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While Maxine packed suitcases, Rufus took a lantern down into the basement.

The good news was that the project was nearly finished. He had only to install the power supply and wire it to the chair. He would work all night if he had to.

Flicking on the overhead light bulb, he rolled the generator from the passageway into the death chamber.

Rufus hoped Luther would return soon so they could put the finishing touches on their beautiful chair together.

At midnight Beth came to a dirt road. It branched off to the soundside of Highway 12, crossed a hundred yards of marsh, and terminated on a piece of dry land, upon which sat a modest saltbox, its porchlight beckoning.

The name on the nearby mailbox read Tatum.

She could see the warm glow of the Ocracoke Light in the distance, a comforting presence above the dark trees. The village was less than a half mile down the highway, but everything was sure to be closed at this hour. Besides, the sole of her foot was shredded. She doubted she could stand the pain of walking much farther.

Her wound started to bleed again as she trudged down the dirt road. The closer she got to the house the more lightheaded she became and the deeper the cold bored into her. She wondered how she’d lasted this long, felt a brief tinge of pride.

Live oaks massed behind the saltbox, blocking a view of the sound. But eastward the dunes were just low enough to offer a glimpse of the sea—shinyblack in the strong moonlight.

She neared the house. An old sailboat foundered in weeds on the edge of the marsh, like something washed up after a hurricane, stripped of sails, its hull cracked.

A Dodge Ram gleamed in the yellow porchlight, parked parallel to the garage, "BOATLUV" on the license plate, a fishing rod holder mounted to the front bumper, the rods standing erect in their PVC pipes.

Beth climbed five brick steps to the front door.

Moths loitered above her head, bouncing off the porchlight, over and over like maniacs.

Nausea hit her but there was nothing on her stomach.

Through slits in the blinds, she saw the shadow of a man lying on a couch, blue light flickering on the walls around him.

Beth opened the screen door and knocked.

The man did not move.

She banged on the door, saw him sit up suddenly and rub his eyes.

He staggered to his feet.

She heard his footsteps coming.

The front door opened and a whitebearded man gazed down at her through glassy eyes. He cinched his robe and she smelled gin when he said, "Do you have any idea what time…"

He rubbed his eyes again, blinked several times, and squinted at her, Beth crying now, the warmth of his home flowing out onto the porch, reminding her what safety felt like. The man saw the blood pooling at her feet, traced it to the hole in her stained and ragged lingerie.

She heard audience laughter on the television.

Cold blood trailed down her leg.

"Help me," she whispered.

Her knees quit and she fell forward.

He caught her, lifted her off her feet, and carried her inside.

61

RUFUS pushed the Generac Wheelhouse into a corner of the death chamber, fired up the soldering gun, and proceeded to fuse the no. 4 copper wire to the copper plating on the chair’s front legs, the room filling with the sweet sappy odor of the melted alloy.

When the soldering was done, he took the hacksaw he’d found in a corridor near the alcove, and cut two four-foot lengths of no. 4 copper wire from the dwindling coil. With a hammer, he beat out the ends of the wire until they were flattened enough to fit into the two legs of the generator’s 220 volt outlet.

Behind the toolbox he found Maxine’s contribution to the project—a homemade skullcap. She’d taken a North Carolina Tarheels baseball cap, cut up one of her thin leather belts, and sewn the pieces into the sides so the buckle could be tightened under the condemned’s chin.

Maxine had drilled a hole through a square-inch of copper plating and put a brass screw through it. She’d then superglued a square-inch piece of sponge to the copper plate, removed