The Pardon by James Grippando Page A

altogether different. This was truly self-defense. Or was it? Deep down, he wondered if he actually hoped Goss would break into his house. As he sat back in the sofa in his living room with the ammunition he'd just purchased, he thought hard about his real motivation for not calling the cops. But the possibility that he was subconsciously looking for a showdown with Goss was ridiculous. Goss was the killer. Not him.
    The phone rang. Jack muted the nine o'clock Movie of the Week on TV and snatched it up.
    Have you checked your mail, Jack? came the familiar voice.
    He hesitated. He knew that stalkers thrived on contact and that any expert would have told him just to hang up. But he was nearly certain he knew who it was, and if he could just get him to speak in his normal voice, he'd have confirmation. This is not clever, Goss, Jack goaded. Knock off the funny voice. I know it's you.
    A condescending snicker came over the phone, then a pause - followed by a decided change in tone. You don't know shit, Swyteck. So just shut up, and check your mail. Now.
    Jack blinked hard, frightened by how easily he'd set off the man's temper. Why?
    Just check it, the caller ordered. And take the phone with you. I'll tell you what to look for.
    Jack wondered whether it was wise to play along, but he was determined to get to the bottom of this. All right, he answered, then headed down the hall with his portable phone pressed to his ear. He looked through the window before stepping outside but saw nothing. He opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. Okay, he said into the phone. I'm at the box.
    Look inside, the caller ordered.
    Cautiously, Jack reached for the lid on the mailbox beside the door. He extended one finger, pried under the lid, and quickly popped it open, jerking his hand back as if he'd just touched molten lava.
    Do you see it, Swyteck?
    Jack stood on his toes and peered inside from a distance, fearful that he was about to see bloody gym shorts or torn panties or some other evidence of Goss's latest handiwork. There's an envelope, he said, seeing nothing else inside.
    Open it, said the caller.
    Jack carefully took the envelope from the box. It was plain white. No return address. No addressee. It had been hand-delivered, which meant the stalker had been on his porch - an unsettling thought. He unfolded the flap and tentatively removed the contents. What is this?
    What's it look like?
    He studied the page. A map. A route had been high-lighted by yellow felt-tip pen.
    Follow it - if you want to know who the killer on the loose is. You do want to know, don't you, Swyteck?
    I already know it's you, Goss. This is a map to your apartment.
    It's a map to the killer on the loose. Be there. Meet him at four-thirty A. M. tonight. And no cops. Or you'll be very sorry.
    Jack bristled at the sound of the dial tone, then switched off the portable phone. At first it didn't even occur to him to actually go to Goss's apartment. But if Goss were going to kill him, would he do it in his own apartment? Would he invite Jack over and give him directions to the scene of the crime? No, he must be up to something else, and Jack's curiosity was piqued.
    But it was more than just curiosity. He was thinking of the night two years ago when he'd refused to give his father enough privileged information to stop Raul Fernandez's execution. His rigidity had resulted in Raul's death, and he was determined not to make the same mistake again. In dealing with a confessed killer who was continuing his evil ways, he had to be more flexible with privileged information.
    It was time to issue an ultimatum. Months ago, when he and Goss had been considering an insanity defense, Jack had pumped him for information about his past crimes - some of which included murder. His client had told him plenty. Now it was time to confront Goss and let him know that if he wanted to stay out of the electric chair - if he didn't want a prosecutor to get an anonymous tip about his most