Riven (31 page)

Reporters did not want to hear of a God who would forgive such a subhuman creature, and short of that, anything Thomas said sounded absurd.

Strangely, Thomas felt most concerned for Henry when he heard that the man had asked for a huge last meal of all kinds of treats. It didn’t sound like him at all.

When the workday was over, the only lights burning in the administrative offices were the warden’s and Thomas’s. Yanno eventually moseyed in and sat on Thomas’s desk. “So this’ll be a first for you.”

Thomas nodded miserably.

“They’re never pleasant. It won’t make my day either, but there’s something fundamentally right about it.”

“I know. But it’s sad. As you can imagine, I believe I have comfort, even salvation, to offer Trenton. I can only pray a man in his position will listen.”

“Salvation? For him?”

“Certainly.”

“I’m a Christian, Reverend, but I don’t buy that.”

“Really? You’re saying God’s grace and love are limited?”

“Yeah, no. I hear what you’re saying, but I don’t know that I’d want to share heaven with a guy like that. Doesn’t seem fair to me. Does it to you?”

“Of course not. That’s the point. There’s not one thing fair about grace.”

“Well,” Yanno said, “if God forgave Henry Trenton and let him into heaven, that would sure not be fair.”

“You think he’ll call me, Warden? Before the walk to the gallows, I mean?”

“They usually do. The Deacon’s a hard one to read, though.”

Touhy Trailer Park

Brady’s chat with Stevie Ray did not go well. Stevie said he needed to stay away from troublemakers. “I told you, man. Pepe’s my supplier. I know what’s going on. I’d be a hypocrite to tell you not to use when I’m a user. But dealin’? You gotta get out of that. Keep your nose clean.”

“I will. I just got to pay him off is all.”

“Well, I got no money for you and I can’t hire you, and I don’t know anybody who’s hiring.”

Back home Brady wished he could get drunk or high, but he still hated the taste of booze and didn’t have any weed. Besides, he didn’t want to do anything in front of Peter, who kept begging to go out with him somewhere.

“Nah, there’s nowhere someone your age can go tonight. And I gotta go to work.”

“This late?”

“Yeah. I’m closing up. I’ll be home after midnight.”

“I’m staying up. Gonna watch the year change on TV.”

Adamsville State Penitentiary

At a little after 11 p.m., the warden left Thomas’s office at the sound of his phone.

He returned a minute later. “The process has begun. We’d better go.”

It surprised Thomas that even being with the warden didn’t get him through the security envelopes any faster. With all the media surrounding the place, nothing was left to chance. By the time he and Yanno reached death row, Henry Trenton had been dressed to kill.

The Deacon smiled self-consciously at Thomas. “Haven’t worn a diaper since I was a baby. How do you like my new jumper?”

The man’s khakis and tee had been replaced by a pea green jumpsuit that made him look like a hospital orderly.

“You look fine, Henry.”

“Doc’s been here. I’m healthy and 170 pounds. Know what that means?”

Thomas shook his head.

“Means the drop will be exactly seven feet five inches so I go instantly from a broke neck. Any shorter, I suffer. Takes a while to strangle, you know. Nice of them not to want me to suffer, eh? If the drop is any longer, I could be decapitated. Wouldn’t that be a mess?”

Thomas didn’t know what to say. Was this normal, this macabre conversation just before the end? “Can I do anything for you, Henry?”

Trenton looked irritated. “Do anything for me? Short of getting me out of here, no.”

“You know what I mean. I could read to you, er, recite for you, anyway. Pray for you. Whatever you want.”

“I told you, Reverend. You know what I want. No Bible. And no prayer.”

“If you change your mind—”

“I won’t be changing my mind.”

“People are praying for you, Henry.”

“I don’t need to hear that either. Most people are praying something goes wrong and this is the most inhumane sentence ever carried out. They hope the rope snaps and I survive the drop, only to strangle to death on the floor with my legs broken.”

“No, no—”

“Oh, stop. It’d be too good for me and you know it.”

“Do you want to discuss what I know, Henry?”

“No! Let’s talk about something else.”

“What would you like to talk about?”

“My family.”

“Tell me about them.”

