Goss's argue-anything lawyer, Jack Swyteck. They call this balanced journalism? the governor muttered as he threw down the magazine.
A few seconds later, Agnes emerged from the bathroom in her robe and slippers. She stopped at the table by the window and tended to a bouquet of flowers, her back to her husband.
Thank you for the flowers, Harry, she said, her body blocking his view of the bouquet.
Huh, said the governor, looking over. He hadn't sent any flowers. Today wasn't a birthday, anniversary, or any other occasion he could think of that called for flowers. But it wasn't inconceivable that in all the campaign commotion he'd forgotten a special day and one of his staff had covered for him. So he just played along. Oh, he replied, you're welcome, dear. I hope you like them.
It's nice to get things for no reason, she said with a sparkle in her eye. It was so spontaneous of you. Her mouth curled suggestively. Then she stepped away from the table, revealing the bouquet, and the governor went white.
Keep the bed warm, she said as she disappeared into her walk-in closet, but the governor wasn't listening. His eyes were fixed on the bouquet of big white, pink, and yellow chrysanthemums perched on the table. He rose from the bed and stepped toward the bouquet. The card was still in the holder. Harry's hand trembled as he opened the envelope. It suddenly seemed so obvious: the disguised voice, the threats, the photographs of a gruesome murder, and now the flowers. His mind raced, making a logical link between the Chrysanthemum Killer, whose weird pathology had been mentioned in the article he'd just been reading, and the blackmailer.
He read the message. Instantly, he knew it was intended for him, not his wife. You and me forever, it read, till death do us part.
Eddy Goss, the governor muttered softly to himself, his voice cracking with fear. I'm being blackmailed by a psychopath.
Chapter 13
The following morning, Monday, Jack picked up his Mustang from the garage and went to A&G Alarm Company, where he arranged to have a security system immediately installed in his house. By noon he had new locks on the doors and was thinking about escape plans. He still couldn't bring himself to believe that Goss would try to kill him, but it would be foolish not to take precautions. He imagined the worst-case scenarios - an attack in the middle of the night or an ambush in the parking lot - and planned in advance how he would respond. And he called the telephone company. In two days he'd have a new, unlisted phone number.
But there was one basic precaution he decided not to take. He didn't call the police because he still felt the cops would do little to protect Eddy Goss's lawyer. Besides, he had another idea. That afternoon he bought ammunition for his gun.
It wasn't actually his gun. He'd inherited a .38-caliber pistol from Donna Boyd, an old flame at Yale. Most people didn't know it, but crime was a problem in certain areas of New Haven where many students lived off campus. After Jack's neighbor had been robbed, Donna had refused to sleep over anymore unless Jack kept her gun in the nightstand. Even for an independent-minded Yale coed, she was a bit unconventional. He agreed but took the precaution of signing up for a few shooting lessons at the local range. He didn't want to make a mistake they'd both regret.
As it turned out, the gun stayed in his drawer until after graduation, when he was packing for Miami. By that point, he and Donna had broken up and she'd been bitter enough to leave town without stopping by to pick up her things. A mutual friend said she'd gone to Europe. So Jack had just packed the gun away with her racquet-ball racket and Elvis Costello CD and forgotten about it until now.
Suddenly, he had a use for the gun that had lain in his footlocker for the last six years, last registered in Connecticut, in the name of Donna Boyd.
Jack had never considered violence an answer to anything. But this was something
A few seconds later, Agnes emerged from the bathroom in her robe and slippers. She stopped at the table by the window and tended to a bouquet of flowers, her back to her husband.
Thank you for the flowers, Harry, she said, her body blocking his view of the bouquet.
Huh, said the governor, looking over. He hadn't sent any flowers. Today wasn't a birthday, anniversary, or any other occasion he could think of that called for flowers. But it wasn't inconceivable that in all the campaign commotion he'd forgotten a special day and one of his staff had covered for him. So he just played along. Oh, he replied, you're welcome, dear. I hope you like them.
It's nice to get things for no reason, she said with a sparkle in her eye. It was so spontaneous of you. Her mouth curled suggestively. Then she stepped away from the table, revealing the bouquet, and the governor went white.
Keep the bed warm, she said as she disappeared into her walk-in closet, but the governor wasn't listening. His eyes were fixed on the bouquet of big white, pink, and yellow chrysanthemums perched on the table. He rose from the bed and stepped toward the bouquet. The card was still in the holder. Harry's hand trembled as he opened the envelope. It suddenly seemed so obvious: the disguised voice, the threats, the photographs of a gruesome murder, and now the flowers. His mind raced, making a logical link between the Chrysanthemum Killer, whose weird pathology had been mentioned in the article he'd just been reading, and the blackmailer.
He read the message. Instantly, he knew it was intended for him, not his wife. You and me forever, it read, till death do us part.
Eddy Goss, the governor muttered softly to himself, his voice cracking with fear. I'm being blackmailed by a psychopath.
Chapter 13
The following morning, Monday, Jack picked up his Mustang from the garage and went to A&G Alarm Company, where he arranged to have a security system immediately installed in his house. By noon he had new locks on the doors and was thinking about escape plans. He still couldn't bring himself to believe that Goss would try to kill him, but it would be foolish not to take precautions. He imagined the worst-case scenarios - an attack in the middle of the night or an ambush in the parking lot - and planned in advance how he would respond. And he called the telephone company. In two days he'd have a new, unlisted phone number.
But there was one basic precaution he decided not to take. He didn't call the police because he still felt the cops would do little to protect Eddy Goss's lawyer. Besides, he had another idea. That afternoon he bought ammunition for his gun.
It wasn't actually his gun. He'd inherited a .38-caliber pistol from Donna Boyd, an old flame at Yale. Most people didn't know it, but crime was a problem in certain areas of New Haven where many students lived off campus. After Jack's neighbor had been robbed, Donna had refused to sleep over anymore unless Jack kept her gun in the nightstand. Even for an independent-minded Yale coed, she was a bit unconventional. He agreed but took the precaution of signing up for a few shooting lessons at the local range. He didn't want to make a mistake they'd both regret.
As it turned out, the gun stayed in his drawer until after graduation, when he was packing for Miami. By that point, he and Donna had broken up and she'd been bitter enough to leave town without stopping by to pick up her things. A mutual friend said she'd gone to Europe. So Jack had just packed the gun away with her racquet-ball racket and Elvis Costello CD and forgotten about it until now.
Suddenly, he had a use for the gun that had lain in his footlocker for the last six years, last registered in Connecticut, in the name of Donna Boyd.
Jack had never considered violence an answer to anything. But this was something
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