5:02 a.m.
“I can’t see anything, Grandpa!”
Danny swung her up on his shoulders. “Better?”
“Wheee! I’m halfway to Heaven!” she squealed.
5:03 a.m.
The Executioner gargled a double squeeze of honey, tucked the bottle in his glove box, removed the knife from his jacket, tilted his head back, clipped the fish line between his molars, let the plastic slide into his throat. The handle touched the uvula.
No problem.
He grinned. Like good bourbon and bad women, knives were an acquired taste.
5:04 a.m.
“Change already,” Emily snapped at the light. She was mere yards from Safety Town. Might as well be miles. “My bus leaves in six minutes.”
The light didn’t care.
She looked both ways, floored it through the red.
Nobody to write tickets, anyway.
5:05 a.m.
Marty power-surfed the channels, absorbing updates from “Mount Deathmore,” the nickname du jour for the Justice Center.
The night nurse walked in, looking beat. They traded sympathies about his head, her bunion s, and how everyone but cops and nurses got to sleep at home nights. She checked his monitors, flicked the IV to ensure smooth dripping, headed out.
She stopped at the door.
Turned, shuffled back, pinched his cheek, and left.
5:07 a.m.
The Executioner walked to the bus. He’d miss the Land Rover. It had performed well. He wondered when they’d find the fuel truck driver. Probably when their trees started to smell funny.
“Good morning, sir,” the Justice Center security guard greeted.
“And the same to you,” the Executioner said, handing over his letter of invitation. “The governor mentioned something about a preboarding search?”
The guard held up his wand. “Just like the airlines, we’re checking everyone for weapons.” He tapped the plastic bucket. “Keys, change, and other metal objects, please.”
The Executioner dropped in everything but his tiny gentleman’s knife. “What about this, Officer?” he inquired, displaying the red herring. “It’s my good-luck charm.”
“Mmm, that’s a beaut,” the security man said, admiring the intricate inlays of onyx and titanium. “But it’s not allowed. Run it back to your car if you like. Or I’ll hold it for you, give it back after the event.”
“The latter. I’m too lazy to go back to my car,” the Executioner said, handing over the knife. It would make the guy’s day when he realized what he had.
The metal detector moved around his body. No bleeps. A pat-down followed. The guard looked in his mouth - more diligence than the Executioner expected - but didn’t notice the monofilament hidden by teeth and tongue.
“Welcome aboard,” the guard said. He sealed the knife in an envelope and handed over a receipt. “We leave for the mountain in three minutes.”
5:10 a.m.
“C’mon, baby,” the next in the bathroom line whispered when “Occupied” became “Open.” “Let’s join the mile-high club.”
“You are high,” she giggled. “But I’m game.”
5:11 a.m.
“Wait for me! Wait!” Emily cried as she tumbled from her car.
Brake lights flashed. The security guard came out.
“Hi, Emily,” he said, checking his manifest. “How’s things?”
“Hurried,” she huffed.
The guard knew her well, but checked her ID anyway. “You’re you,” he said. “And authorized for weapons. Welcome aboard.”
She scrambled up the steps.
5:13 a.m.
“How come that Porta-Potty’s rocking, Mommy?”
“Earthquake,” Mommy said, hurrying her son to another line.
6:14 a.m.
Kit Covington stared at the plasma TV hanging between the bedroom mirrors. The longer she watched, the deeper her melancholy became. Despite Wayne’s solemn promise that this was the end of his obsession with death, it was clearly just the beginning.
7:24 a.m.
“Approaching the mountain, Governor,” his bodyguard said.
“So I see,” Covington said, chest tightening. It was one thing to know intellectually someone in this crowd intended to kill him. Quite another to feel it. For the first time since dragging his brother from that burning Plymouth Fury, he doubted himself . . .
Cowboy up, pal, he chided. You’re doing this for Andy. The motorcade turned up the hill.
7:25 a.m.
“Covington’s on the mountain!” a protest leader announced after the long squawk from his walkie-talkie. “He’s driving up the back way, the coward!”
Jeering spread like radiation.
7:28 a.m.
“What are hell are they chanting?” Covington asked, the limousine’s armor muting the words.