Stay of Execution (8 page)

 

Chapter Eighteen

“I
DON'T GIVE
a damn about helping some reporter,” Cancini leaned over the mayor's desk, his voice tight. “No way am I going to be a part of the media circus like the one you orchestrated at that press conference. You're lucky it didn't turn into a full-­blown riot.”

“You're right,” the mayor was quick to agree. “We were lucky. Believe me, it wasn't my idea.” He shook his head. “I wish it had never happened.”

Cancini straightened. The mayor's discomfort at the podium had been obvious. “Then why the hell did you do it?”

Baldwin shrugged. “I got a call from the governor's office.” He imitated the call: “The governor would appreciate a formal press conference allowing Mr. Spradlin the opportunity to speak on the occasion of his homecoming.” Cancini folded his arms across his chest. “Look,” the mayor continued, “I knew it was PR bullshit and that it could get ugly. But it was still the governor's office, for God's sake. What was I supposed to do?”

“Tell him no.”

“Easy for you to say,” the mayor said with a huff. “He's the most popular governor this state's had in decades. I'm a simple mayor trying to get by. The media thinks he'll run for president. I've met him, talked to him. He'll probably win.” Baldwin spread his hands, palms up. “Little Springs can't be the town that defied the president.”

Cancini's hazel eyes darkened to slate-­gray. He pointed a finger at Baldwin. “That's a load of crap. You should have told him how it is here, how ­people feel. You shouldn't have done it. Your job is to look after this town, not bend over for the governor!”

The mayor's ruddy face took on a darker hue. “That's not fair, Mike. You always think you have the answers. I haven't seen you in God knows how many years, and you haven't changed one bit.”

Cancini shot back. “Neither have you. Still pandering, worried someone's not gonna like you.”

“Dammit, Mike, I'm an elected official,” he said, slapping his desk.

“You just proved my point.”

The two men glared at each other, Baldwin's face puffy and red. His fingers drummed the edge of the desk, the seconds ticking by until he dropped his gaze and walked to the window. The bright morning sun poured through the large pane of glass overlooking Main Street. Teddy dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. “I don't want to argue with you, Mike.” Cancini remained silent, hands shoved in his pockets. Baldwin returned to his desk, sinking into the leather chair. “I think this reporter might be different.”

“Are we back to that?”

“She might listen if you give her a chance.”

Cancini rolled his eyes. “Why? Because she's pretty?” The mayor flushed. “Teddy, you haven't changed at all.”

“Maybe not, but I'm not the only one who noticed she was pretty.” Cancini's lips clamped shut. Baldwin changed the subject. “Why are you still here, Mike? I'd have thought you'd need to get back to D.C. Isn't that where they have real crimes and real problems?”

Cancini ignored the other man's jab. “I thought you were worried about Spradlin. I thought you wanted me here.”

“I thought you didn't take me seriously,” the mayor said with skepticism. “Thought I was overreacting.”

“Doesn't matter what I thought. I stuck around for the press conference and I saw a town on the brink of imploding. One more word from Spradlin and someone might've gotten hurt. It can't happen again.”

The mayor stiffened. “It won't. I already told you that.”

“Oh? And what about the first time Spradlin comes to town for a burger? What about when he decides to sit at the bar like a normal person and drink a beer or go to church on Sunday? What are you planning then?”

“You know, Mike. You're a piece of work. You don't give the ­people of Little Springs enough credit. I do. These are good ­people, not violent thugs. No one is going to do anything to Spradlin.”

“Believe it or not, I do give these folks credit. You're right. They won't start anything. But you can't honestly tell me Spradlin won't. You heard him. That whole speech was a masterpiece, meant to stoke the fire. You think the folks around here didn't go home and let his words rattle around in their heads?” Cancini stood up and paced the office, the muscles in his back tensing. “He forgives them? What kind of crap is that? Is he trying to make them feel bad? For what? Believing the evidence? Believing he was guilty when the crimes stopped the minute he was arrested? Come on! And that whole bit about knowing he made it easy for them to believe he was guilty. He damn sure did.” Cancini stopped. “You remember what he was like back then, don't you, Teddy? Arrogant. Insensitive. Self-­centered. Angry.”

The mayor gave a shake of his head. “Mike, I think your memory is going. Yeah, Leo was arrogant and selfish, and sometimes he was a real jerk. But angry? I don't remember that. And even if he was, that doesn't make him guilty or mean that ­people should have believed it.”

Cancini's voice softened. “Are you defending Spradlin?”

The mayor flinched and leaned back in his chair. “That's not fair, Mike. I never defended Leo, and you know it. Besides, nobody needs to defend him. According to the courts, he hasn't done anything.”

“Yet. Spradlin's not the type of man to let sleeping dogs lie. That's what that speech was about and you know it. It wasn't about forgiveness. He was starting something.” Cancini leaned across the desk until there were only inches between them. “I thought you were concerned about him threatening you, threatening this town.”

