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“You don’t understand. This is the beginning of something wonderful.”

“No. It’s the end of something miserable.”

The guard who had put on the leg shackles made a final check of each before straightening. He and his colleague exchanged a glance. Then the other man nodded at the prisoner.

“Let’s go. It’s time.”

Since there was no way to disguise the death chamber, and no reason to do so, no State had ever made the attempt. Pastel colors would have seemed out of place, any kind of décor beyond what was necessary and required would only be condescending. The room was spare, empty, as functional as a coal bin or a crankshaft.

There was a bulletproof glass partition. One side featured seats reserved for the invited: witnesses, the media, family members of the condemned’s victims. The other side was reserved for death.

Many executions were attended only by those necessary to carry out the will of the people. Not Marcus Wright’s. While not drawing the fervor of a seventeenth-century public beheading, it was the capital punishment equivalent of a full house.

Serena Kogan was among the spectators. Not because her presence was required, but because for reasons known only to herself she felt incumbent to be present.

Flanked by the ever-attentive guards, the prisoner shambled in on his own power. Too many had to be dragged, or sedated beforehand.

Not Wright.

Aided by the guards, the execution team took over. Guiding him firmly, they positioned him on his back on the gurney. As wrist and ankle shackles were removed, thick leather straps were buckled across his body and carefully tightened. At the moment of truth, powerful men who had been calm and even boastful beforehand had been known to fly into violent, uncontrollable convulsions. It was why the straps had been made strong enough to hold down a bucking steer.

As the team continued its silent, methodical work, Longview’s warden spoke from where he was standing nearby. He did not say much. This was neither the time nor the place for idle chatter.

“Final words?”

Lying on the gurney as others labored silently and efficiently around him, Wright considered. He never had been very good with words. Maybe if he had been better with them than with his fists.... Too late for that now. Too late for any sort of recriminations. He would have shrugged, had the straps allowed it.

“I killed a man who didn’t deserve it. Fair’s fair. So let it rip.”

In his years at Longview the warden had heard it all. It was not an eloquent farewell, but neither had the prisoner given in to hysteria. For that the warden was grateful. The process was no less distasteful for having become rare. It was always better when it was not messy.

A technician swabbed Wright’s arm with alcohol. Turning his head to watch, he wondered about that. What, were they afraid he might get an infection? There was barely a twinge when the IV was inserted. The tech was very good at his job and the needle going in didn’t hurt at all. Wright was unaccountably grateful.

His eyes began to move rapidly, taking in his surroundings and the rest of the chamber. Everything appeared suddenly new and heightened. The color of the technicians’ coats. The blue of a guard’s eyes. The intensity of the overhead lights. There was something else new, too. For the first time in the prisoner’s eyes, fear.

Off to one side a technician adjusted a valve. Fluid began to flow through the tube that now ran into Wright’s arm. The tube was plastic, the liquid transparent. It looked like water.

His eyes moved faster. Monitors showed that his heart rate had increased sharply, along with his breathing. There was no pain save the pain of realization. Along with the chemicals, he suddenly realized how badly he wanted to live. He wanted to fight back, needed to struggle. But he could not. The lethal cocktail was already taking hold, doing its work, shutting down system after system. Nervous, respiratory, circulatory, end of story.

He would