by John Hart
Then there was the media. He’d already denied forty-one petitions to attend the execution, some from outlets as influential as The New York Times and NBC News. Those outlets had powerful friends in the state of North Carolina, and pressure had come in every conceivable form, from long editorials to brute, political force. The execution had already been front-page news in The Charlotte Observer for four days straight: profiles of X’s family and its fortune, details of the murders, more profiles on the victims. They’d delved into X’s past, and run photographs of his early days, pictures of him with models, movie stars, and politicians. The drumbeat was incessant. But a decision on the media was entirely the warden’s prerogative, which made it X’s prerogative. And he’d been clear on that point, as well.
I’ve sold enough of their newspapers …
Of course, the newspapers would sell, regardless. So would the airtime. The warden had passed a dozen news vans at the front gate, and knew how things would play on the six o’clock news: Lanesworth at dawn tomorrow, a time, at last, for justice …
Or some such shit.
Removing the rose from the buttonhole in his lapel, the warden took a moment to study it from every angle. Like all of his roses, it was a lovely specimen, perhaps the loveliest he’d ever grown. Barefoot in the damp grass and darkness, he’d tried to pick the very best, silken-soft and fresh as the morning dew.
Just die, he thought, before smelling of it deeply.
Can’t you pretty please, just hurry up and simply fucking die?
36
When my father came to the kitchen, I pretended it was a regular day, and that his eyes weren’t bloodshot from crying. Raw emotion was not a thing I liked to see in my father, but I gave him a pass, since I was the one who’d drawn it like a thorn from his soul.
“Have you seen your mother?”
“No.”
“Who was on the phone?”
“Chance. I’m going over.”
“It’s kind of early.”
“He’s had a rough few days; sounded a little strange. I’ll give him a ride to school.”
“I’d rather you not.”
“I do it all the time.”
“You misunderstand. I’d rather you not go to school.” That got my attention. “Somebody saw you at Sara’s on the day she disappeared. Martinez found a witness who saw you go inside.”
“So what if I did?”
“Just stay away from Martinez and Smith. Avoid your usual routines and places. Don’t make it easy for them. I need a day to figure this out.”
I told him I would do as he asked. “Do you have my car keys?”
He pointed at a bowl on the counter, and watched me scoop out the keys. “About your brother,” he said.
“Don’t.” I pulled a baseball cap from my back pocket, and tugged it down above my eyes. “At least, not now.”
“I want to say one thing, and it’s this. I’ve always tried to do right by you boys, by all of you boys. You’re so different from each other, but I’ve loved you each with everything I have, all of my heart and hopes, everything inside. And I’ve tried to be even and fair, to not play favorites, to temper your mother when I can, hard as that can be, at times. I’ve done the best I could to give you boys the childhoods you deserve, to raise you to be strong and kind, to become good men. None of that happens overnight; it’s the work of a lifetime, the gift of a lifetime.
“But no father is perfect, and if I’ve been wrong about Jason, if I’ve been harsh and unfair, I’ll do what I can to fix it. I’ll talk to him. I’ll try. That’s a promise. And if I’ve been hard on you, too much a shadow on your life, it’s only because I lost Robert, and thought I’d lost Jason, and because you scare me, son. I won’t lie. There’s a fire in you I can’t temper or control, and I worry about fires that burn too hot. I guess that’s what I’m saying: that I worry more for you than I do for Jason, more than I ever did for Robert. And if that’s made me a bad father, I’m sorry for that, too. If it’s put this anger in you, if it’s ruined what we’ve always had…”
He looked away, and I told him it was okay, that we were fine.
“Do you really believe that?” he asked.
“I’m trying to.”
He wanted more, but that was all I had, those few words before I walked into the morning heat, started the Mustang, and pointed it at Chance’s house.
* * *
For Reece, it felt like being pulled apart. He needed to be here, but wanted to be with the girl. He’d looked so long for the right girl; there’d been so many disappointments.
“Your friend is late.”
He dropped the curtain and turned from the street. The kid couldn’t help that his friend was slow, but X would be awake by now, and eager for information. If he knew that Byrd was missing, he’d have a location: Reece’s home. And the girl was at Reece’s home.
“Did he seem normal on the phone?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing strange? No suspicions?”
“No.”
Reece studied the kid, looking for the lie. He was slumped, the jaw slightly open. “If you’re lying, you’ll regret it.”
“I already regret it.”
It was the first life Reece had seen in the boy, and he felt unexpected sympathy. “If you hadn’t made the call, I’d have killed you. You’ll feel better once you accept that fact.”
But the kid didn’t understand. Or wouldn’t.
