“It’s all right, Grandpa,” she whispered with Skittles breath. “I’m afraid, too.”
“Really?” he said. “Of what?”
“The lightning.” Her hands shook. “It scares me to death. But my brother’s more afraid than me, so I just close my eyes and sing campfire songs, so he isn’t.”
“That’s the bravest thing I’ve ever heard,” Danny said, throat cementing. “I wish I could have done that for Uncle Earl.”
“Are there still bad men in the world, Grandpa?”
“Yes, honey, there are.”
“Are they in Naperville?”
“Yes. They’re the ones conducting this capital punishment.”
“Are you afraid of them?”
“A little, honey.”
She threw her arms around his waist. “Don’t worry, Grandpa!” she cried, chopping the air with her hands. “I’ll protect you! I learned kung-fu in gym class. Bad men can’t hurt you when I’m around, ‘cause I’ll karate their noses off so they can’t smell where you are!” More chops. “Yah! Hwah! I’ll fix ‘em!”
“I know you will, baby,” he said, kissing her flaxen hair. It smelled like peanut butter. He loved this little girl so much it made him weep sometimes. She was clearly God’s way of saying, “It’s all right, Daniel. You’ve suffered enough for your sins.”
But he still couldn’t forgive himself. He became so guilt-racked after burying Earl and Mom that he resigned NASA for the ministry. He took over a penniless but proud church in Boise, married a good woman, begat a daughter, who begat his granddaughter, all the while hoping a life of good works would slay the beast within.
It didn’t.
“Nobody would protect me better, darling,” he said. “But we’re on this pilgrimage so I can stop the bad men. So I can make things right, by not being afraid. It’s what I have to do.”
He thought of the steel lump in his bathroom bag. The kraut blaster he hadn’t thrown at those police officers because the first three worked so ruthlessly. Yes, he was guilty, and he was going to pay for it tomorrow.
But so would Wayne Covington. If the governor hadn’t resurrected that burning barbarism and named it “justice,” perhaps he would have stayed silent, marinated in his own guilt juice till the day he died. But Covington did. He dug up Earl’s coffin and let the evil out. The man deserved what was coming to him.
One more day, my friend. Get ready.
The nemesis CO whistled “Tomorrow” as he walked past.
Corey Trent twisted his face into a scowl. It masked his interior grin.
One more day, asswipe. Get ready.
10:22 a.m.
A thoroughly embarrassed Emily was shushing the applause from the lobby-desk officers when she heard her name.
She turned to see a tall, lean man staring like her nose was on fire.
“I’m Detective Thompson,” she said cautiously. “And you are?”
“Your serial killer.”
She tackled him as the desk cops yanked their guns.
“No! Wait!” he yelled as they crashed to the floor. “I mean, I’m here about your serial killer! My name is Johnny Sanders. From Springfield. I’m a state historian-”
“The crash test dummy,” she said, immediately placing the face. She checked his ID, assured the blue flood that the man was legitimate, and helped him to his feet.
“Sorry about that,” she said, breathing hard from adrenaline swoosh. “Between the killer and the fire downtown, we’re a little jumpy.”
“Sure, sure, I understand,” he said. “I’d knock me down, too, the dumb way I worded that.” He brushed off his slacks. “I was in Chicago this morning on a work assignment. The moment I realized I had important information about your serial killer, I drove out here.”
“What is it?”
He told her. Everyone froze.
Emily forced the frog out of her voice. “Find Branch and Cross,” she told the desk cops. “Hurry.”
11:17 a.m.
“Tell them, Mr. Sanders,” Cross said.
“Johnny,” Sanders said, swiveling his chair toward the jumble of cops, clerks, CSIs, computers, coffee cups, bagel crumbs, and whiteboards, which were collaged with maps, diagrams, morgue photos, lists, addresses, phone numbers, and a handwritten sign that read Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here. He blotted his high forehead with a linen handkerchief, glad his wife packed extras.
“I’m a State of Illinois historian,” he began. “Several months ago, I was assigned to digitize our execution records. All of them, 1779 to present.”
“Why?” a detective asked.