Just Cause

'What's that?'

'What d'you think? The invited guests of the state and Blair Sullivan for his own little going-away party.'

'Jesus. He wants me to watch the execution?'

'Yup.'

'Christ! I don't know if…'

'Why don't you ask him yourself? You got to understand, Mr. Cowart, there ain't a lot of time involved here. We're having a nice chat here on the phone, but I think you'd best be calling the airlines for a flight. Get here by this afternoon.'

'Right. Right. I'll get there. Jesus.'

'It was your story, Mr. Cowart. I guess old Sully just wants to see you write the last chapter, huh? Can't say it surprises me.'

Matthew Cowart didn't reply. He hung up the telephone. He stuck his head into Will Martin's office and swiftly explained the unusual summons. 'Go,' the older man said. 'Go, right now. It's a helluva story. Just go.' There was a hurried conversation with the managing editor, and a rushed trip back to his apartment to grab a toothbrush and change of clothes.

He made a noon commuter flight.

It was late afternoon when he reached the prison, driving the rental car hard through a gray, rain-streaked day. The beating noise of the windshield wipers had added urgency to his pace. Sergeant Rogers met him in the administration offices. They shook hands like old teammates at a reunion.

'You made good time, the sergeant said.

'You know, I can feel the craziness. I'm driving along, thinking about every minute, Jesus, every second, and what it means all of a sudden.'

'That's right,' the sergeant nodded. 'There ain't nothing like having a time and date for dying to make little moments right important.'

'Scary.'

'That it is. Like I told you, Mr. Cowart, Death Row gives one an entirely different perspective on living.'

'No demonstrators outside?'

'Not yet. You really got to hate the death penalty to want to walk in the rain for old Sully. I expect they'll show up in a day or so. Weather's supposed to clear tonight.'

'Anyone else here to see him?'

'There's lawyers with papers all ready to file on call -but he ain't called for anyone, excepting you. There's been some detectives here. That pair from Pachoula came down yesterday. He wouldn't talk to them. Couple of FBI men and some guys from Orlando and Gainesville. They all want to know about a bunch of murders they still got floating on their books. He won't talk to them, neither. Just wants to talk to you. Maybe he'll tell you. Sure would help some folks if'n he would. That's what old Ted Bundy did, before he went to the chair. Cleared up a whole lot of mysteries plaguing some folks. I don't know if it counted for much when he got to the other side, but, hell, who knows?'

'Let's go.'

'That's right.'

Sergeant Rogers made a perfunctory check of Matthew Cowart's notepad and briefcase and then led him through the sally ports and metal detectors into the bowels of the prison.

Sullivan was waiting in his cell. The sergeant pulled a chair up outside and gestured for Cowart to sit.

I need privacy,' Sullivan coughed.

Cowart thought he had paled some. His slicked-back hair glistened in the light from a single, wire-covered bulb. Sullivan moved nervously about from wall to wall in the cell, twisting his hands together, his shoulders hunched over.

'I need my privacy,' he repeated.

'Sully, you know there ain't nobody in either cell on right or left. You can talk here,' the sergeant said patiently.

The prisoner smiled, allowing a smile to race across his face.

'They make it like a grave,' he said to Matthew Cowart as the sergeant moved away. 'They make it quiet and still, just so's you start to get used to the idea of living in a coffin.'

He walked to the bars and shook them once. 'Just like a coffin,' he said. 'Nailed shut.'

Blair Sullivan laughed hard, until the sound disintegrated into a wheeze. 'So, Cowart, you're looking mighty prosperous.'

'I'm okay. How can I help you?'

Til get to that, get to that. Give me a moment of pleasure or so. Hey, you heard from our boy, Bobby Earl?'

'When I won the prize, he called with congratulations. But I didn't really talk to him. I gather he's back in college.'

'That right? Somehow, I didn't make him for a real studious type. But hey, maybe college has got some pedal attractions for old Bobby Earl. Real special attractions.'

'What are you saying?'

'Nothing. Nothing. Nothing that you won't need to remember some time later.'

Blair Sullivan tossed back his head and let his body shiver. 'You think it's cold in here, Cowart?'

Cowart could feel sweat running down his ribs. 'No. It's hot.'

Sullivan grinned and coughed out another laugh. 'Ain't that a joke, Cowart? It's getting so I can't tell no more. Can't tell if it's hot or cold. Day or night. Just like a little child, I'm thinking. I guess that's a part of it, the dying. You just naturally head backwards in time.'

He rose and walked to a small sink in the corner of the cell. He ran the single tap for a moment, leaning down and drinking with great gulps. 'And thirsty, too. Keep getting dry in the mouth. Just like something keeps sucking all the moisture right out of me.'

Cowart didn't say anything.

'Of course, I expect when they jolt you the first time with those twenty-five hundred volts, that's thirsty work for all involved.'

Matthew Cowart felt his own throat tighten. 'Are you going to file?'

Sullivan scowled. 'What do you think?'

'I don't.'

He stared at Cowart. 'You got to understand, Cowart, right now I'm feeling more alive than ever.'

'Why do you want to see me?'

'Last will and testament. Dying declaration. Famous last words. How's that sound?'

'Up to you.'

Sullivan made a fist and punched the still air of the cell. 'Do you remember me telling you how far I could reach? Do you remember me saying how puny these walls and bars really are, Cowart? Do you remember me saying that I don't fear death, I welcome it? I think there's gonna be a special place in hell for me, Cowart. I do. And you're gonna help me get there.'

'How?'

'You're gonna do some things for me.'

'What if I don't agree?'

'You will. You can't help it, Cowart. You're in this all the way, ain't you?'

Cowart nodded, wondering what he was agreeing to.

'All right, Cowart. Mr. Famous Reporter Man. I want you to go someplace for me and do some of your special-type reporting. It's a little house. I want you to knock on the door. If there ain't no answer, I want you to go right on in. Don't you mind if the door's locked. Don't you let anything keep you from walking into that house. Got that? I don't care how, but you get inside that house. You keep your eyes open. You take down all the details inside, hear? You interview everybody there…'

Blair Sullivan ladled sarcasm onto the word. He laughed. 'Then you come back and tell me what you found, and I'll tell you a story worth hearing. Blair Sullivan's legacy.'

The killer put his head into his hands and then raised them up over his forehead, pushing back his hair, grinning wildly. 'And that'll be a story worth the knowing, I promise.'

Cowart hesitated. He felt swept up in a sudden darkness.

'Okay, Mr. Cowart,' Sullivan said. 'Ready? I want you to go to number thirteen – nice number, that – Tarpon Drive in Islamorada.'

'That's the Keys. I just came from…

'Just go there! And then come back and tell me what you find. And don't leave nothing out.'

Cowart looked at the prisoner, unsure for an instant. Then the doubt fled and he rose.

'Run, Cowart. Run hard. Run fast. There's not much time.'

Sullivan sat back on his bed. He turned his face away from Cowart but at the same time bellowed out, "Sergeant Rogers! Get this man out of my sight!'

His eyes twitched once toward Cowart. 'Until tomorrow. That'd be day six.'

Cowart nodded and paced swiftly away.