Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [213]
“Absolutely.”
“Proceed” came over the intercom.
With one officer on each of Brady’s arms and Thomas about six feet behind, they slowly began the walk through the cellblock. With Brady’s first step, the men on the Row began a slow tapping on their cell doors, and this continued the whole way.
When the tiny procession reached the end of the pod, Thomas saw that the rest of the way through security and all the way to the exit, officers were lined up on either side, standing shoulder to shoulder, feet spread, hands clasped behind their backs, heads lowered. As Brady reached them, each raised his head, snapped to attention, arms at his sides, feet together.
Thomas could barely breathe.
74
Moved by the respect and reverence shown Brady as he was escorted to the chamber, still Thomas felt as if he himself were on his way to the gallows. He fought to not show weakness or grief before Brady now, but this was the longest, most difficult walk of his life.
“Just stay close,” was all Brady asked.
The warden appeared behind them. “Time for your good-byes, gentlemen,” he said.
It was too soon. Thomas sensed the clock speeding. When Frank LeRoy retreated and took other dignitaries with him, Thomas and Brady were left with just the officer who would lead them in.
“So,” Thomas said, “I guess this is it. I love you, Brady.”
Brady looked to the officer as if for permission, and when the man nodded, he embraced the chaplain and whispered, “Jesus said, ‘Be sure of this: I am with you always, even to the end of the age.’”
“It’s time,” the officer said.
Thomas followed the officer and Brady into the chamber, which contained the single camera, four officers lining one wall, a cheap plastic chair for the chaplain, and a rangy man in shirt and tie who had draped his suit coat over the chair. He looked self-conscious standing next to a wood tray filled with spikes and a heavy wooden mallet.
“I’ve practiced this and will do my best is all I can promise,” he said.
“Thank you,” Brady said.
God, Brady prayed silently, we both know who I am, but let me be Jesus for these people and everyone who ever sees this, just so they know what He went through.
A technician, the laminated card clipped to his shirt identifying him as from ICN, slipped in and double-checked the camera. “Rolling,” he said quietly, backing out. The door shut and the curtains were opened, revealing the most crowded viewing area Thomas had ever seen for an execution.
“Stand by!” the warden called out. “When you’re ready.”
Brady hung his head, eyes welling. He imagined himself mocked, jeered, beaten, spit upon. He removed his clothes and stood shivering in his underwear. He had studied this and wished he could also have been shoved up against a broad pole and suspended from the top by his bound hands and there whipped thirty-nine times by a cat-o’-nine-tails, leather strips embedded with bits of rock and iron that would lacerate his back from his shoulders to his waist and lay him open.
Experts claimed irreparable damage had been done to Jesus’ body and that parts of His spine and even internal organs would have been exposed. Each new stroke had dug deeper until Jesus had finally been released to crumble to His knees.
I’m getting off easy, Brady thought. If he could just force himself to go through with this.
“Lie down across the planks,” the executioner said kindly.
Sickened, Thomas stole a glance at the TV monitor to see what was being broadcast. All Thomas could think of was whether Grace yet regretted her decision to watch.
Brady was shuddering, and Thomas leaned forward. “You all right?” he said.
“Fine, Reverend. Let me be.”
“Let me get you a bottle of water,” Thomas said, aching to cradle him.
“Please, no,” Brady said, barely able to be heard. “This has to be authentic as we can make it.”
“It’s too close.”
“Then