“Needle in a haystack,” Covington said.
“A lethal needle, Wayne. He’s here to kill you.”
Covington harrumphed. “And that man calls himself a good Christian.”
“So do you,” Cross said.
3:52 a.m.
“It’s much too early to be awake,” the water crewman grumped.
“Cry me a river,” the crew chief said, passing over coffee. “We need that pump running and our butts out of here by noon. Or be stuck in execution traffic till our pensions kick in.”
4:02 a.m.
“Just follow the yellow brick road,” the uniformed cop said, pointing to the bright yellow glow-sticks marking the path to the chain-links. Branch decided to line the fence with holy protesters, figuring they were less likely to start trouble. The strategy was working, the cop saw. These folks fell over themselves to be polite.
“Thank you, Officer,” Danny said, gripping his granddaughter’s hand. That congregant was absolutely right - to be here at all was a miracle. The transmission blew in western Iowa, and the lone garage didn’t stock bus parts. The tow driver sympathized and said his pastor might lend his bus to the cause. Danny met him, arranged the swap - “I’ll fix yours while you’re gone, and we’ll trade back when you return,” the pastor promised, glory hallelujah - and they were back on the road. “Everybody, listen to the policemen. They’re here to help us.”
The cop saluted with his ax handle. “Thanks, padre. Have a good day.”
“I intend to,” Danny said.
Patting the grenade in his jacket.
4:09 a.m.
Corey Trent belched. Backed away from his own breath. Last night’s Last Supper - corn dogs, Twinkies, and Dr Pepper - was giving his belly the yips. Better than nutrition loaves, though.
“Doing all right in there, son?” inquired a Justice Center security man.
“Couldn’t be better,” Trent said.
4:15 a.m.
Emily shivered. The hotel’s air-conditioning was atomic.
She slipped on undergarments, bulletproof vest, uniform, and twenty pounds of gun, knives, handcuffs, and other tools of the trade. In the hollow on her neck, under her hair - where Danny Monroe shoved that ice pick into poor Sage Farri’s brain - she taped a spare handcuff key. On her chest went the battered but proud badge. Finally, she sat on the bed and double-knotted her boots.
Her cell sang “Paranoid.” She rolled backward and snatched it off the bedstand.
“Look both ways before you leave the room,” the familiar voice rumbled. “Check the car for tampering. Spot anybody suspicious . . .”
She didn’t mind Marty’s lecture. He did it for love, not because he thought her dense.
“I really wish you could be there,” she said when he finished.
“I tried,” Marty grumbled. “Barbara vetoed it. Says the rocks in my head need to settle. She even called the sheriff to make sure I don’t play hooky. Chicks are evil.”
“You’re just figuring that out?”
She played I-L-Y on the keypad, disconnected, and tucked into breakfast. French vanilla ice cream, not the spinach quiche and cantaloupe she’d ordered from room service. She needed comfort food today. Seeing Corey Trent die would be satisfying - particularly after hearing those sickening details from Marty - but nauseating. She ate five tablespoons, called it a day. Tomorrow she’d eat that and half a steer.
Finally ready to leave, she plucked Marty’s photo from her wallet and slipped it into the pocket of her vest.
Her final backup.
4:40 a.m.
“So whaddaya think? Gonna have a riot?” the state trooper said.
“Hope so,” the Guardsman replied.
“Me, too,” the trooper said, popping his gum as he scanned the floodlit sea. “This kumbaya stuff is boring. They issue you girls real bullets this time?”
The Guardsman snorted. When his unit was deployed to O’Hare Airport in the wake of September 11, the troops were issued rifles but not ammunition. To make sure nobody got hurt. Osama probably wet himself laughing when he heard that.
“Real as a heart attack,” he said, patting the thirty-round magazine in his full-auto M-4 combat assault rifle. “This governor’s a grown-up.”
4:48 a.m.
“No hints of trouble, and the crowd’s still happy,” Annie reported. “But what are those folks doing? Ten rows to your left?”
Branch craned his neck. “Sticking flowers in the Guards’ rifle barrels.”
“Groovy,” Annie said. “Castle out.”
5:01 a.m.
The Executioner pulled the Land Rover into the parking lot at Safety Town, the child-size Naperville that sat kitty-corner from the police station. The chartered bus to the Justice Center idled quietly in the humidity, several dozen employees ready to board.