Gone Again: A Jack Swyteck Novel Read online

  “Yes. It’s important.”

  “What is it?”

  “Just come. I need you to see something.”

  Jack had spent all afternoon reading the trial transcript from State v. Dylan Reeves, and he had plenty of questions for Debra. He would have preferred to check in with Andie first, but there was urgency in Debra’s voice; and once a death warrant was signed, there was no such thing as moving too fast, even if the execution date was still thirty days away.

  “I can be there in twenty minutes,” he said.

  He got there in ten. Debra was waiting for him in the lobby. “You want to grab a coffee and talk?” asked Jack.

  “No,” she said, taking him by the arm. “Follow me.”

  Her voice had that same urgency that Jack had detected on the phone, but the look in her eyes was not a worried one. It bordered on excitement. She led him down the long hallway on the ground floor, past the business center and several meeting rooms. They stopped at a set of double doors, which were closed. It was the entrance to “Ballroom B.”

  “I’ve been working on this all day,” she said as she pulled open the door.

  Jack stepped inside and stopped. It was small for a “ballroom,” more suitable for a Rotary Club lunch than, say, a wedding reception. Instead of the typical round dinner tables with white table cloths, however, Debra had brought in a dozen rectangular folding tables. Leaflets, flyers, and posters, each with a yellow ribbon of hope fastened to it, were spread out across the tables. Jack picked up one of the flyers. It wasn’t the photograph that he’d seen in the case file earlier that afternoon, but it was the same beautiful seventeen-year-old brunette with the flawless olive skin and mysterious dark eyes. The identical three-word message was on the flyers, the posters, and the banner that hung on the wall behind the tables:

  * * *

  FIND SASHI BURGETTE

  * * *

  “We’ll put laptop computers over there,” said Debra, indicating. “Volunteers can work social media, send e-mail blasts—all the virtual-world stuff. That table by the door with the cash box is for people who want to contribute to the Find Sashi reward fund. And on those tables in the back we can put out coffee and snacks. Bagels and such in the morning. Maybe some finger sandwiches in the afternoon. If folks are kind enough to donate their time, the least you can do is feed them.”

  Jack was speechless. Of course he felt sorry for a woman who’d lost her daughter, but he couldn’t hide his concern.

  “Debra, is this all your idea?”

  “Not entirely. I have you to thank.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. For three years, no one would help me, Jack. Not the police, not my church, not even my husband. Ex-husband. Gavin and I are divorced now. Did I mention that?”

  “No. You didn’t.”

  She breathed in and out, her gaze sweeping the room. “I feel like I’m forgetting something. There’s just so much to think about.”

  “Debra, is anyone coming?”

  “Yes, of course. I e-mailed at least a hundred people. I was hoping the room would be buzzing when you got here. But traffic is so bad this time of day. I’m sure they’re coming, though. They’ll be here. It’s the traffic.”

  Jack didn’t mention that his trip from midtown had taken just half the time he’d estimated.

  “I invited the local news stations, too,” said Debra.

  “They’re coming?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they say they would come?”

  “Well, no. But I left a message on the voice mail. I’m sure they’re coming. Darn traffic.”

  They stood in silence—awkward silence. Then the ballroom door opened.

  “Ah, see! They’re here,” said Debra. She hurried to the door.

  Jack stayed where he was. A woman about half Debra’s age entered. Debra took her by the hand and led her straight to Jack. She was a younger version of Debra, the same strawberry-blond hair, blue eyes, and high cheekbones.

  “This is my daughter Aquinnah,” said Debra.

  She shook Jack’s hand and smiled politely, but there was a hint of embarrassment in her expression. “Very nice to meet you.”

  “Aquinnah is premed at Barry University.”

  “Impressive,” said Jack.

  “Not really,” said Aquinnah.

  “Don’t be modest,” said Debra.

  “It will be impressive if I pass organic chemistry.”

  Debra smiled awkwardly, as if not sure what to do with that remark. “Did you bring any volunteers with you?”

  “No, Mom. Just me.”

