Sight Unseen

by Iris Johansen

  But this time, evidently, Myatt had chosen well, and the guard was not quite a fool.

  The cell phone was here.

  He punched the access button, his gaze still on the flickering candles on the altar. “Bless you, my son,” he said mockingly. “You did well.”

  “I told you I’d get it done,” Myatt whispered. “I had to do it. I haven’t been in contact with you lately. I had to make sure you knew that I was out here doing everything you told me to do.”

  “And have you?”

  “Of course. I’ve done practically everything we discussed and agreed is necessary. I’ve not been able to take care of Kendra Michaels yet. But I’ll do it within the next couple days. I may have to use her mother and maybe Michaels’s friend to draw her into the trap.” He added quickly, “But you don’t have to think it won’t happen. I made you a promise.”

  “I trust you. Why wouldn’t I after all you’ve done for me?” He trusted no one, but Myatt needed to think they were close in every sense, so that he’d continue with his tasks. “I just had to make sure everything is in place.” He folded his hands in prayer, his head bowed. “I need you to move quickly. I Skyped Kendra Michaels yesterday, and she seemed to think that she’d gather you into her net soon. I told her she was bluffing, but you mustn’t take the chance. Not after all we’ve done to bring her down.”

  “All I’ve done,” Myatt said.

  “I beg your pardon,” Colby said softly. “Did I hear you correctly?”

  “A slip of the tongue,” Myatt said quickly. “You’re brilliant and guided me all along the way. But you have to admit I’ve handled everything cleverly and inserted my own bits to the big picture. One of the kills I committed a few days ago you didn’t even know about. You wouldn’t let me get in touch with you.”

  Arrogant bastard, Colby thought with annoyance. “Yes, you’re clever. I wouldn’t have chosen you if I didn’t believe you could do what I wished. But I told you to concentrate on Michaels.”

  “And I will. I just had to prove to her who was running this show.”

  “Concentrate on doing what I told you to do,” he said through set teeth.

  “I didn’t mean to make you angry. You know I only want to please you.”

  Keep it cool and calm. “You always please me.” He paused. “I just have to be sure everything is clear. I don’t have much time.” He added sardonically, “In a few minutes, they’re going to take me back to my cell and perform the usual rituals for my meeting with the executioner.”

  Myatt was silent for a long moment. “Are you frightened, Colby?”

  “You insult me,” he said sharply. “Fear is for lesser men. Not for me. Not for you, Myatt.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “I’ll forgive you if you do your duty to me. I have to go now. Good-bye, Myatt.”

  “I won’t disappoint you.”

  “I know.” Colby broke the connection and pushed the phone once more beneath the pew in front of him. He remained kneeling there for another few minutes, his lips moving as if in prayer.

  Then he lowered his head on his arms on the pew in front of him as if in despair. Two more minutes, and he lifted his head. He gave a deep sigh and rose to his feet.

  The next moment, he was moving down the aisle toward the back of the chapel, where Salazar waited.

  The guards in the aisle parted for him like the Red Sea did for Moses. A very apt comparison, he thought bitterly. His power and intelligence against their stupidity and brawn.

  Salazar straightened as he saw Colby coming toward him. “Did it help? Did you make your peace?”

  “You could say that.” Colby didn’t look at him as he headed for the door of the chapel. “At least I made sure that I wouldn’t be forgotten.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  San Quentin Penitentiary

  East Gate

  MORE THAN TWO THOUSAND PROTESTORS lined the roadway outside the prison gate, almost matched in numbers by the TV news crews, print journalists, and online bloggers with video cameras.

  Lily Holt had just finished an interview with the particularly bloodthirsty female president of a victims’ rights group when Bobby Chatsworth walked up and joined her behind the barricade.

  “Any luck?” she asked.

  “No. I wasted an entire day trying to buy our way into that witness room. A reporter from the Los Angeles Times almost sold me his for five thousand dollars, but he got cold feet. He was afraid of losing his job.”

