The Last Word Read Free

sentenced to death by lethal injection. Like father, like son.
    “As much as I enjoy reliving your downfall,” Mark said, “I’m sure you didn’t invite me here to rehash your history of violence.”
    “I’m an innocent man,” Sweeney said.
    “Oh spare me,” Mark said.
    “I couldn’t possibly do that,” Sweeney said with a gleam in his eye. “I wanted you to hear the good news directly from me. I’ll be out of here in a few weeks.”
    “The only way you’re leaving prison is in a coffin,” Mark said. “All your appeals have been denied.”
    “Not all,” Sweeney said. “The court has granted my writ of habeas corpus. There’s going to be a hearing soon. I have a feeling it’s going to go very well. I might even be freed in time to cast my vote for mayor. But it’s such a difficult choice. Do I vote for John Masters, the police chief whose department unjustly arrested me? Or Neal Burnside, the district attorney who railroaded me into this hellhole?”
    “The evidence against you is overwhelming and irrefutable. No court will ever overturn your conviction,” Mark said. “But go ahead—enjoy your fantasy. I’m sure it makes the hours pass more swiftly in your cell.”
    “I won’t be the second innocent Sweeney wrongly put to death because of you.”
    “You’re wasting your act on me,” Mark said. “We both know the truth.”
    Sweeney broke into a broad grin. “Haven’t you heard? Clinton never had sex with that woman and Iraq has weapons of mass destruction. The truth doesn’t matter anymore. Truth is so last century. The new currency in our culture is perception. And everyone’s perception of me is about to change.”
    “Not mine,” Mark said.
    “I’m counting on that,” Sweeney said. “So tell me, Mark, how’s your health these days? I heard you took a nasty fall.”
    “I’ll live.”
    “That’s good, because I want you to enjoy a very long life.”
    “It’s too short to waste any more of it here with you,” Mark said. “Make your point.”
    “I already have. Weren’t you listening? Let’s have lunch when I get out. How do you feel about Chinese food?”
    “This is the last time we’ll be seeing each other.” Mark rose from his seat. “At least until your execution.”
    “Now that’s more like the Mark Sloan I know,” Sweeney said. “You never miss an opportunity to see someone die, do you?”
    Mark went to the door and pounded on it a little too urgently.
    “Guard, I’m ready to go.”
    “What’s your hurry? There are so many of your friends in here. You should really say hello to them before you leave. I know they’d love to see you.”
    “I’ll pass,” Mark said.
    The serial killer known as the Silent Partner was here. So was former councilman Matt Watson, psychiatrist Gavin Reed, Detective Harley Brule, Mob accountant Malcolm Trainor, and many others Mark had helped capture. He didn’t need to see how the years of incarceration had taken their toll on the minds and bodies of all those murderers.
    He took no pleasure in their suffering, even though they deserved it. His investigations weren’t about vengeance. They were about seeing that justice was served, but he’d come to accept the fact that that wasn’t his primary motivation. It was the chase. It was the intellectual challenge of the hunt, the methodical piecing together of the clues that led to the killer. That was what drove him.
    Mark never wanted to see the faces of the killers he’d caught again, not in the flesh or in his memory. And yet here he was, in a room with Carter Sweeney, the worst of them all.
    What was he thinking, coming here?
    Why was it taking so long for the damn door to open?
    “Think of all the vacancies they’d have in here if not for your diligence, Mark. They should really have named this prison in your honor,” Sweeney said. “Maybe they’re just waiting until you die.”
    Finally, Mark heard the electronic hiss of the locks opening automatically inside the