Reece paced the room until a car sound took him back to the window. Not the French kid, but almost as good. The driver slowed to check the address, then did as Reece had asked, parking up the street, and then walking back to the house, a large duffel bag hanging from each shoulder. He moved quickly for such a tall and heavy man, wind rising off the street to stir his shaggy hair. Unlocking the door, Reece said, “You’re late.”
“Yeah, well.” The big man shouldered past. “It’s not the easiest address to find.”
Reece had not seen Lonnie Ward since the night they’d taken Tyra Norris, but his eyes had the same eagerness, and his face the same misshapen cast. “Did you bring everything I asked?”
The big man shrugged the first bag off his shoulder. “Sony DXC-1600 Trinicon tube handheld color camera, paired with a Sony BVU-100 U-matic-S Professional Portapack VCR color videocassette system, state of the art and fully portable at four ounces under fifty-five pounds.”
“And for editing? Splicing?”
“Second bag. Lighting, too.”
“Good, good. Thank you.”
“So?” Lonnie put down the second bag, his eyes on Chance. “We killing this kid?”
Reece said, “It’s complicated.”
But the big man was clearly puzzled. The boy was bound and silent; they had this quiet place. “So what are we doing here?”
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
“Him, actually.” A sound rose in the street, and Reece twitched the curtain, staying in the shadows as a second car pulled to the curb.
The big man peered over his shoulder as a teenager stepped onto the sidewalk. “Another kid?”
“Not just a kid,” Reece said. “A lever long enough to move the world.”
* * *
For Chance, it played out like a dream. He heard every word, but couldn’t hold them in his head. He saw the men separate, but didn’t understand the reasons. The small one stood behind him, and the other disappeared deeper into the house.
“Yo, Chance.”
Gibby had said as much a thousand times in a dozen years. Chance wanted to call out, to say, Run, damn it, run, but the small man had a blade against his throat, his mouth so close to Chance’s ear that his breath was damp and warm.
“Tell him to come in.”
The blade was fire on Chance’s skin.
“Go ahead, son. It’s okay.”
“I’m in here.” Chance closed his eyes to wish it away. “The living room.”
The front door closed with a click of steel. “G
ibby in the house!”
He’d said that a thousand times, too. Three footsteps, and then six. By the time he reached the living room door, Chance was broken all the way through.
The line of fire …
This thing he’d done to his friend …
Gibby rounded into the room, and froze in disbelief, his eyes flicking from the blade to the man who held it, both hands fisting as his jaw tightened into a dogged line. One full second. That was the tick of the clock. Then the shaggy giant stepped near-silent from the hallway, and dropped Chance’s best friend with a single blow.
* * *
Reece secured Gibby to a second chair as Lonnie went to work. For a man so inherently slow and shambolic, he managed the equipment with impressive dexterity, connecting the camera to the tripod and VCR, and the VCR to the editing deck, all of it done with minimal movement and a snake’s nest of thin, black cable. There was, however, the matter of time and timing.
“It doesn’t have to be perfect. Bare minimum is fine.”
But the big man shook his head. “You’ve never asked me to do this before. I want it to be perfect.”
He unpacked lights, reflectors, and diffusers, so filled with enthusiasm and pride that Reece felt a twinge of regret. Lonnie did love a good snuff film. “Um, we’re not actually killing anyone.”
“What?”
“It’s like I told you. It’s complicated.”
The big man stood and glowered down, wheels turning as he processed the betrayal. “That one saw my face.” He pointed at Chance. “The other one will, too, no doubt, and I don’t take chances like that. You shouldn’t ask me to.”
“We’ll figure something out.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“Seven years,” Reece said. “Have I ever let you down? All I’m asking for is a little faith.”
Weighing what he’d heard, the big man glared at Chance, who stared back like a ghost. “For now, then. Okay. Why don’t you show me what you have, and tell me what you need?”
Reece produced the camera he’d taken from Byrd and used to film his death. The big man turned it over in his hands. “Panasonic 3085. Not as good as mine, but not bad.” He ejected the tape, and inspected it. “Tell me what you need.”
Reece laid out what was on the tape, and what he wanted to add.
“Mind if I watch this first?” Without waiting for an answer, he pushed the tape into the VCR, speaking as he did. “This portable equipment can only run playback in black and white. On the right machine, you’ll have full color.”
“What about sound?” Reece asked.
“You tell me.”
He started the tape, and as the screaming began, both men agreed that the sound was fine.
* * *
For Chance, the nightmare wouldn’t end. It couldn’t. It was real. Gibby was actually unconscious in the chair beside him. That was a real man being butchered on tape, with real killers nodding along and commenting as it played. At one point, the big one seemed to realize that Chance was still in the room.
“You want to watch?”
He turned the machine so Chance could see what a man looked like with his stomach opened up and his intestines looped like a tie around his neck. The horror on that man’s face was like nothing Chance had ever seen, both eyes staring down as he screamed and screamed, and bloody hands dipped inside for another coil.