  “They don’t allow cameras in there anyway.”

  Chatsworth smiled as he fluffed his full red beard. “Cameras they can detect, you mean.”

  Her gaze narrowed on his face. “What are you saying?”

  “My day wasn’t entirely wasted. I found out there’s going to be a very special auction tomorrow morning. One of the ‘reputable citizen’ witnesses is smuggling in a miniature HD video camera, possibly in a pen or a brooch. Video of the entire execution will be sold to the highest bidder.”

  “That’s grotesque, even for you.”

  “Thank you, my dear.”

  “The network will never air it.”

  “Certainly they will. I’ll promote the hell out of it, and it will be the ratings event of the season. And when we put it online, millions more all over the world will watch for years to come.”

  “My friends and family are already asking me how I can work with you. What will I say then?”

  Chatsworth laughed. “I’m leaving immediately after the execution. The auction will take place in San Francisco tomorrow morning.”

  “Please understand if I don’t wish you good luck.”

  “Understood. Any progress on the Kendra Michaels interview?”

  “None yet.”

  He shrugged. “No worries. If this execution footage comes through, we’ll have everything we need.”

  * * *

  THE SUN WAS GOING DOWN when Kendra drove the Ferrari back to FBI headquarters.

  Lynch was standing on the street, waiting.

  She got out of the car and went to meet him. She gave him the keys. “You didn’t call me. The governor hasn’t made a decision?”

  “We just heard five minutes ago. Griffin just got off the phone with the governor. They didn’t believe our grounds were strong enough to delay the execution.”

  “What about your Washington friends? No influence?”

  “It didn’t come into question. I didn’t call them.” He looked her in the eye. “But it had nothing to do with you. If the death penalty hadn’t been in jeopardy, I would have done it. I would have pulled every string I could. I just couldn’t stand the thought of Colby’s not getting his full punishment.”

  “So I guess Griffin doesn’t owe you after all.”

  “What a disappointment.”

  “Is he angry?”

  “I don’t give a damn.” He looked at his Ferrari. “It’s in pretty good shape. You must have resisted temptation.”

  “I didn’t drive it very much,” she said. “I just went to the park and sat and tried to make sense of everything.”

  “And did you do it?”

  “Not very well. But it’s looking better right now.” She moved toward the door. “And now that the governor did the right thing, we can get back to the business of finding Myatt. Where’s Griffin?”

  “In the war room. Breathing fire.”

  She could see what he meant when the elevator doors opened, and she saw Griffin.

  “I guess you’re happy,” he spat out bitterly when he saw her.

  “Not happy. But a little more … satisfied.”

  Griffin cursed and walked over to the uncovered windows where there had once been a row of offices. The sun had just set, and the lights of the city twinkled in the distance. He called over his shoulder to Metcalf. “Anything in those prison files?”

  Metcalf stepped forward. “A few things to follow up on. We won’t know until we—”

  A high-pitc
hed beep sounded from the phone-company technician’s laptop.

  Kendra’s eyes flew up to the large projected map, which had remained unchanged all day long. But as the beeping continued, she noticed that a pulsing red dot now appeared on the map.

  “What does that mean?” she yelled over the noise.

  “I’ll check.” The technician, who had passed much of the day hovering near the desk of Griffin’s attractive assistant, snapped to attention and ran back to his laptop. “This is it.” His voice was filled with wonder. “One of the phones has made contact with the network.”

  Griffin ran back from the windows. “Where?”

  “Northeast of the city.” He picked up his phone. “I’ll see how far we can narrow the location.”

  San Quentin State Penitentiary

  Death-Watch Cell

  COLBY STARED AT THE NEW JEANS and denim work shirt that one of his death-watch guards, Tom Lester, handed him. “What’s this?”

  “Put them on, please.”

  Colby raised his eyebrows. “Please? That’s the first time I’ve heard that word in all the years I’ve been here. Dead Man Walking evidently has its privileges.”

