First Thrills - Lee Child [23]
I pass through security and into 12 Building at Huntsville at dusk pushing a luggage dolly loaded with two thermally insulated plastic bins. The guards follow me, anxious to inspect the chef priest’s meal. I pass them a grocery bag filled with cookies.
“Two dozen with cinnamon and walnut, two dozen plain,” I announce.
“Will go nice for our party,” the shift captain says. The guards always threw a party the night before an execution.
“There’ll be plenty of leftovers, too,” I say. “I made twelve servings of everything.”
As the guards inspect my bins, I encourage them to sample the cookies. My distraction fails. One of the guards hands the captain my 9-inch Switchblade CarbonFiber knife.
“Can’t take this in, Reverend.”
“How’s he supposed to cut the lamb?”
“We’ll give you a plastic knife.”
“Plastic? That will just shred the meat and make a mess. Can’t I just cut it for him?”
“Nope. State reg.”
“It’s not like I’m gonna try to kill him or anything.”
The captain shrugs. “But he might try.”
At last I’m allowed into the dining cell. Puff is wearing all white, smiling like an angel. “I could smell it cooking all week,” he says, pining over the warm bins. He catches himself, embarrassed, then shuts his eyes and prays. While he recites obscure scriptures even I can’t recall, I cover the table with plastic utensils and paper plates and a rainbow assortment of Tupperware bowls.
I join Puff in grace. We bow our heads together, for a moment, brothers.
“First, an aperitif,” I begin when he is ready. I pass him a plastic shot glass filled with brown liquid. “Kombucha, a mushroom- infused tea to cleanse your palette, best served cold. Compliments of the chef.”
“Yum. Tastes like apple cider.”
I take the empty cup and slide Puff a small plate.
“Next, a wild duck and mushroom pâte served on a fresh bed of baby greens and arugula . . .
One by one I present each course. Puff eats like a horse, bare-toothed. His appetite is unstoppable. Between bites he chants: “Puff in heaven. Puff in heaven.” I worry that there won’t be leftovers for the guards’ party.
At last maple sweetness fills the air and he’s shoveling his way through the candy cap mushroom dessert. That’s when I make my confession: “Mr. Perkins, I tried to stay your execution. I have friends in Austin and I thought they could get a clemency granted. But they couldn’t. I’m sorry.”
Puff drops his spoon. “Why the hell you do that?”
“So you wouldn’t die, of course.”
“But I wanna die! Been waiting eight years to see Joe Bryd! And this is exactly how I want to go, too, with a belly full of the best food ever cooked!”
I don’t know what to say. I ask Puff if he wants to join me in prayer.
He says no.
“Preacher, you don’t make no sense. I don’t know why you wanted to cook for me like this, and I don’t know why you’d stop my injection after what I did to you. All I can figure is that the good Lord is deep inside you.”
“What you did to me?” I ask.
“Well, not you. Your woman.”
“You know who I am?”
Puff wipes a dab of pots de crème from his charcoal lips. “Won’t never forget. I’m sorry about your Mary. I pray for that woman every night. Heard she was with child, too. Damn shame. I could never be the man you are, Preacher . . . a forgiving man, a man that don’t take revenge. I had to kill that Turk bastard for taking my son from me, but you, you’re strong. I’m twice your size, but I could never be as strong as you.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward, it’s music. As I stack the discarded plates and Tupperware back in the bins, Puff rubs his belly, grinning and burping like a sleepy child.
“Good-bye, Puff. God be with you.”
Digestivo
I’m not hungry after watching a man eat like that. I drive home, exhausted. Five messages are waiting for me on my answering machine, all from Peter.
“Where the hell have you been?” Peter shouts when I call him back.
“At Huntsville, had my phone off. What’s up?”
“I got your clemency, that’s what’s up! Two parts