a massive cliff-hanger that I have to pick an ending to.”
Zippy’s glasses sat neatly on the end of his nose now, and he was brushing the stray crumbs from some previous meal off his lap. “I can take a look at it.”
“Pardon me?”
“You seem to be in some sort of a crunch here, Jonathan. Ghostwriting is my specialty, you know.”
Jonathan thought for a moment. “You have time to read it by tomorrow?”
Zippy’s eyes lit up. “Well, I’ll have to cancel all my dates with all the womenfolk, but I’d do that for you.” He smiled at his own joke. “That was funny, wasn’t it? Cancel my dates!”
Jonathan laughed as a gesture of kindness and added, “Well, as long as you refer to them as ‘womenfolk,’ you’re sure to have a pretty poor dating life.”
Zippy’s mind was reeling. “Yes. Yes. I’ll read it for you. We’ll come up with an ending. I’m sure if I look at it, I’ll know how he intended on ending it. I’ll read it. Did you know that I wrote the entire middle of Alberta Stowey’s book on grandparenting? Yes. She had a stroke and somehow chapters six through eighteen had gotten lost in the mail. When they went to search her house for it, they never found it. Not on a disk. Not in her computer. Not even a hard copy. It was very strange. So I ended up filling in the blanks, as it were. Not even a hard copy. Got paid well for that job. And I don’t even have children, much less grandchildren! Can you imagine me writing about grandparenting?” He smiled satisfactorily. “Let’s just say I saved the bacon of a few thousand people. And I don’t even have grandchildren!”
Jonathan leaned forward in his chair and looked hard at Zippy. “Francis, would you be willing to ghostwrite the rest of Clyde’s book? I mean, when we figure out the ending. If I can say that I already have a ghostwriter lined up and I can give them the ending, there’s more of a chance this could fly.”
Zippy blinked curiously at Jonathan. “You’re worried a Clyde Baxter novel might not fly?”
Jonathan hesitated. “Well . . . it’s just that . . . sure, it’ll go. I mean, I just need it to have an ending, that’s all.”