  The guard pointed to the crisp new clothing. “It’s routine. It’s almost time. Do it.”

  “Funny. A costume for an execution. May I have some privacy while I change?”

  “Not a chance.”

  Colby nodded to Lester and his fellow guard, Patrick Nevis. “Of course. The death watch. Can’t have me killing myself before the big show.” He pointed to his left. “The execution chamber is just on the other side of this wall, isn’t it?”

  “Just put on the clothes.”

  Colby turned his back on the guards, stripped out of his prison uniform, and pulled on the jeans and shirt. He turned back around and adjusted the collar. “Blue really isn’t my color, you know.”

  “Sit down, Colby.”

  He smiled and sat on the edge of the bunk. “Be nice. You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

  FBI Field Office

  San Diego

  “GROUP LEADERS, PREPARE TO MOBILIZE your response teams. We have an active target.” Griffin whirled away from the gathered agents and leaned toward the telephone-company technician, who was still on the phone and scribbling furiously on a Post-it note. “Got it?”

  The technician tore off the note and handed it to Griffin. “That phone is most likely within thirty yards of this address. They just confirmed it at the office.”

  “It’s 26613 Breaker Drive,” Griffin said. “Get the response teams rolling. I want the names of every resident on the street. Reade, let’s see if there’s a match with anyone on the suspect database you’ve been compiling.”

  Reade was already pounding her keyboard. “I have the resident list up. Cross-referencing now.”

  Kendra stepped closer and looked over Reade’s shoulder at the dozens of names displayed on the laptop screen.

  She went rigid with shock. “No,” she whispered.

  Lynch quickly moved closer to her. “What is it?”

  She shook her head dazedly. “It’s crazy.” She moistened her lips. “It has to be a coincidence. The third name on the list. Dean Halley. A history professor. He works with my mother. He was with me on the bridge that night. But I can’t believe that he’s the…” Her voice trailed off as she tried to comprehend and connect the dots. “But he does have a prison record, and it might not be for the reason he told me. But he was so damn … plausible.”

  Lynch snapped at Griffin. “It’s 26613 Breaker. That’s the target.” He turned toward Reade. “Pull up a photo of Dean Halley and make sure all teams have it. If you can’t immediately pull up a driver’s license or passport photo for him, check the UC San Diego Web site.”

  Kendra barely heard him, her eyes were still locked on that screen.

  Dean Halley.

  San Quentin Penitentiary

  “COZY.” COLBY SMILED AS HE STEPPED through an oval door and was escorted by his three guards into the octagonal execution chamber. It was approximately seven-and-a-half feet in diameter and centered around a single table. Five large windows separated the chamber from the witness area, which was populated by forty-five journalists, politicians, and so-called reputable citizens, some of whom included victims’ family members.

  Colby didn’t attempt to make eye contact with any of the witnesses as he was led to the table and strapped down with nylon restraints.

  He looked up at the execution leader, Ron Hoyle, a stocky man with a thick moustache. “I have a final statement to make.”

  “You waived that right, Mr. Colby.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  Hoyle glanced at the warden, who was standing next to the state attorney general in the back of the witness room. Salazar slowly nodded.

  “Okay,” Hoyle said. “Go ahead. Make your statement from there. The witnesses can hear you.”

  “I really don’t care whether they can hear me or not. It’s on my chest.”

  “What?”

  “My final statement is on my chest. Please unbutton my shirt.”

  Hoyle hesitated.

  “Or tear it open. Makes no difference to me. I won’t be using this shirt much longer.”

  Clearly thrown by this break with protocol, Hoyle froze for a few seconds. He then leaned over and unbuttoned the top two buttons of Colby’s denim shirt. He pulled apart the fabric, glanced at Colby’s chest, then quickly let go of him in disgust.

  Colby laughed.

