Cut to the Bone(81)

Wayne Covington laughed.

Danny Monroe stared unblinking through the windows. These people were barbaric. That anyone with a soul could volunteer to witness this cattle slaughter was beyond comprehension.

Two hundred forty-seven seconds.

Earl’s body temperature had risen to slow-oven. His muscles crawled like spiders. His gallbladder poached in its own bile. His skin took the sheen of old ham. The grounding electrode burned a hole in his maniacally twitching left calf-

“Oh no,” the executioner gasped as the telephone rang.

Three seconds later the grim-faced warden drew his finger across his throat.

The executioner yanked male from female, uncoupling the dynamos, brightening the lights.

“The Supreme Court just struck down capital punishment,” he heard the warden announce over the PA system. “All executions nationwide are canceled. The court ruled five to four that state execution statutes are applied too unevenly to be constitutional . . .”

Doc rushed into the chamber, heart rabbiting. He grabbed Earl’s wrist to search for a pulse. He yelped, yanking his hand back from the fry-pan heat.

“Undo those straps,” he ordered. “He might still be alive.”

The crew-cut stuck his hands in his pockets.

Doc pushed him aside and placed his stethoscope, careful to keep fingers well above the steel listening bell. He tried chest, neck, and wrist, then shook his head four times.

Too. Late. He’s. Dead.

The curtains closed.

Frank Mahoney blinked awake.

“I guess I fainted,” he murmured, looking sheepish.

“I’m afraid so, dear,” Leila Reynolds said.

“What happened? Is it over?”

“Mr. Monroe is gone,” Leila said, patting his arm. “Better you didn’t see it.”

Brewster Farri chattered about the skull flames. “Weren’t they amazing?” he said to the other witnesses, who’d lined up at the exit. “Those reds and yellows? And that crazy blue? Wow. My kid would’ve loved that. Looked like the Fourth of July, doncha think? Huh? Doncha?”

Covington stayed in his seat, steepling his manicured fingers, mesmerized by the steam that curled from Monroe’s ears.

“I got ya, Earl,” he whispered, recalling how the bastard’s grenades had so shredded Andy’s face that Pop had to bury him closed-casket. “I promised I’d burn you, and I did.”

Danny walked out, climbed in the dusty Galaxie, gave Stateville the finger, and headed home for their dead mother, the ochre sky streaked with tears.





Friday

2:17 a.m.

“Don’t say a word,” Emily murmured as she shut the door. She removed her jeans, top, and shoes, and snuggled under the hospital sheets. Thanks to her chat with the night nurse, no one would stop by to record Marty’s temperature. “Not even a syllable. Just rock my world.”

2:27 a.m.

“The plan must be perfect if you can’t find anything wrong,” the Executioner said, grinning.

Bowie grinned back.

Pleased at his approval, the Executioner stretched, then did thirty-five jumping jacks, push-ups, sit-ups, and knee bends.

He repeated till his muscles shivered. Then took a shower.

2:49 a.m.

“Are we in Naperville, Grandpa?”

“So it would seem,” said the Reverend Daniel Monroe, parking the bug-smeared church bus in the slot indicated by the traffic warden. His wide-eyed congregants stared from the windows.

Noise buzzed like locusts. Buses, trucks, cars, RVs, motorcycles, horses-and-buggies, and a bicycle built for two vomited protesters toward the chain-link fence. Hundreds of cops formed a loose ring around the base of the hill. National Guardsmen in desert camo filled the gaps. They looked like Robocops with their padding, helmets, and guns. Fire engines idled inside the fence, waiting to stiff-arm crashers. TV slow-danced the crowd, thrusting erect lenses toward willing mouths. Shirts ranging from “Have My Baby, Corey!” to “Naperville: Catch the Buzz!” sold fast, as did $5 water. The Justice Center - which Danny found grim enough in abstract but totally inhuman now - glittered large and lonely atop the garbage hill.

“Golgotha,” he whispered.

2:51 a.m.

“What’s happening?” Dr. Winslow asked, stifling a yawn. She’d been paged at home because two of her ER docs called in sick.

“Nothing,” said desk supervisor Jeanie Gee. “Had a flurry from two gravel trucks colliding, but that’s sorted. One funny thing, though.”

Winslow raised an eyebrow.

“A patient ordered three cans of whipped cream from food service. I checked his orders. No dietary restrictions, so I sent it up to his room.”

“Is the patient by chance Martin Benedetti?” Winslow asked, recalling Emily’s call around two seeking “hypothetical medical advice” for a “hypothetical patient.” Amused, Winslow said the “patient” could be “active” if he or she didn’t hit his or her head.