Baldwin opened his mouth, then closed it again. His light eyes flickered in doubt. “I was. I am, but I don't like self-­fulfilling prophecies. Just because I don't think he was angry back then doesn't mean I don't think he is now. Hell, wouldn't you be? He wanted to shake me up, and he succeeded.”

“And that speech the other day?”

“Okay, he's playing games. I'll give you that, but there's not a damn thing I can do about it. He hasn't done anything wrong.”

“Whatever.” Cancini straightened. “But you still didn't answer me. What are you going to do when Spradlin shows his face in town?”

Baldwin pursed his lips. “I can't do much, Mike. The man is legally entitled to go anywhere he likes. If I have the police follow him, it could be construed as harassment. The best I can do is ask the police to keep an eye out for trouble. If he comes into town for groceries or hardware or whatever, we'll position a man where he shops. If he gets a bite to eat or a drink, the same. That's the best I can do unless something happens. Satisfied?”

“No. But it'll have to do for now.” Cancini's attention wandered to the large window and he squinted at the blinding morning light. “The folks here don't deserve this.”

“Maybe not,” Baldwin said. “But you can help, you know.”

Cancini groaned, tired of Baldwin and his arguments. “No reporters.”

“Hear me out. So far, everything the media has reported has been about an innocent man getting out of jail. He's a victim to them. The press sees it as righting a wrong, fixing a miscarriage of justice. The folks here though, and I'm not blaming them mind you, were downright obnoxious the other day. The shouts telling Spradlin to leave. The signs and chants. We looked like a bunch of angry good ol' boys here. I don't want that to be how the story plays out.”

“So? I don't care what ­people say about me. Why should you?'

“Because it affects things like student enrollment at the college. Because our tourism business will drop with bad press about the town. Maybe you don't care about that stuff. You don't live here. Little Springs has been doing okay, but that isn't likely to last with a wave of bad press.” He pushed his hair back from his forehead. “If you could make the press understand how it was back then, why the feelings run so deep, what yesterday's reaction was about, it would go a long way in helping the town repair its image.”

“Why don't you do it?'

“Because I'm the mayor and clearly biased. You were an outsider when you came here back then, and you're an outsider now.”

“I don't discuss cases with the press.”

“Jesus, I'm not asking you to discuss the case. No details, but you could at least help explain the hysteria, how all anyone wanted was to feel safe again. One reporter, that's all. For God's sake, it could even be off the record. There's no one better than you to do it.”

On the street, most of the parking spaces were filled and light traffic moved steadily through town. A little farther up the road, tucked in the hills, students were eating, studying, and attending classes, seemingly safe in their small academic world. Cancini remembered the faces of the students at the press conference, those who'd been curious enough to come into town. Some took pictures with their phones, openly astonished by the hostility. They didn't understand. They couldn't. He hated to admit it, but Baldwin was right. The news cameras had captured the angry crowd and later broadcast the footage on the nightly news. The town did look bad. “I'll think about it,” Cancini said. “That's all.”

Baldwin nodded, smiling. “I'll take it. Thanks.”

Cancini moved toward the door. “I want to know if Spradlin comes into town. I want to know if he starts anything.”

“Sure. I've got your cell. You're staying at the inn?”

“For now.”

“How long?”

Cancini paused, his hand on the doorknob. He didn't know why he was staying, but he'd realized one thing. He owed Little Springs. He'd played a part back then, and however reluctantly, he played a part now. He'd never wanted to be a hero. Now he wasn't. The town and the families were suffering again. He knew all too well what that was like. The pain might lessen over time, but it never leaves. It wakes you up in the night, snaking through your gut to your heart until sometimes you can't breathe. You lie there, waiting for it to go away. You force it from your mind, desperately trying to hang on to the good memories, not the images of your loved one's lifeless and bloody body. Father Joe, the old priest who'd become both a surrogate father and his oldest friend, called it a gift from God, the gift of remembering, but Cancini knew it for the nightmare it was. The grief becomes part of you.

He opened the door and said over his shoulder, “As long as it takes.”

 

Chapter Nineteen

I
T FELT DIFFERENT
this time. He didn't know why, but it did. He was older and hopefully a little wiser, but that wasn't it. He possessed a calmness he hadn't before. The need was the same, stronger even, but it didn't hurt the way it had back then. Instead, he relished it, welcomed it. When he was young—­the first time—­he'd acted on impulse, the need something he hadn't fully understood. After the trial, he was forced to repress that need, that yearning, but now he was free to embrace those urges again. He was smarter now, smarter than the whole fucking lot of 'em.

No DNA this time. Not a hair, no saliva, nothing at all left behind. He couldn't risk it. He'd caught a break once—­in such a crazy twist—­he wished he could take credit for it himself. Sometimes the gods smiled and handed you a second chance. What could a man do but take it?

The need was the thing. It was like a damn drug, calling to him, beckoning. He used to be afraid of it, disgusted even. He'd resisted as long as he could, but that was ages ago. He'd had years to accept what he couldn't change.

