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?

Addison

“Hey, Brady,” Big Mike said. “We close in about a minute, you know.”

“I know. Shake machine still running?”

“Nah. Shut down and cleaned up already.”

“Shoot.”

“You want something for your brother?”

“Yeah. Promised.”

“Pie?”

“It’ll be cold by the time I get it home. Got any cookies? He loves those.”

Mike tossed him a package. “No charge. I just closed the register too.”

“Thanks, man. So, Red’s got you on night deposit duty tonight, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“Congrats, Mike. He must really be happy with you.”

“I guess.”

“They paying you pretty good now?”

“Nah.”

“Hey, you want to make forty bucks?”

“Sure. How?”

Brady pulled four tens from his pocket and spread them on the counter, as if the deal were already done. “Takes you a few days to make that much, huh, Mike?”

“What do I got to do?”

“Hardly anything. Mostly say only what I tell you to say and nothing more. Can you do that?”

“Depends.”

“Here’s the deal: you give me the deposit bag. How much is in there?”

Mike shrugged. “A few thousand.”

“Perfect. You just drive over to the bank and park near the night deposit drawer. Then call Red and tell him some guys—in fact, make it a man and a woman, and say one of ’em’s black. Anyway, they pulled up and held a gun on you and took the bag. You gotta sound all scared. Can you do that?”

“What? That’ll never work.”

“’Course it will! Red’ll call the cops, and you can tell them you were too scared to think about what kind of car it was and say they wore ski masks or something, but you could tell the guy was black. C’mon, man, forty bucks!”

“I do all the work, you get all the money, and I get forty? No way.”

“How much then?”

“Half.”

“But it was my idea!”

“You’re gonna skate, Brady.”

“I’ll give you a fourth, then.”

“Deal.”

“Really, Mike?”

“I can use the money.”

“Me too. Good man.”

They went to the back and counted the money, and Brady was thrilled to see that his part of the deal would give him more than forty-five hundred dollars.

“That’s more’n fifteen hundred for you, Mike.”

“Plus the forty.”

“What?”

“You’re gonna be rich, Brady. I’m taking all the risk. . . .”

“All right, fine.”

After a few more words of coaching for Mike, including a little acting advice, Brady headed back to the trailer park. Along the way he tossed the bank bag in a ditch and stuffed the wads of cash in his pockets. Then he went directly to the laborers’ shack and paid off both Manny and Pepe.

“And let me have a quarter kilo too,” Brady said.

“I still got work for you,” Pepe said, handing him a taped cellophane package. “As long as you keep up with your bills.”

“Or what? You’ll threaten my family again? I don’t need that, and I don’t need you.”

When he got home, Brady left the cookies on the kitchen table for Peter and a stack of cash for his mother with a note telling her he was paying his rent a month in advance. He stored the remaining booty deep in the closet with his sawed-off and ammo, smoked a joint, and dropped into bed.

But despite the grass, Brady was so wired he wondered if he would ever sleep again.