Henry called them vile names. “They abandoned me. Can’t blame them, I guess.”

“When was the last time you heard from them?”

“Got a letter about seven years ago from a nephew I’d never met. Said he wanted to come visit me. I actually looked forward to that. Got it all approved and set up, and then I got word that he had not cleared it with the rest and they were refusing to allow it. The kid was of age, could make his own decisions. Guess he finally did. Decided to obey. Never heard from him again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” Henry said.

Thomas looked in his eyes. “Are you?”

“That they turned their backs on me, sure.”

Corrections officers arrived and asked Henry to slide his hands through the meal slot so he could be cuffed. Then they entered his cell and manacled his ankles. He emerged, led by one officer, flanked by two, and trailed by another. The warden hung back, allowing Thomas to follow the last officer.

Dreading the final moment, Thomas decided the mere sight and sound of the approach was awful enough. Henry Trenton didn’t look so monstrous now. A thin, pale, aging man, he shuffled along in that telltale shackled way, chains around his waist and between his legs tinkling in cadence with his gait.

The shouting and catcalling of all the other prisoners died away, and all that could be heard over the footfalls of the entourage was a light, rhythmic tapping on cell walls with pencils or slippers. That was how the only acquaintances Henry Trenton had had for years said their good-byes.

Thomas, his throat constricted, prayed desperately for a chance to somehow minister to the Deacon beyond simply being there at his end.

When they arrived, all but one officer peeled away, and the warden joined the witnesses on the other side of the window. The executioner, a stern-looking old man, stood on the platform. He nodded to Thomas and motioned with his head that he should ascend the gallows stairs and join him.

Finally the remaining officer put a hand gently on Henry’s back and guided him slowly up to the tiny platform. There was room for only the four of them, and Thomas found himself wishing the corrections officer were not so large.

Thomas could not keep himself from shaking as he prayed desperately for Henry to somehow falter, to break down and ask for something, anything—a prayer, a verse. The condemned was shaking now too, which gave Thomas hope.

Finally Henry spoke, whispering to the executioner, “Can I thank the chaplain?”

The old man nodded, and Henry awkwardly turned to face Thomas. Raising one hand to shake Thomas’s made him raise both because of the cuffs.

Thomas shook the Deacon’s hand and found it frigid. He held the grasp for as long as Henry Trenton would allow.

“Thanks for coming,” the Deacon said, finally letting go and turning away. Thomas found himself staring at Henry’s back.

Suddenly the curtain opened and Thomas saw over Henry’s shoulder a dozen or so witnesses, including a man in a physician’s smock, stethoscope around his neck, bag on the floor at his feet.

Henry snorted. “So they came after all. I recognize at least three of ’em, Reverend.”

Thomas put a hand on Henry’s shoulder and found it bony and cold.

With a tiny shrug, Henry shook him off. “Family reunion. Maybe they’ll have meat loaf and potato salad after.”

The executioner pulled from his pocket a black hood. “Any last words, Mr. Trenton?” he said.

“Let’s just do it,” Henry said.

The old man lifted the hood above Henry’s head.

“Do I have to wear that?”

“I believe you do,” the executioner said. “It’s for the sake of the witnesses.”

“Ask the warden. These sons-a-guns come to watch me swing, they can see it all.”

The old man peered out at the warden, who waved his permission to skip the hood. He stuffed it back into his pocket and lowered the fat hangman’s knot over Henry’s head and down onto his neck. Thomas was amazed how thick the rope was. It seemed much less would have done the job.

“About sixty seconds, sir,” the executioner said.

“Don’t rush on my account,” Henry said, but no one so much as cracked a smile.

Please,
Thomas prayed silently.
Please!

Addison

Brady stood in the shadows beyond the Burger Boy parking lot, watching the night shift stream out to their cars. Soon the only two left in the place were Red and Big Mike. Red seemed to be giving the young man last-minute instructions, including how to set the burglar alarm.

Soon the supervisor donned his jacket and hurried out to his car. When he had pulled out of sight, Brady jogged toward the entrance.

