It was there if Covington changed his mind. Or some court somewhere changed it for him.
The latter was always possible, the director knew. The former wasn’t. Covington wouldn’t cancel an execution if his life depended on it. That kind of thinking hadn’t been in the man’s makeup since 1966. But having a hotline was part of the execution protocol, and as such, it needed to connect loud and clear.
He put receiver to ear and waited through the clicks.
“It went perfectly, Mr. Governor,” he said when Covington picked up downstate. “No more circuit problems. The Justice Center is up and running.” He listened a few more seconds, then grinned. “That’s right, sir. We’re ready to burn the trash.”
Friday
11:00 a.m.
“Ready for next Friday?” Emily Thompson said.
“Let’s talk about that later,” Martin Benedetti said. “I’m enjoying myself too much.”
Emily smiled. “So you’re glad you changed your mind.”
“Oh, yeah, this is great,” he groaned as the attendant shoveled on more steaming mud. “I feel like the marshmallow in the hot chocolate. Why didn’t you make me do this years ago?”
Her face pats left stripes on both cheeks.
They were at a “mud spa” on Ogden Avenue, on Naperville’s Far North Side. She’d been asking Marty for months to try the tub for two. He’d kept declining, saying he wanted nothing to do with “exfoliants and lite FM.” Then, on her forty-second birthday, he’d bowed, handed her a gift certificate for two, and said, “Slap my chaps and call me Mary . . .”
She squished deeper.
Their cheerful attendant described the 104-degree mud as a “mystic Zen formula” that “detoxified and cleansed” body and spirit. Emily knew better. It was the same peat moss, volcanic ash, and tap water she dumped in her flower beds. She didn’t care. Its clinging heat whacked her stress like a hit man. Having Marty cheek to cheek was a bonus - they could make fun of it later as they snuggled up in her bed, all Zenned.
The attendant filled two Waterford flutes with Soy-Carrot Infusion Juice. The lead crystal glowed tangerine in the soft mood lighting. She offered to swaddle their eyes with cucumbers dipped in chilled lemon water. “So your inner child stays cool,” she murmured.
Emily tilted her face to accept them. Marty declined, muttering about needing a testosterone patch. The attendant giggled, shoveled on the final steamy layer. “I’ll step out now, let the Zen work its magic. Call if you need me.”
Marty thanked her, waited for the door to latch, cleared his throat.
“You’re not going to tell anyone about this, right?” he said.
“About what, darling?” Emily asked, hearing the skritch-skritch of his fingers worrying the side of the redwood tub. She smiled into the lemon-scented darkness.
“About my parking my hamhocks in a tub of goo.”
“And liking it,” she said.
“Don’t rub it in.”
Emily threaded her fingers into Marty’s. “Don’t worry, tough guy,” she said, squeezing tight. “I won’t tell anyone your precious secret-”
A chorus of screams echoed through the spa room.
The cucumber slices flew as Emily’s eyes popped open.
Marty was already fighting out of the tub. Emily struggled against the black quicksand. Marty pulled her slender wrists till her top sucked free.
Their attendant raced into the room, slamming the door so hard the glass shattered. “A man just killed Zabrina!” she screeched with plate-size eyes. “Hide or he’ll kill us all!”
“Get our clothes!” Marty roared, mud flying as he fought to stay upright on the pebbled glass.
“No time!” Emily shouted, shoving her heels against the bottom of the tub. Her hamstrings twanged, and the rest of her popped free.
She swung her rubbery legs over the ledge. Lunged for her black leather purse. Slipped on the glass and fell sideways, banging her head off the cornflower wall tiles as she hit the floor.
“Ow!” she yelped.
“Emily! You all right?”
“Go! Go! I’ll catch up!” Emily gasped through the bells clanging in her head.
Marty knotted a bath towel around his waist. Emily reached up, ripped her purse off the peg, and pulled out two Glocks - hers 9-millimeter, his .45.
The attendant shrank into a corner. “Don’t hurt me,” she begged. “Please, miss, I’ll do whatever you say.”
“We’re police!” Emily said, holding up Marty’s gun like the Statue of Liberty. He snatched it and bolted. A moment later he reappeared, threw Emily a thick white robe, and rushed off.