San Quentin, California San Quentin Governor Gerry McFaul is about to leave for an evening's golf when he's told there's a long-distance call from someone called Tom Shaman.
McFaul smiles and tells his secretary to put it through. He remembers Tom well. A ballsy young priest who visited the landings and shared his love of boxing. He'd even let him spar with some of the more trusted inmates, and the guy had turned out to be pretty handy.
'Governor McFaul, speaking.'
'Governor, I'm sorry to trouble you. This is Tom Shaman – I used to be Father Tom. I don't know if you remember me, I-'
'Sure, I remember you. Southpaw – a sweet left guided by the good Lord. How can I help you, Tom?'
'Do you still have a man called Lars Bale on your landings? '
McFaul doesn't even have to check. 'Certainly do. But thankfully not for much longer. His note came through.'
Tom had always had some trouble accepting the death penalty, and the governor's casualness throws him for a second.
'You still there, Tom? I can't hear you. Hello?'
'I'm here.' He gets his brain in gear. 'Is Bale still painting?'
The governor glances at his watch and starts shutting down his computer. 'Like crazy. He's done enough to fill a gallery. I guess we'll have to pull a damned paintbrush out of his hand when we strap him down.'
'Is he allowed calls? Could you fix it for me to speak to him?'
Suspicion creeps into McFaul's voice. 'What's this about, Tom? His appeal's been rejected.'
Tom's not sure how to answer. What is it really about? Some strange connection he's made to a series of LA murders nearly a decade and a half ago, and some modern-day killings in Venice that seem to have Satanic undertones? It sounds too weird to say out loud. 'Governor, I'm in Venice – Venice, Italy – trying to help the Carabinieri with a murder case. I think talking to Bale might be useful.'
McFaul glances again at his watch. He's going to be late. If he tries to fix the call tonight then he's sure as hell gonna miss his golf. 'Tomorrow, Tom. Call me tomorrow – six p.m. your time – and I'll see what I can do.'
'Thanks.' Tom's about to hang up when a question hits him: 'Sorry, Governor, one last thing. You said a date had come through for his execution?'
'That's right.'
'When is it? How long has he got?'
McFaul can't help but give off a slight chuckle. 'I don't know whether the pen-pushers in Justice did it on purpose, but that son-of-a-bitch is set to meet his maker at six a.m. on the sixth of June. Six, Six, Six. Just six days from now. I sure hope he likes the irony of that.'