37

Adamsville State Penitentiary

Thomas Carey’s mind whirred as if everything he saw and felt were in slow motion. All the while chastising himself for finding this nearly unbearable when it was hardly he who would suffer most in the next few seconds, he prayed fiercely that the Deacon would break down and plead for forgiveness or at least for prayer. Simultaneously he thought of all the others who were praying and noticed the witnesses’ grim visages, the doctor’s impassive gaze, Henry’s rigid but quivering body.

Oh, God, oh, God, please . . .

Thomas’s breath was short, his heart stampeding. He saw Henry inhale deeply and slowly let it out. He hoped the executioner would tarry a moment, for another breath might mean Henry had one more thing to say. But the man glanced briefly at the warden, who turned slightly and nodded. Thomas had not known what to expect, but the thunderous bang of the trapdoor made him jump, and he had to grab the corrections officer’s arm to keep from toppling himself.

Henry Trenton disappeared in a flashing stream of color. The rope stretched tight with a loud snap that told Thomas Henry was gone, then briefly slackened as the body bounced and then hung, swaying.

To a person, the witnesses stared; then some closed or covered their eyes. The executioner signaled the officer to draw the curtains as the doctor entered, pressed the stethoscope on Henry’s chest, and soon announced the time of death.

As Thomas descended the stairs, rubber-gloved aides rolled in a gurney and lowered Henry onto it, removing the noose. Because bones in his neck had snapped and severed his spinal cord, as designed, except for ligature marks, he showed no signs of crisis. He appeared to be sleeping.

The warden was signing documents as Thomas made his way out of the death chamber and back toward the first security checkpoint. Yanno said something as Thomas passed, but whatever it was did not register with the chaplain. He was unable to speak or even acknowledge the warden.

The officers at each security envelope tried to engage Thomas, but he could not look at them, let alone respond. Finally alone, he dully made his way back to his office, opened the door, and turned on the light. There on his desk lay his Bible and his car keys. He stood staring at them for a moment, then turned off the light and shut and locked the door.

Thomas walked the corridor to the parking lot, passed his car, and walked all the way to the main guardhouse.

“Car trouble, Reverend?” the officer said.

Thomas shook his head, showed his ID, and kept walking. It would take him more than forty minutes to walk home, but he neither buttoned his coat nor wrapped his scarf around his neck against the frigid winds. It just hung there, flapping. He was way more cold inside than out, and he couldn’t even pray.

What a waste. What was that all about? Justice was done, sure. But what a point could have been made to a skeptical world! Oh, few would have believed a foxhole or deathbed conversion anyway, but Thomas could not make it make sense that a soul had been lost for eternity.

Without question Henry Trenton had gotten what he deserved. And as Thomas silently passed the protesters, now cupping tiny candles and singing softly, he was grateful none tried to talk to him or criticize him or ask him anything. Someone stepped in front of him and stuck a microphone in his face, but he brushed it away and kept moving.

The questions were all his.

What about the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man? It had availed nothing, so maybe Thomas wasn’t righteous. What about all those believers agreeing in prayer in the name of Christ? It was all for naught.

What kind of a ministry could Thomas have at this godforsaken place? Few prisoners wanted to talk to him. None wanted to listen.

Thomas had seen few results during his decades in the ministry, yet Grace had encouraged him to stay at the task, to remain faithful, diligent, disciplined, devoted. Hadn’t he done that? He’d prayed, he’d studied, he’d read, he’d memorized. He was always ready—in season and out of season, as the Bible said—to say a word for the Lord.

He’d been mistreated, used, and abused, but Thomas had never allowed himself to be defeated by one defeat. One battle was not a war. But this—he didn’t know what to make of it. Here was a valley; here was the shadow of death.

Thomas had been disappointed before. He’d been bereaved, hurt. But he had never been this low. He felt isolated, alone, abandoned. Depression swept over him like a bitter, ugly shroud.

Normally Grace was his tonic. Within minutes of an insult or a bad board meeting or an unfair assessment of his gifts, she could find just the right verse or lyric or tune that would keep him in the game. Now he dreaded facing his wife—who, he knew, was keeping her own secret these days.

She would be eager to hear what had happened, ready to rejoice. What would he tell her? What could he say?