Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [101]
The shouting and catcalling of all the other prisoners died away, and all that could be heard over the footfalls of the entourage was a light, rhythmic tapping on cell walls with pencils or slippers. That was how the only acquaintances Henry Trenton had had for years said their good-byes.
Thomas, his throat constricted, prayed desperately for a chance to somehow minister to the Deacon beyond simply being there at his end.
When they arrived, all but one officer peeled away, and the warden joined the witnesses on the other side of the window. The executioner, a stern-looking old man, stood on the platform. He nodded to Thomas and motioned with his head that he should ascend the gallows stairs and join him.
Finally the remaining officer put a hand gently on Henry’s back and guided him slowly up to the tiny platform. There was room for only the four of them, and Thomas found himself wishing the corrections officer were not so large.
Thomas could not keep himself from shaking as he prayed desperately for Henry to somehow falter, to break down and ask for something, anything—a prayer, a verse. The condemned was shaking now too, which gave Thomas hope.
Finally Henry spoke, whispering to the executioner, “Can I thank the chaplain?”
The old man nodded, and Henry awkwardly turned to face Thomas. Raising one hand to shake Thomas’s made him raise both because of the cuffs.
Thomas shook the Deacon’s hand and found it frigid. He held the grasp for as long as Henry Trenton would allow.
“Thanks for coming,” the Deacon said, finally letting go and turning away. Thomas found himself staring at Henry’s back.
Suddenly the curtain opened and Thomas saw over Henry’s shoulder a dozen or so witnesses, including a man in a physician’s smock, stethoscope around his neck, bag on the floor at his feet.
Henry snorted. “So they came after all. I recognize at least three of ’em, Reverend.”
Thomas put a hand on Henry’s shoulder and found it bony and cold.
With a tiny shrug, Henry shook him off. “Family reunion. Maybe they’ll have meat loaf and potato salad after.”
The executioner pulled from his pocket a black hood. “Any last words, Mr. Trenton?” he said.
“Let’s just do it,” Henry said.
The old man lifted the hood above Henry’s head.
“Do I have to wear that?”
“I believe you do,” the executioner said. “It’s for the sake of the witnesses.”
“Ask the warden. These sons-a-guns come to watch me swing, they can see it all.”
The old man peered out at the warden, who waved his permission to skip the hood. He stuffed it back into his pocket and lowered the fat hangman’s knot over Henry’s head and down onto his neck. Thomas was amazed how thick the rope was. It seemed much less would have done the job.
“About sixty seconds, sir,” the executioner said.
“Don’t rush on my account,” Henry said, but no one so much as cracked a smile.
Please, Thomas prayed silently. Please!
Addison
Brady stood in the shadows beyond the Burger Boy parking lot, watching the night shift stream out to their cars. Soon the only two left in the place were Red and Big Mike. Red seemed to be giving the young man last-minute instructions, including how to set the burglar alarm.
Soon the supervisor donned his jacket and hurried out to his car. When he had pulled out of sight, Brady jogged toward the entrance.
37
Adamsville State Penitentiary
Thomas Carey’s mind whirred as if everything he saw and felt were in slow motion. All the while chastising himself for finding this nearly unbearable when it was hardly he who would suffer most in the next few seconds, he prayed fiercely that the Deacon would break down and plead for forgiveness or at least for prayer. Simultaneously he thought of all the others who were praying and noticed the witnesses’ grim visages, the doctor’s impassive gaze, Henry’s rigid but quivering body.
Oh, God, oh, God, please . . .