Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [214]
Thomas sat back, gripping both sides of his chair and wishing he could be anywhere else, yet not willing to abandon his friend.
“Final check of vitals,” Frank LeRoy called out, and the doctor stepped in, kneeling next to Brady.
Brady dreaded being nailed to the cross more than he dreaded the end. The state executioner was the only man there licensed to inflict upon Brady intentionally lethal injuries. He alone would drive spikes through Brady’s wrists and feet, and at Brady’s insistence, it would be done precisely so as to remain as close as possible to the scriptural account that none of Jesus’ bones had been broken.
There were few angles and spots where the spikes could be driven to achieve that accuracy, and the man had to be strong enough to strike cleanly and quickly. The spikes had to hold Brady’s weight when the cross was raised by the officers into specially designed supports. Brady knew his pinning to the cross and its being raised alone could kill him if the men weren’t careful.
Was Brady’s own mother watching? He knew Aunt Lois and Uncle Carl were. And Mrs. Carey. And Mrs. Carey-Blanc. And her husband. The guys inside. And much of the world.
God, don’t let this be in vain. Let them see what You want them to see. Your will be done.
The executioner advanced.
When the man grabbed Brady’s arm and stretched it out on the crossbeam, it was all Brady could do to keep from pulling away. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. One of the officers straddled his hand and placed one knee in his palm and the other near Brady’s elbow. His flesh dug into the wood.
The executioner deftly lined up the spike just below the heel of Brady’s hand, and Brady could feel the cold steel and the shift in the man’s weight as he raised the thick wood mallet.
With a loud thunk the hammer drove the spike clean through Brady’s wrist and into the crossbeam.
Brady cried out as blinding pain shot through him. All else was forgotten as flesh and tendon and sinew gave way and nerves fired messages of agony to his brain. With another quick blow, the spike was driven deep into the wood and Brady’s wrist further severed.
He writhed and moaned and cried, his legs spasming as the men shifted to the other arm and repeated the ritual. Brady closed his eyes as everything around him spun madly. He could not imagine worse pain.
When the process was repeated to pin his feet to the vertical beam, he thrashed and pulled, heart thundering and breath coming in great gusts through clenched teeth.
Brady knew he was in danger of going into shock. He fought to stay conscious, determined to see this through. Chaplain Carey looked deeply pained. Brady only hoped his friend and mentor could imagine Jesus Himself enduring this for him.
Deep in another part of his consciousness, a hidden chamber he was surprised even existed, Brady was aware that many people who loved him and cared for him were weeping and saying their good-byes. Such a difference from those who jeered Jesus and called out to Him, demanding to know how He could save others and not Himself.
Even in the midst of His agony, Jesus had not forgotten His mission. “Father,” He had said, His voice certainly as raspy and guttural as Brady’s felt now, “forgive them, for they don’t know what they are doing.”
Brady came close to crying out for relief when the corrections officers gathered and used a rudimentary pulley to lift the cross upright. Everything in Brady cried out, even before they let it drop into the supports, and his whole weight pulled against the torn flesh around the spikes.
It was then that Brady fully understood what it was he was trying to get the world to see. Jesus had not just hung there in beautiful repose. He had to have done what Brady was forced to do now. Brady hung in a position that allowed him to draw breath, but to exhale he had to jerk and hunch himself up until his strength gave out and he slumped again, unable to exhale. He would die of asphyxiation if he didn’t muster the strength to rise a few inches every