  “Well, that’s a start. Let’s see. Why don’t you sit over there at the ribbon table. I tied about twenty already, but they all need safety pins so folks can fasten them to their lapels.”

  “Sure thing,” said Aquinnah. She stepped away, catching Jack’s eye as she passed behind her mother. Aquinnah’s expression didn’t exactly say “crazy,” but it was close.

  “How old is Aquinnah?” asked Jack.

  “Twenty. Same as Sashi.”

  Jack glanced again at Sashi’s photo on the flyer. Aquinnah was by no means unattractive, but Sashi was definitely the prettier one, even without a smile.

  “They don’t really look alike. Are they fraternal twins?”

  “No, no. Sashi is adopted. Did I not mention that?”

  “No. You didn’t.”

  “Not that it matters. I love both my girls equally. We adopted Sashi right before her fourteenth birthday, and her younger brother, Alexander, when he was two—almost three. They’re from Chechnya. Gavin wanted a boy, and if it had been up to him, the adoption would have gone through that way. But how could anyone break up a brother and sister? I sure couldn’t.”

  Debra fell quiet. The energy she’d radiated since meeting Jack in the lobby was suddenly gone.

  “Are you okay?” asked Jack.

  “Funny,” she said. “I always felt as though we had done a good thing by adopting Sashi. You know, in her country they kick the kids out of foster care at age sixteen. Chances are she would have ended up a prostitute or a drug addict. We gave her a . . . ,” she said, swallowing her words, “a better life.”

  Debra’s hands started to tremble. Jack didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to give false hope. “You did the right thing.”

  “Yes,” she said, sniffing back tears. “It was the right thing. And this time it is all going to work out. I know it is. And I am so grateful to you, Jack. So, so grateful.”

  “Debra, I—”

  She took a quick step closer, squeezed his hand, and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  She stepped away, and Jack took a breath. Their eyes met for a moment, and Jack saw a hint of gratitude in Debra’s. But it was mostly desperation.

  “You’re welcome,” was all he could say.

  CHAPTER 6

  Jack was halfway home, standing at the checkout counter with a bag of potato chips and a carton of triple fudge swirl ice cream, when Andie phoned him.

  “Honey, Dr. Starkey wants me to meet her at the hospital.”

  Jack gripped his cell but dropped everything else, including his wallet, as he ran for the exit. The automatic doors parted on his way out.

  “Sir, your wallet!” the bag boy shouted.

  He did a quick one-eighty, but the doors closed suddenly. He slammed into the glass, his forehead taking the brunt of the beating. “Ow, shit!”

  “That’s gonna leave a mark,” the bag boy said.

  Jack checked for blood. There was none. He thanked the bag boy for the wallet and groceries and ran to his car. Andie was still on the line.

  “What was that noise?” she asked.

  “Nothing. Is the baby coming?”

  “No, it’s my blood pressure. It’s too high.”

  Jack jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. “I’ll pick you up.”

  “The ambulance is on the way.”

  “Ambulance?”


  “Dr. Starkey says it’s only a precaution. Just meet us in the ER.”

  “Okay. I’ll drive straight there.”

  It took Jack forty minutes to reach the hospital, thanks to an accident on the Dolphin Expressway. The ice cream was a total loss, so he ditched it in the trash receptacle outside the ER entrance, wiping his hands on his pants as he passed through the automated doors to the waiting room. It was packed. The only available seat was the one next to an old woman holding a plastic bucket that reeked of vomit. A tattooed biker with road rash on his bulging arms was stretched across three seats, but no one seemed inclined to make him share. Jack saw no sign of Andie, but priority for a pregnant woman who passed the time by cleaning her semiautomatic pistol would have made sense, even if she hadn’t come in by ambulance. Jack hurried past the mayhem and went straight to the intake desk.

  “I’m looking for my wife. Andrea Henning. She’s very pregnant and came in by ambulance.”

  “What happened to you?” the nurse asked.

  “Nothing. I’m trying to find my wife.”

  “Looks like you’ve got a big purple mango stuck to your forehead.”

  “I banged my head.”

  “When?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  “Well, you came to the right place. We specialize in head trauma.”

