Got the Look (36 page)

A buzzer sounded, which gave her a start. On the other side of the glass, the metal door slid open. A gray-haired man dressed in an orange prison jumpsuit entered the room. The door closed behind him. He walked slowly toward the glass and sat in the chair facing Andie. For a moment, they just studied one another from opposite sides of the glass. The name on his breast pocket - WICASA - was stenciled in black letters, and it was the only way for Andie to know that she'd found the right man. He was a total stranger, except for the way in which he had so profoundly impacted her life.

Three feet away, was all she could think. She was sitting three feet away from the man who had killed her mother.

He was by no means fat, but he was a large man, and Andie surmised that he'd spent countless hours in the prison gym as a younger inmate. The muscles had softened with age, but his expression had hardened into a perpetual scowl. His skin, though brown, had an unhealthy ashen quality that was the prison pallor. It was surprisingly smooth, however, with relatively few wrinkles for his age. A man sentenced to life without parole apparently didn't spend much time worrying about his release. What captivated her most, however, were his black, piercing eyes. They seemed to smolder with anger as he locked like radar onto Andie's pools of green. It was as if he were looking into someone else's eyes, dredging up the past. She could almost feel the hatred coming through the glass.

He pressed the phone to his ear. Andie picked up on her side. Again, there was silence, as if neither one knew where to start. Finally he said, Those eyes don't lie.

Andie didn't disagree.

He breathed into the phone, something between a scoff and a grunt. After all these years. You finally want to know about the man who was married to your mother?

Truthfully, she couldn't have cared less about him, but she opted for a more conciliatory response. I'm actually more interested in my biological father.

What about him? Even after all these years, there was bitterness in his voice.

Whatever you can tell me.

Why do you want to know?

I need to find him, but I don't even know his name.

And you think I can help you?

I hope so. No one I've talked to knows anything about him. You're my last shot.

He smiled sardonically. What are you looking for, a nice little Anglo family reunion? You think they want to make you a part of their family, the little multiethnic bastard that came along when Johnny Green Eyes knocked up some Indian bitch?

Andie took a breath, refusing to let him get under her skin. I want information, that's all. Do you know his name?

Of course I know his name. Your mother thought she was so clever, sneaking off the way she did. This went on for months. I knew what was going on, and I told her I wasn't gonna put up with it. For a while there, I believed her when she said it was over. Then you popped out, and

She looked away, as if to hide those green eyes. And you lost control.

I didn't lose nothin'. I gave her what she deserved.

Andie could have argued about the punishment fitting the crime, but she wasn't there to defend an adulteress. So you can help me? You can tell me his name?

I could. But why should I?

Because it's not my fault that my mother cheated on you. This is important. I wouldn't come here if it weren't really important.

He fell silent again, but Andie could almost see the wheels turning in his head. All right, he said. I can give you his name.

Thank you. Andie pulled a pen and a notepad from her purse. What is it?

Not so fast. He leaned closer to the glass, as if sharing a secret. First, I need to know what it's worth to you.

You want me to pay you?

I have something you want. All I'm saying is that it's negotiable.

Andie wasn't surprised, but she wasn't pleased, either. What do you have in mind?

Do you know how long I've been in here?

Yes. She'd done her homework. He'd committed his first felony, aggravated assault, long before Andie's birth. After shooting Andie's mother, he copped a plea and served twelve years for second-degree murder. He kept out of trouble - or at least he didn't get caught - for nearly a decade after his release. In 1994 he was convicted of armed robbery, his third violent felony, resulting in a life sentence under Washington's three-strike law.

Twenty-one of the last thirty-three years, he said. This is where I been.

It hardly seemed helpful to point out that it was his own damn fault. That has to be tough, she said.

Yeah, he said, chuckling with disgust, it's tough all right. So here's what we're gonna do. You come back in two weeks. By that time, I should be out of segregation, and I'll have my full visitation rights.

I can't wait two weeks.

You're gonna have to. Because I can't get what I want so long as we're sitting on opposite sides of a glass wall.

Andie hesitated, then said, I'm not smuggling anything in here, if that's what you're suggesting.

You don't have to bring me nothing. Just show up.

Suddenly, the idea of smuggling contraband didn't sound so bad. What are you asking me to do?

A thin smile creased his lips. I'm not asking for nothing that doesn't happen here every Saturday morning during general visitation hours.

Forget it.

You want to know your father's name or don't you?

Name another price.

There is no other price.

Then there's no deal.

He shrugged and said, You'll come around. I can wait. I got nothing but time on my hands.

I'm not coming back.

Sure you will. If you're anything like your mother, you'll be back.

You're disgusting.

So shoot me. It's not like you and I are blood.

I'm not doing you any sexual favors.

Aw, come on, girl. Be reasonable. Look here. I won't even make you swallow.

She was about to hang up, but he caught her just in time. George, he said.

Andie looked at him quizzically through the glass.

Your father's first name is George, he said. If you want to know the last name, be back in two weeks. Come back with a smile and I'll even wear a condom.

He seemed pleased with himself, but there was nothing Andie could do. He hung up the phone and signaled for the guard. The buzzer sounded. The door opened. Andie watched in silence as the key to her past disappeared behind prison walls.

Chapter
54

The engine growled as Theo found fifth gear. Jack was calling out directions from the passenger seat, the floorboard vibrating beneath his feet. They were headed south on the turnpike, and the speedometer was bumping up against ninety. Jack's body jerked to the left, then right, as Theo threaded his way through multiple lanes of slower-moving traffic.

