Cut to the Bone(56)
The Row applauded.
Noon
“Sorry, dear,” the Executioner said to the dead woman’s driver’s license, which he’d pulled from the fanny pack he’d already ditched. “But your death was necessary to make the authorities keep thinking that Emily - stop, stop, stop, stop, stop!”
He did.
Four inches from the reflective sign that shouted, “Danger! Extremely Flammable!”
Heads snapped around. The Executioner revved the engine to show he was fine.
They turned away, disappointed.
The light turned green. The fuel truck belched diesel, rumbled off. The Executioner sat, watching it grow small.
“That’s twice you failed to pay attention,” he berated himself, as he knew Bowie would later. “I know you’re excited with Friday so close. But your brilliant plan is useless if you’re not around to carry it out . . .”
Even as he talked, a delicious new twist formed in his mind.
“Risky,” he decided after thinking it through. “But doable.”
Fun, too.
He reacquired the fuel truck at the next red.
Checked his Rolex.
Yes. The timing would work just fine.
He flicked the license out the window, cranked the wheel, and followed.
2:15 p.m.
“Good gravy, Wayne!” Angel Rogers sputtered. “You can’t be serious!”
“As a heart attack,” Covington said.
“It’s insane. Unheard of. You just . . . can’t.”
“I’m the governor,” Covington said, rolling a long, thin cigar between his fingers. “I can do whatever I want.”
“Well, of course, you can,” Angel said. “I’m just saying it’s a terrible idea. Insane.”
“You already said insane.”
“That’s because it is,” she snapped. “You simply cannot walk into the Justice Center on Friday and run the execution.”
“I built it,” Covington said. “Why shouldn’t I throw the switch?”
“The media, for starters,” she said, slapping his coffee table. The humidor jumped. “Every editorial writer in America will crucify you. Not to mention the late-night TV monologues.”
“So what?”
“‘So what’ is the fact that they control the public debate. Guaranteeing the political fallout will bury you.” She uncrossed her arms to smooth her jet-black hair. “I admit it’s a great angle, Wayne. Personally running Corey Trent’s execution is inspired. But it’s not worth the downside if you want to live in the White House.”
“That’s because you’re thinking like a press secretary.”
“It’s what you pay me for.”
“Of course. And from that perspective, you’re absolutely right - the press will accuse me of grandstanding, debasing the system, ad nauseum. But I’m not doing this for photo ops.”
He stalked from behind his desk. “I’m serious about protecting the innocent, Angel,” he said, waving the cigar. “I’m cleansing the world of Corey Trents, and I’m doing it with 2,000 volts. I, myself, not some faceless bureaucrat. I, myself, will throw that switch.”
“Wayne . . .”
“If my taking charge makes the next punk think twice about cutting a baby out of a mother, it’s worth it,” Covington said. “So let the media complain. Voters are behind me on this. Not just law-and-order types, either. Since September 11, even liberals are happy I’m putting these goons to death. Even if they won’t say so publicly.”
He snatched up his cigar cutter.
“It’s not hype, politics, PR, or spin control,” he said, notching the end to suck in the flame of the wooden match. “It’s right. I believe that to the core of my soul.”
Angel sighed. “Did I ever mention how much I hate true believers?”
“The truth shall set you free,” Covington said.
“Sure, in the long run,” Angel said. “But you’re elected in the short. Every protest sign will feature your head on Hitler’s body, shoving people into ovens. In bright neon colors to show up on TV.” She shuddered, thinking how awful this train wreck could be. “You do this, they’ll dine on your flanks for years.”
“Let ‘em,” Covington said, slapping his. “I got plenty. Start the press conference.”
2:25 p.m.
“Are you nuts?” Cross groaned. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Can’t you lock him in his office . . . yeah, yeah, I know, his decision, not yours. Ask his nibs to call me ASAP so we can prepare.” He disconnected, scowling.
“What?” Branch said.