He exited the chamber and checked the printer outside, which was unspooling a long roll of graph paper. Sharp, jagged lines indicated Colby’s heartbeat.
In the tiny adjacent anteroom, Dr. Pralgo picked up the tray with the three labeled syringes. He checked his watch—11:01 P.M.
The phone rang, and the execution supervisor picked it up. “Yes, sir.” He hung up the phone and addressed the physician, as always, in the clearest and most direct language possible. “The order has been given by the warden. Please proceed.”
Dr. Pralgo took a deep breath and stepped back into the execution chamber, where Colby was staring at the ceiling with his cold, dark eyes.
Dead eyes, the doctor thought, even though the man was still very much alive.
He administered the medications one syringe at a time: the first syringe, labeled sodium pentothal, was administered first to anaesthetize the condemned. Indeed, Colby quickly lost consciousness as it flowed from the IV though his eyes closed only slightly.
After a quick saline flush, the syringe labeled Pancuronioum bromide was injected to paralyze his system. After another saline flush, the syringe labeled potassium chloride was injected to place Colby in full cardiac arrest.
After a minute, Dr. Pralgo stepped over to the still-printing cardiac monitor.
Flatline.
He moved back to Colby’s body and administered the simple tests that would indicate death had occurred. The pupil check, brushing the cornea for a blink reflex, and listening for any sign of breathing.
Pralgo had done this check hundreds of times in his career, but this was different. This was no ordinary human being, capable of love and being loved.
This was pure evil.
He turned toward the execution supervisor.
“Time of death—12:09 A.M.”
Breaker Drive
San Diego
KENDRA LOWERED HER PHONE. “Nothing. Dean’s not answering.”
Griffin nodded and tapped his earpiece. “A couple of the officers just caught some kind of flashing in the living-room windows. They think it could have been his mobile phone lighting up when you called it.” He ducked low and looked around the back corner of the armored van. “Move in when you’re ready,” he said into his headset.
Lynch pulled Kendra closer to the protective plates of the van, and they huddled closer to Griffin’s tablet and its night-vision view of the house.
The night suddenly exploded with action!
Within seconds, the front yard was swarming with tactical teams, and she heard the front door splinter open even before she saw it happen.
Silence.
She saw the flashlights playing against the interior windows as the teams checked out the entire house.
No shots fired.
No shouts.
What the hell was happening?
After another two minutes, some of the officers emerged from the front door. The swagger and bold athleticism was now gone from their strides; their faces were drawn, and something was definitely different now.”
“Clear!”
She heard the word several more times down the street. She turned to Griffin. “What’s happened?”
He yanked off his headset. “There’s a body inside.”
“What? Whose?”
“We haven’t made a positive ID yet. Give our guys a couple minutes, and we’ll—”
“Screw that.” She took off running for the house.
“Kendra!” Griffin shouted. He started after her, but Lynch grabbed his arm.
“It’s too late. You’d have to knock her out to keep her out of that house,” Lynch said. “What did they tell you on that headset?”
“Nothing good.”
Kendra ran across the front yard toward the front door.
The cops and response-team members looked somewhat dazed and made no serious effort to stop her.
But as she reached the door a young officer stepped toward her. “Ma’am, you really shouldn’t—”
Kendra pushed past him and ran through the splintered doorway. She stood in the foyer for a long moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dark living room. One of the officers helpfully, or perhaps cruelly, swung his flashlight to the middle of the room to show her what they had already seen:
Dean Halley’s decapitated head.
It was impaled on a tall pole in the center of the room. The pole was held upright by a small light stand.
She couldn’t breathe. Memories of that factory so long ago were there before her.
Heads on poles. Eyes glued open. Heads on poles.
“Oh, God…” She staggered backward, nauseous and dizzy. “No … No…”
“Kendra.” Lynch was behind her. His strong hands gripped her arms, propping her up.
“It’s Dean.”
“I know.”
“God in heaven. I can’t believe it…”