Take the next exit, said Jack.

This one?

No, next one.

This one is the next one.

No, the next one is the one after this one.

Bullshit. The one after this one is the second one, and the next one comes right before that.

Jack shot him an incredulous look, though as usual he sensed that wisdom lay somewhere in the doublespeak. Take exit eleven.

Now you're talking, boss.

Theo downshifted and cut his cruising speed in half as the car curled around the off-ramp. They blew through the traffic light and headed west. The sun had just set, and a fading orange ribbon hovered over the horizon.

Jack checked his notes. Stay on this road for eight miles.

Eight miles? We'll be up to our eyeballs in alligators. Literally.

That's what Mia said. Eight miles west off exit eleven.

Let's see if we can make it in four minutes.

Jack assumed he was kidding, but there was no telling with Theo. Time, of course, was of the essence. The video file had come by e-mail, and Jack had braced himself for the worst upon opening it. Compared to the self-injury demonstration in the previous video, however, this one was tame. Mia was reading from a script. Her voice quaked in spots, but she seemed relatively composed as she delivered the message. It was basically a map - to what was the big question. Would it lead them to Mia? Or was it a trial run, another teaser that was a prelude to the big exchange?

Jack grabbed his cell phone and speed-dialed Agent Henning. The videotaped message had stressed that Jack was to come alone, no cops, but that wasn't part of Jack's plan.

You on us? Jack asked her.

Yes, but tell Jeff Gordon to slow down. We're hanging back far enough to give the illusion of no law enforcement coverage, but I can't get the state troopers to stand aside if you're a danger on the highway.

Jack glanced at Theo and said, Take it down a notch.

Theo dropped his speed to seventy-five mph, Sunday driving by Miami standards.

Henning said, Are you wearing the Kevlar jacket we gave you?

Never leave home without it.

Good. I know you may be tempted to pack a weapon, but just don't. A SWAT team is on the way. You won't even know they're there unless and until you need them. If you're armed, you might shoot one of them.

Agreed.

Remember, when he calls you, keep him talking as long as possible. Our techies are good, but tri-angulating cell phones takes time. Do you want to review the questions I gave you?

Her handwritten script was in his breast pocket. It reminded him of his first trial, the way he'd stayed up the night before and written down every question he planned to ask his witnesses. It never worked that way. I have your list. I'll do my best to buy your techies some time, but my goal is to make him commit to a simultaneous exchange. That's the plan.

She paused, as if the pit bull inside her wanted to keep arguing about their different strategies. Are you carrying ransom money with you now?

No. My money doesn't come in until tomorrow morning. All I want now is for him to name his price for a simultaneous exchange. Then we take it from there.

Jack bristled at the thought of another lecture on his chosen strategy, but finally, he sensed a wave of reluctant acquiescence over the line.

Good luck, she said. It came across as genuine, not sarcastic.

Thanks, said Jack.

Oh, one other thing. Just remember: If he wanted to kill you, Swyteck, he would have done it a long time ago. He doesn't need to drag you out into the middle of nowhere to take a shot at you. He's just making you jump through hoops. It's all about control.

Funny. That's exactly what I intend to take from him.

What?

Control.

Jack ended the call. The numbers on the odometer continued to roll quickly. They were well beyond the suburban sprawl, deep into Miami-Dade County's western farmlands. It wasn't as far as the Everglades, as Theo had predicted, but it was just as isolated. Tomato and pepper fields were to the south. To the north were hundreds of acres of alms and ornamental plants, all of which were rapidly disappearing in the encroaching darkness. The lighted sign at the entrance read WHITMORE NURSERY.

Turn here, said Jack.

Theo steered onto the dusty road, and the popping sound of loose gravel replaced the steady whine of the paved highway. Jack again reviewed his notes, but this time he had to switch on the dome light to see. The instructions became more precise as they neared their destination.

Two point two miles north, said Jack.

Theo didn't answer. He was shifting into his serious mode. Hope they're out there.

You mean the FBI? said Jack.

I don't mean palmetto bugs.

Theo stopped the car precisely at the 2.2 mile mark and killed the headlights. Jack stepped out and surveyed the vast fields of royal palms. They were mature trees, some forty feet tall, their fronds rustling in the breeze against a darkening blue backdrop. It was like standing at the entrance to a tropical forest, except that the trees were perfectly aligned in croplike rows. As the last remaining colors of sunset vanished, the stillness of night only heightened Jack's sense of foreboding. He pulled a flashlight from his pocket, though he hardly needed another look at his notes. He had committed Mia's directions to memory.

You want me to go with you? asked Theo.

Jack would have liked the backup, but the instructions were to come alone. Wait here. Leave your cell phone on.

In a matter of minutes, the nursery had shed the comfortable glow of dusk and cloaked itself in inky black impenetrability. A distant part of Jack's brain was telling him to move, but his city-conditioned ears forced him to pause long enough to assimilate the symphony of strange new sounds. He heard birds returning to roost, swarms of insects buzzing, bullfrogs croaking in the distance, raccoons foraging for a meal. He could smell the ammonia from fertilizers and almost taste the windswept pollen. The warm, humid air wrapped him like a damp bedsheet. The Kevlar jacket made him even more uncomfortable. It was as if all of his senses were on heightened alert, including a sixth sense that told him his every move was being watched. He hoped it was the FBI.