Cut to the Bone(88)

“Fe fum fo fi,” his bodyguard said. “Corey Trent, he should not die.”

Covington rolled his eyes, misgivings forgotten.

7:52 a.m.

“Come here often, sailor?” Emily said as she walked the concrete ramparts. The crowd’s roar, barely a whisper inside, thundered like afterburners up here.

“Only to pick up guys,” Annie replied, binoculars sweeping. Even at highest zoom, she couldn’t see the end of the bus line. Twenty thousand seemed conservative now. Guardsmen piled out of Humvees. Network anchors mouthed “heartland” and “rock-ribbed” and “the common people.” Humidity percolated, water reached fifteen a throw, and toilet lines grew triple deep.

Yet not a wink of trouble. She’d seen more violence at her son’s Little League games.

“How’s things downstairs?” Annie asked. “Dull. Only a few witnesses have arrived, so I thought I’d visit,” Emily said. She cupped her ears, trying to catch their words. “What’s that they’re chanting?” “Wayne’s World,” Annie said, grinning.

7:59 a.m.

“We shall overcome,” Danny sang with the rest of the congregation, the grenade as heavy on mind as pocket. “We shall overcome.”

8:07 a.m.

The Executioner walked into the washroom and entered a stall. Instead of relieving himself, he fished the polymer knife from his throat.

“Perfect,” he whispered, wiping it down with tissue. It passed the pat-downs and metal detectors with aplomb, and now was the fox in the high-security henhouse.

He peeled and flushed the protective tape from the blade. Hit the handle again for the stubborn scraps. Anchored the knife into the cloth sheath sewn onto his right shirttail, which was accessible through slits in both trouser pockets. He stood, tucked, belted, and washed.

A minute later, he was drinking coffee from the refreshment bar and chatting with three witnesses. The steam from the cup reminded him of the puffing towels in the barbershop.

He smiled.

“Remember that time on Wayne’s boat?” one asked the other. “K.J. got so seasick that . . .”

The Executioner reviewed the schedule as he listened.

Covington would start the press conference at 11:00 sharp. The witnesses would enter the viewing room at 11:30. Security would remove Corey Trent from his cell at 11:35, have him strapped and capped by 11:45, open the curtains at 11:50. The dynamo would finish powering by 11:55, Covington would direct the reading of the official death warrant, Trent would say any last words, and the chair would deliver justice.

That was the official plan, anyway.

The Executioner’s was different.

8:14 a.m.

“Nope,” said the Naperville patrol officer as she examined the Iowa plates. “Wrong state, wrong number, wrong church, wrong type of bus.”

“Just like the first 100,” her partner said, typing plate and description into his PDA and flashing it to the intelligence unit. Intel would contact the registered owner to ensure the bus wasn’t stolen and was supposed to be in Naperville.

“Cheer up,” the officer said. “Only 200 to go.”

“Glory be,” her partner said, rolling his eyes.

9:01 a.m.

“Hello, hi, great to see you,” Covington said, shaking hands with each Justice Center staffer. “I really appreciate what you’re doing for the good people of our state.”

Emily, back from the roof, kept her head in motion and her ears open. Covington had plenty of bodyguards, but this was her room, in her city. Nobody would be hurt on her watch. Not that there was any serious danger of that - Daniel Monroe’s presence out there ensured the castle was locked down tight. Her expression stayed serious, “game face” as much a weapon as gun and pepper spray. But she was excited inside. It wasn’t every day you met a governor.

9:11 a.m.

“Twenty thousand?” Marty said. “And growing,” Branch said.

Marty tented his hospital sheet, power-flipped the channels.

“Emily’s fine,” Branch said.

“I wasn’t thinking about her at all,” Marty said.

“Right,” Branch said, sucking the creme from his Boston. “And I hate doughnuts. Gotta go act like I know what I’m doing. Talk to you later.”

Marty disconnected the call, deeply troubled.

9:45 a.m.

Danny left his granddaughter with his most eagle-eyed congregants, then joined the elders on the far side of the bus corral. He’d dreaded this moment since leaving Idaho. But these people were family, and needed to know.

10:00 a.m.

“All right, Trent,” the senior guard said, holding out the condemned’s T-shirt, slacks, slippers, and deodorant-infused adult diaper. “Time to get dressed.”