Cut to the Bone(58)
“I liked it better when you were,” Cross said. “At least you weren’t handing an engraved invitation to every death-penalty yahoo on the planet.”
“That’s why you get the big bucks, my friend,” Covington said. “I hear you called the State Police.”
“I’m ramping up security now that you’re coming. While we’re on the subject . . .” He pitched his thoughts on calling out the Illinois National Guard.
“Sure. How many you want?” Covington asked. “A hundred?”
“Five,” Cross said.
“Jesus! I don’t think I’ve got that many in the entire state, thanks to Iraq,” Covington said. “But I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?”
“Yes. Get whooping cough so you can’t show up.”
“Same old Ken,” Covington chuckled.
4:42 p.m.
“Death Row?” the left side called.
“Hell no!” the right side responded.
“Death Row?”
“Hell no!”
“Death Row?”
“Hell no!”
“Very good,” the minister said, tapping his air brakes in applause. “Let’s try number seven.”
“One, two, three, four! Racist, sexist, anti-poor!”
“Quick, number eleven, don’t peek at the sheet.”
“Politicians, they don’t care, if innocent people get the chair!”
Everyone cheered.
Horns sounded outside the bus. Everyone looked out.
Passing drivers showed thumbs-ups.
The minister chuckled. It was much nicer than the screaming middle fingers they usually got because of the signs on the side of the bus. The congregation whistled and double-thumbed back.
An eight-year-old girl made her way to the front, knee-long braids swaying with the ruts and bumps of the interstate. She hugged her thin arms around his waist.
“Are we there yet, Grandpa?” she asked.
“No, honey,” he said, patting her head without taking his eyes off the road. The flock was precious cargo. Particularly her. “Not yet.”
“Soon?”
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Remember what we talked about before we left Boise?”
The girl sat on the bench seat behind him, folding her freckled face. “That it’s a very long ride to Noonerville?”
“Naperville,” he corrected.
“Naperville,” she repeated. “And that we have to drive through Idaho, Utah, Wyoming, Nebraska, Iowa, and Illinois to get there?”
“That’s right, honey. Seventeen hundred miles. Thirty hours of driving. Plus stops for meals, stretching, and the potty.”
A Kenworth hauling water pipes passed on the left. The minister blinked his headlights twice. The Kenworth swung to the right, flashing taillights in thanks.
“Do you think it’s worth it, honey?” he asked, curious to see what she’d say. “Spending all this time away from home? Away from mommy and your friends?”
The girl nodded. “Yes, Grandpa. The death penalty is totally creepy. I’m glad our church is protesting against it.”
“And why is the death penalty wrong, honey?”
“Um,” she said, sucking on her finger as she searched for the answer. “Thou shalt not kill?”
“Amen!” the bus agreed.
The minister was pleased.
And deeply afraid.
5:18 p.m.
The fuel truck driver hustled into the office.
Four minutes later, he was back in his cab, parking the truck at the edge of the concrete apron. He hopped out and unreeled a long rubber hose.
The Executioner watched.
The driver removed the cover from the fill pipe that led to the underground storage tank. He dropped the hose in the pipe and pushed a button. A pump began whirring. The Executioner assumed it whirred, anyway. Even with his window down, he couldn’t hear it.
Which was very good.
The Executioner drove to the air pump. Exited the Land Rover, listened hard. Still no whir.
“How’s it going?” he greeted, unhooking the inflation chuck.
“Hanging in, hanging in,” the driver said. “Want me to do that for you? I’m already dirty.” “That’s a mighty nice offer,” the Executioner said. “But I’ve got it, thanks.” He nodded at the back of the truck. “That’s the quietest pump I’ve ever heard.”
“Electric, with triple armor,” the driver explained. “Can’t afford a spark around premium unleaded.”
Bingo!
“I thought tankers were miles long with fifty tires,” the Executioner said, showing him the “Golly, I’m confused” face.
“Now you’re talking main rigs,” the driver said. “Those water buffaloes carry 10,000 gallons.” He grinned, showing gapped Chiclet teeth. “Mine’s only two.”