Cut to the Bone(37)

“Yeah, well, if you knew how to read you’d see none of them was murder.”

“You stepped up. Made the varsity.”

“I wasn’t nowhere near Naperville that day.”

“Not what Commander Benedetti said. Or the jury. Or even your own family.”

The light caught Trent’s steel tooth. “A psycho cop, twelve people too stupid to get out of jury duty, and I don’t got no family no more, the jerkoffs. You think I care what any of them say?”

He lifted his right middle finger, which was bitten off to the first joint by a whack-job murderer he’d tangled with in the showers. “Or you?”

“You damn well better,” the CO warned, the disrespect steaming him good. Corrigan Trent was an acid-washed freak. He’d cut up that mother like a watermelon, then killed the poor baby when Benedetti and Branch started chasing. Trent’s girlfriend even testified against him, saying she’d never meant him to take her whining - “Course I want a baby, sugar, it’s just that I’d get all stretched out” - seriously. Yet here he sat, proclaiming his innocence. “You got four more days on the Row. They can go hard, or they can go soft.”

“Speaking of soft,” Trent said, pointing to the short man’s crotch.

The CO snorted. “Hard way’s fine by me. Here’s your breakfast. Eat up while you still got teeth.” He flipped the meal through the bars, throwing short so it skittered across the dirty floor.

Trent rolled off his bunk and picked up the strangely colored loaf of . . . what, he had no clue. “The hell you call this?”

“Breakfast. Lunch. And supper.”

“Say what?”

“It’s a nutrition loaf. Latest idea from Governor Covington. He says taxpayers spend too much hard-earned money feeding you knuckleheads, so starting today, you get nutrition loaves. Morning, noon, and night.” He smirked. “Except for your Last Supper, of course. Then it’s anything goes. Governor’s thoughtful that way.”

Trent heard the rest of Death Row bitch and holler. “What’s in ‘em?”

“Flour, milk, and government cheese,” the CO said. “Plus yeast, sugar, salt, oil, carrots, and beets. Everything’s ground up, then baked. You get three loaves a day.” He pointed to the sink over the toilet. “And no more coffee or pop. Tap water’s good enough for taxpayers, it’s good enough for you.”

Trent brought the loaf to his nose. “Man, this stuff smells funky,” he complained.

The CO’s grin widened. “Surprised you can tell, considering how bad you stink.”

“Huh. Maybe it’s not the loaf, then.” Trent curled his thin upper lip to his nose, breathed deep. “Yeah, that’s the smell. I musta forgot to wash my face after your wife left last night. She rode my tongue like a horse, CO, tell her to stop by any time she likes-”

“Disciplinary problem in Cell One!” the CO shouted to the master controller. “Open the door!” He unholstered the “inmate compliance tool” the staff carried in lieu of guns. “Now!”

“Whaddaya gonna do?” Trent jeered as the Row whistled and applauded. “Kill me? Covington already beat you to it. Once again you get sloppy seconds. Just like from your wife.”

“Shut up, Trent,” a senior CO growled, putting a hand on his colleague’s shoulder. “And you, go help deliver the rest of the loaves.”

“You hear what he said about my wife!” the CO raged. “I’m gonna shove this stick up his-”

“Loaves,” the senior CO growled. “Now.”

The CO huffed off, shooting murderous looks at both of them.

Trent curled an eyebrow.

“New guy,” the man replied, shrugging. “Still thinks what you say matters.”





1:07 p.m.

“Ashes to ashes,” the minister said.

Rayford Luerchen’s widow bawled. Pink-clad women fanned her face.

Emily bumped her shoulder into Marty. He bumped back. She kept on her game face but smiled inside. She’d attended way too many funerals in her forty-two years, and thoroughly detested them. Marty’s presence - and Annie’s “hang in there” wink from the other side of the flag-draped coffin - was the only thing making this bearable.

“Dust to dust,” the minister said.

The Firefighters Highland Guard of Naperville kicked in. Emily cringed. Bagpipes stirred her soul but hurt her ears.





2:15 p.m.

“Roses for Mr. Sage Farri,” the Executioner said.

“Oh, how beautiful,” the receptionist sighed. “Is it Sage’s birthday?”

“Wouldn’t know, ma’am,” the Executioner said, tugging the rose-embroidered cap he’d bought to make him look like floral delivery. “I never read the cards, just get ‘em where they gotta go.”