  “I’m just trying to find my wife. This isn’t about me.”

  “It is now. Get in the wheelchair.”

  “No, you don’t understand, I—”

  “It’s protocol. If you black out and hit the floor, I’ll lose my job. So get in the wheelchair, get some ice on that knot, and I’ll take you to your wife. Or go sit out in the waiting room next to the woman with the bucketful of vomit and wait your turn. The choice is yours.”

  Jack settled into the chair, and the nurse pushed.

  “Smart move. By the way, your wife is one of the most beautiful pregnant women I’ve ever seen.”

  “Thank you. And she’s probably the only one whose husband ended up in a wheelchair.”

  “No, sir,” she said with a chuckle. “Not by a long shot.”

  They made a quick stop at the nurses’ station and entered the ER through the pneumatic doors. Jack rolled up to patient bay number 3, peeked out from under the ice pack on his forehead, and saw Andie lying on a gurney. She was connected to an IV and a blood-pressure cuff, but she looked more concerned about Jack.

  “I’m okay,” he said, and that was all she needed to hear. It was as if the emotional logjam had broken. The heartbreak of two previous miscarriages, the stress of a difficult pregnancy, a week of bed rest, and the ambulance ride to the hospital—all of it found release in laughter. Uncontrollable laughter. If she laughed any harder, she would have needed a catheter.

  The doctor intervened. “Sir, I can’t get the patient’s blood pressure under control if she has the giggles. You’re going to have to leave.”

  Jack could only assume that he looked even more ridiculous than he felt. “I’ll wait in the hallway,” he said, and wheeled himself out.

  Around ten o’clock Andie’s doctor decided that she should be admitted to the hospital and stay the night “for observation.” Jack asked why. The doctor told him. Jack didn’t like the answer. He ditched the wheelchair and went up to room 311 for a moment alone with Andie.

  “Hi,” he said as he entered the room.

  Andie was awake and semireclined in the adjustable bed. “Hey, Schleprock,” she said with a warm smile.

  It was a private room, and even though the door remained open, the hallways had quieted down for the night. Soft lighting gave Andie’s hair a bluish-black sheen. A visit to the ER had taken some of the sparkle out of her eyes, but the supervisory nurse had been right on the money: she was beautiful. Jack leaned over the bed rail and kissed her. Only then did he notice that there were two heart monitors on the other side of the bed. It made him happy and concerned at the same time.

  “Everything looks good with the baby,” she said.

  “I heard.”

  “What else did you hear?”

  “That they finally got you to stop laughing.”

  She smiled again, and then it faded. “Seriously. Did Dr. Starkey mention the increased protein levels?”

  “She did.” And then some. Jack had shifted into cross-examination mode to get details. Preeclampsia can cause fetal complications: low birth weight, premature birth, and, yes, Mr. Swyteck, even stillbirth. It can affect the mother’s kidneys, liver, and brain. When preeclampsia causes seizures, the condition is known as eclampsia. Jack didn’t have to ask: he knew eclampsia could be fatal for the mother.

  Andie reached over the rail and took his hand. “Jack, I’m sure your mind is running wild.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “It must be. Let’s not ignore the elephant in the room. Your mother died from eclampsia. But just because I have preeclampsia doesn’t mean it will develop into eclampsia.”

  “You’re right.”

  “And even if the condition does get worse, Dr. Starkey is on top of it.”

  “You’re right again.”

  “Medicine has come a long way since you were a baby and your mother got eclampsia.”

  “You’re absolutely right.”

  “Will you stop saying I’m right?”

  “Sorry.” He breathed in and out. “What’s the next step?”

  “They’ll do urine tests over the next twenty-four hours to determine how severe my condition is. We’ll know more then.”

  “So yours could be a mild case?”

  “Could be. They’ll run tests on my liver and kidneys. They’ll make sure the placenta is doing what it’s supposed to do. The good news is that all this goes away when the baby is born.”

  “That is good news,” said Jack.

  “So don’t be a doggy downer, okay? I don’t want to turn the countdown to what should be the happiest day of our lives into a pity party.”

  “You got it.”