  Hoyle angrily turned toward the physician, who was standing with the cardiac sensors. “Proceed.”

  Breaker Drive

  San Diego

  THE FBI AND THE SAN DIEGO PD had already barricaded off the 26600 block of Breaker Drive by the time Kendra and Lynch arrived. Agents had quietly surrounded Dean’s house, while uniformed officers escorted perplexed neighbors from their homes to barricades at the end of the block.

  Kendra and Lynch got out of his car and ran for the other side of an FBI armored van parked in the cul-de-sac four houses away from Dean’s.

  Griffin’s gaze was trained on the one-story, Spanish-style house through his binoculars. “That’s Dean Halley’s car in the driveway, but there are no other signs that he’s home.”

  “He also has a motorcycle,” Kendra said. “He keeps it in the garage. You can see the skid marks he leaves at the top of the driveway.”

  Griffin nodded. “We’ll wait for SDPD to finish securing the street behind his house before we make any kind of move. Anything else you can tell us about him?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. Except that I can’t freaking believe this.”

  “Believe it. According to his record, Halley was in the Special Forces in Afghanistan during his military stint and damn good at removing the Taliban from his path.”

  A tech officer handed Griffin a tablet computer in a reinforced plastic case. It offered a greenish night-vision live view of Dean’s house.

  Griffin turned to Kendra. “If you’re up for it, I want you to try to call his home number.”

  She stared at him. “You want me to call and talk to him?”

  “Only when I give the word. He knows you, and he hasn’t already seen us. Your caller ID won’t raise any red flags. If he answers, keep him talking until our team can break in and rush him.” He gave her a cool glance. “You appear reluctant. After all, it’s for his safety as well as that of the personnel on the scene.”

  Lynch nodded. “Good idea.”

  She didn’t know if it was a good idea or not. She was bewildered and uncertain of everything that was going on. But the plan appeared to offer the best chance for nonviolence. “Okay.” Kendra pulled out her phone. “Just give the word.”

  San Quentin State Penitentiary

  Execution Chamber

  THE SUPERVISING PHYSICIAN, Dr. Edward Pralgo, stepped back from Colby and checked the IV lines he’d placed into two veins of the condemned man’s left arm. Each line was running
a slow drip of saline, primed for the three medications that would soon course through his system.

  The doctor realized that his own hands were shaking. Hopefully not enough for anyone else to see. Any sign of psychological weakness would put him in front of a review board in spite of all his experience. Executioners were supposed to be above emotion. But executioners were also human beings, and he’d defy anyone not to have an emotional reaction toward Colby.

  He exited the chamber and checked the printer outside, which was unspooling a long roll of graph paper. Sharp, jagged lines indicated Colby’s heartbeat.

  In the tiny adjacent anteroom, Dr. Pralgo picked up the tray with the three labeled syringes. He checked his watch—11:01 P.M.

  The phone rang, and the execution supervisor picked it up. “Yes, sir.” He hung up the phone and addressed the physician, as always, in the clearest and most direct language possible. “The order has been given by the warden. Please proceed.”

  Dr. Pralgo took a deep breath and stepped back into the execution chamber, where Colby was staring at the ceiling with his cold, dark eyes.

  Dead eyes, the doctor thought, even though the man was still very much alive.

  He administered the medications one syringe at a time: the first syringe, labeled sodium pentothal, was administered first to anaesthetize the condemned. Indeed, Colby quickly lost consciousness as it flowed from the IV though his eyes closed only slightly.

  After a quick saline flush, the syringe labeled Pancuronioum bromide was injected to paralyze his system. After another saline flush, the syringe labeled potassium chloride was injected to place Colby in full cardiac arrest.

  After a minute, Dr. Pralgo stepped over to the still-printing cardiac monitor.

  Flatline.

  He moved back to Colby’s body and administered the simple tests that would indicate death had occurred. The pupil check, brushing the cornea for a blink reflex, and listening for any sign of breathing.