He'd planned the girl and the whole encounter, but he knew better than to rush it. Patience, something he'd learned to appreciate, would serve him well. He closed his eyes and licked his lips. When the media tired of the story, when something bigger and better came along, most of the reporters would move on. It was already starting. He didn't want the barrage of press that had initially swarmed the town, watching and waiting, but he did need some of them. After all, they were part of the story, too. It wouldn't be long now.

The return of the great Cancini completed the scene. The man had known the detective would come, of course. He'd counted on it. The truth was, he'd never liked Cancini, and the way he figured it, once an asshole, always an asshole. The poor guy's ego must be badly bruised, though. Cancini's fumble made the man laugh. They were more alike than the detective realized or would ever admit. Cancini couldn't change who he was, what he was, any more than the man could. The detective would never give up. Something about his presence fit, as though they were playing parts exactly as they were written. Soon, everything would come full circle.

 

Chapter Twenty

J
ULIA'S STOMACH FLIPPED
and fluttered. She sat cross-­legged on the floor of her hotel room, back up against the bed. Folders and notes and pictures covered the beige carpet. A notebook open to a blank page sat in her lap. Julia closed her eyes and slowed her breathing. She'd gotten the interview, a coup on the face of it, but a growing unease overshadowed her excitement. Too many years of writing about cuddly dogs and society fund-­raisers had made her rusty.

Her eyes snapped open. Damn. What was the matter with her? She was up to this. Norm had faith in her. Her father had always believed in her. There was even a time when Jack thought she could do anything. She raised her chin, uncrossed her legs, and reached for a fat file. Time to stop feeling sorry for herself. Pushing her glasses up on her nose, she opened the file and thumbed through the background Norm had overnighted.

Blue Hill College dropped “Chris­tian” from its name in the late 1990s. In a split vote, the board decided the number of applications would increase without the religious tag. The move was successful. Enrollment doubled. With close to 5,000 undergraduates and 1,000 graduate students, the college now appears on many “best small private college” lists.

Julia looked up from Norm's notes. The stigma of the rapes and murders must have faded. She read on, making notes.

Founded in 1910 by Ted's great-­grandfather, the first Theodore Baldwin, the college had only two majors at the time, religion and education. Like many colleges in the South, it only admitted men. That changed in 1950, when Theodore Baldwin the second took over the presidency of Blue Hill.

She took off her glasses and pushed her hair off her face. Ted must have grown up on campus, witnessed college life as a child. Julia frowned. Not for the first time, she hoped she hadn't already lost him as a source. She flipped through several pages of college enrollment statistics, census reports, and business articles.

Little Springs, like many other small towns, had suffered in the last two decades. Most of the agricultural businesses and paper plants had faded away over the years, victims of a struggling economy and increased competition. There were only two surviving industries in Little Springs: the college itself with its growing faculty, administration, and staff, and a small tourism business attracting hunters and fisherman. However, while the town might not have grown, it hadn't seen a decline, either. Julia took off her glasses. Ted had a right to be proud of the community.

She stood, stretching her arms over her head. Julia stepped over the files and flopped backward on the unmade bed. The college and the town shared their history, their triumphs, and their downfalls. Maybe it was an angle she could use. A knock on the door from housekeeping made her sit up again.

Waving the woman in, Julia said, “Let me get this out of your way.” She knelt down and swept the files and pictures into her arms.

The woman carried fresh towels into the bathroom before returning to make the bed. Julia sat down in the guest chair, her arms still full.

“You're a reporter?” the woman asked.

Julia stiffened. “Yes.”

The maid looked away. With deft hands, she tucked the sheets in at the corners and smoothed the flowery bedspread. She fluffed each pillow one at a time.

“Thank you,” Julia said. “That looks nice.”

The woman's face crinkled and her tired eyes brightened. “You're welcome.” She stepped out into the hall and came back with a trash bag. She emptied the small cans in the room and bathroom. “Do you need anything else, ma'am?” she asked.

Julia shook her head.

At the door, the maid hesitated. “Will you be here long?”

Standing slowly, Julia set the files at her feet. “I'm not sure. A few more days at least. Why?”

“Gotten kinda quiet.” The lady lifted her bony shoulders. “Most of the others checked out already. Guess they figure that's the end of the story.”

The woman stood with one hand on the doorknob and the other in tucked in the pocket of her uniform. Her drab brown hair, streaked with gray, was pulled back into a hairnet. Julia cocked her head to one side. “How long have you worked here, at the hotel, I mean?”

“As long as I've been workin', I guess. Going on about forty-­five years or so. Started right after high school.”

“Wow. So, you've probably lived here your whole life?”

“Yes, ma'am.” The maid's hand dropped from the doorknob. She leaned out toward the hall, looking in both directions. She stepped back into the room. “Long enough to know about Spradlin—­and a whole lot more.”

Julia's heartbeat quickened. First the interview and now this. “Do you have a few minutes?”

The lady checked the hall once more and closed the door behind her. “For a nice lady like you, I think I might.”