  “Oh, and I don’t think we should tell your father about this. Don’t you agree?”

  It was the Swyteck way, actually, to keep quiet about such things. Never had Jack and his father even nibbled around the edge of a conversation about what it had been like for him to bring his newborn son home from the hospital. Alone.

  “I agree,” said Jack. “He and Agnes are in North Carolina till after Columbus Day and the Woolly Worm Festival anyway.”

  “And the same goes for your grandmother. She was lighting three candles a day and praying to Saint Anne for a healthy baby even before I started peeing on a stick.”

  “Abuela definitely doesn’t need to know.”

  “Oh, and we probably shouldn’t mention it to—”

  “Honey, we’ll keep this between us. How’s that for a plan?”

  She nodded and smiled weakly. Then she fell quiet, and Jack didn’t feel the need to make her talk.

  “I’m really tired,” she said.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “I’m going to fall asleep soon.”

  Jack looked around the room. The armchair in the corner looked reasonably comfortable. “I’ll stay here till you do.”

  “I’d like that,” she said.

  “I love you,” he whispered, but her eyes were already closed. “And I’ll be here when you wake up.”

  Jack felt a strange vibration in his pocket. His eyes blinked open, and slowly he realized that he was still in Andie’s hospital room. He’d fallen asleep in the armchair. He pulled his cell from his pocket. It was 5:20 a.m., and Hannah was calling from the Freedom Institute. Andie was asleep, so he stepped into the hall.

  “Good morning, chief,” said Hannah.

  Jack massaged the bump on his forehead. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Sorry, but we’ve been working all night on Dylan Reeves’ emergency motion for stay of execution. The plan is to file at nine a.m. sharp. Do you want to read it first?”

  The nursing stati
on was in a shift change. Jack walked down the hall to a quieter place. “Sure. E-mail me the latest draft.”

  “Okay. I got a question for you, though. Last we talked, we were going to focus on procedural issues and our challenge to the so-called confession. You told us to downplay the argument that Sashi is still alive.”

  “I did.”

  “Well, have you seen today’s Miami Tribune?”

  “No. Have you?”

  “I have a Google alert for Dylan Reeves. There’s an article that just posted on its Web edition. It quotes you.”

  “What?”

  “I got it right here. ‘Lawyer Says Death Row Inmate Faces Execution for Murder That Never Happened.’”

  “I never spoke to anyone,” said Jack. “Are you sure they’re talking about me?”

  “Yeah. I’ll read it to you. Blah, blah, blah. Here we go. ‘Twenty-eight-year-old Dylan Reeves has denied any involvement in the death or disappearance of Sashi Burgette since he was convicted of first-degree murder and sentenced to die by lethal injection. His lawyer, Miami attorney Jack Swyteck, now takes that argument one step further. The defense has uncovered significant new evidence that Sashi Burgette is still alive, Swyteck said in a press release.’”

  “I didn’t issue a press release. Did you?”

  “No, Jack. I would never do that without your approval.”

  “Then who—” he started to say, but he stopped himself.

  “I guess the possibilities are pretty limited, aren’t they?”

  Jack recalled his talk with Debra at the “Find Sashi” headquarters, and her mention of phone calls to the local media. “Unpleasant as it may be, I need to have a firm talk with Sashi’s mother.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Jack called Debra Burgette. She didn’t answer. Either she knew he was angry and she was avoiding him, or she was still in bed, like most of Miami. He drove home to shower and change clothes.

  The sun emerged from the Atlantic as he cruised across the causeway to Key Biscayne. Andie had initially resisted moving into his “bachelor pad,” but she came around. Jack had a sweetheart lease on waterfront property, one of the original “Mackle houses” that were built mostly for World War II veterans who were brave enough to live in what was, at the time, little more than a mosquito-infested swamp. The house sold for $12,000 in 1955, and if Jack managed to hit the lottery before his lease expired, he and Andie could purchase it for about seven million. If not, the house was theirs to enjoy for another two years. It was basically a two-bedroom concrete shoe box, but it came with a dock. Dozens of Jack’s friends begged to keep a boat there. Only one got his wish.