Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [215]
His head banged against the wood, and Brady felt himself slipping away. He closed his eyes against the pain and imagined he could hear the thieves hanging on either side of Jesus, one saying, “So You’re the Messiah, are You? Prove it by saving Yourself—and us, too, while You’re at it!”
But the other said, “Don’t you fear God even when you have been sentenced to die? We deserve to die for our crimes, but this Man hasn’t done anything wrong. Jesus, remember me when You come into Your Kingdom.” And Jesus had responded, “I assure you, today you will be with Me in paradise.”
Brady hunched again to exhale, knowing he was fighting the clock. His vision was going, his muscles cramping.
It was all he could do to breathe. Everything in his system fought for relief and labored to keep him alive, yet he was drifting, drifting. He had to exhale but didn’t know if he had the strength.
For more than two of the worst hours of Thomas’s life, he sat transfixed, tears streaming, as Brady continued to thrash just enough to exhale every few seconds. It seemed the young man would die any moment, and yet he lingered, writhing. Thomas was aware of spectators who rose and left, clearly having not been prepared for such a lengthy ordeal.
God, please, Thomas said silently. He’s obeyed You. Take him.
Brady fought to pull himself up one last time, and as he exhaled, he forced himself to speak once more the words of Jesus.
“Father, I entrust my spirit into Your hands!”
Thomas stood as Brady’s chest heaved, his limbs twitched, and suddenly he was still.
“Doc!” the executioner called out.
The doctor slipped in and slid Thomas’s chair to the foot of the cross, mounted it, and pressed his stethoscope to Brady’s chest. He pronounced him dead, marking the time.
Thomas had seen enough. He had honored Brady’s request and learned the hardest way possible what Jesus had endured on his behalf.
Thomas hurried away, out of the chamber, down the long corridors, through the security envelopes, past the cellblocks and pods. All were as silent as he had ever heard them.
In every cell, at every security checkpoint, and even in every office in the administration wing, TVs showed the closed-circuit feed to sober, somber eyes. No one spoke or even acknowledged Thomas as he gathered up his stuff and headed out to his car.
The officer at the guardhouse waved him through, and he drove past the media and the protesters—now on their knees, cupping candles incongruously flickering in the midday sun.
Fortunately for Thomas, hardly any other cars were on the road. At home he found Gladys sitting next to Grace’s bed, holding his wife’s hand as they silently watched the wrap-up of the televised coverage.
Dirk and Ravinia sat on Thomas’s bed, ashen faced.
Thomas sat next to his daughter and draped an arm around her shoulder. She was shivering. Suddenly she let her head fall to her father’s chest and buried her face in him as she sobbed.
After several minutes she pulled away, wiping her face. “I’m going to go,” she managed. “I need to be with Summer.”
“I need to be with you both,” Dirk said softly.
“Well, come on, then,” she said.
They each embraced Grace, and Thomas followed them to the front door and watched as they walked to their respective cars. Dirk put a tentative hand on Rav’s shoulder. She slipped a hand around his waist.
Before they parted, they stopped and held each other.
Epilogue
Not since 9/11 had churches been so full, and this time the phenomenon circled the globe. Every ministry Thomas knew of reported record inquiries and changed lives. Thomas himself had been busy since the little revival started on death row months before, but even that was nothing compared to now. He even had to talk with Warden LeRoy about hiring help. Requests for visits and New Testaments and books poured into his office.
Four days after Brady Wayne Darby was crucified, his autopsy became part of the public