It came out in a matter of seconds.
Chance passed out in another ten.
* * *
When Chance woke, the first thing he saw was the camera, pointed at Gibby, and the big man dialing in focus. “How much do you need?”
“Not much. Fifteen seconds.”
The small man crossed the room, and stood behind Gibby. “I’m out of the frame?”
“Visible from the neck down. The kid is front and center.”
As if he understood, Gibby began to stir. “Chance? What’s happening?”
His voice was so slurred Chance thought, Concussion; but that was a bottom-of-the-list worry.
“Okay. Filming.”
A blade appeared at Gibby’s neck, and he was alert enough to feel it. Chance closed his eyes, but heard the struggle. When he looked, he saw muscles twist as his friend rocked the chair, and the small man’s fingers twined deep into his hair, holding his face to the camera, keeping the chair upright. Chance wanted to scream; he wanted to fight. After a lifetime, the big man said, “That’s it. Fifteen seconds.”
The blade came away from Gibby’s skin, the fingers out of his hair. “Let me see.”
Chance stared straight ahead as they played back the tape. Gibby was still confused, but he’d say Chance’s name soon enough.
He’d say the name, and want to know why.
Chance conjured words so they’d be ready on his tongue: I’m a coward and ashamed, and I want you to hate me.
Chance closed his eyes, and spent some time in that place. He wanted to die. He wanted to live. When Gibby remembered what Chance had done, the world would never be the same. How could it be? How could it ever?
But it wasn’t Gibby who changed the world.
Loud sounds drew Chance into the moment. There was an argument brewing, and it was serious. The big man towered over the other, his face such a deep, angry red that his eyes looked black. His shoulders were drawn up around his neck, his fingers hooked and stiff. “You promised a solution.”
The small man held up his hands. “I did, yes. And we’ll figure it out.”
“They’ve seen my face.”
“Mine as well.”
“I’m not going to prison for something as small as a videotape.”
“If you would just load the equipment—”
“Fuck the equipment!”
“Please don’t push me on this.”
“You do it or I do it. Those are the choices.”
“And there’s nothing I can do to change your mind?”
The big man stepped closer—a foot taller, twice as heavy. “If you’d told me the truth up front, I’d have never come. We have rules for a reason.”
The small man glanced at Chance, but nodded sadly. “I did make you a promise.”
He stepped aside, sweeping out an arm, as if inviting debate on which boy to kill first.
The big man dipped his head and grunted once, lumbering forward with an expression that Chance would not forget if he lived a thousand years. No heat in his face. No soul in his eyes. He closed his fists as if he would simply beat the boys to death, and then find someone else to kill for fun. But the small man had a different plan. He allowed his friend a single step more, then conjured a blade, and opened his neck like an envelope.
37
The warden’s day quickly went from bad to worse. His secretary called in sick, he spilled coffee on his best shirt, and by eight thirty, he’d received two calls from the governor asking that he reconsider a media presence at the execution. It seemed images of Lanesworth Prison were already running on major affiliates up and down the East Coast, and the governor was unhappy.
I see your prison on every network program but Captain Goddamn Kangaroo!
That was the most polite part of the conversation.
The governor, it turned out, was not a forgiving soul.
“Alice.” The warden stepped into the secretary’s vestibule. “It is Alice, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. From records.” She frowned from behind the small desk, an iron-haired woman with enough spine for three men. “I have covered this desk before.”
“Of course you have.”
“December 3, 1968. Good Friday, the following year. Two days in March of ’70…”
“Yes, I remember. Thank you. May I ask you a question, Alice?” He did not wait for a response. “Do you watch the evening news? I mean the national news. I’m wondering if there’s been much interest in tomorrow’s execution.”
“You don’t watch the news?”
“But you do, I presume?”
“W
alter Cronkite. 60 Minutes. It can’t just be The Lawrence Welk Show, now, can it?”
She sniffed in disapproval, which the warden ignored. “The execution?” he asked. “Much interest?”
“Oh yes.” She nodded solemnly. “There’s been tremendous interest, what with Juan Corona caught last year, and Mack Ray Edwards and that other one, I can’t remember his name. Then there’s the Gaffney Strangler, the Broomstick Killer. Only last month, four girls have gone missing in Seattle, and probably more we don’t know about yet. I shouldn’t be surprised, working where I do and knowing what evil dwells in a man’s heart; but it seems there are always new depths yet to plumb. There’s even a new term they’re using. Serial killer, if you can believe such a thing. So yes, the news is talking, and people are listening; and I don’t see how that’s a bad thing. A good execution is exactly what this country needs.”
“Umm, yes. Well. Thank you, Alice.”
“Yes, sir, and God bless you for what you do.”
Filled with righteous approval, she spoke as if he, himself, would drop the switch. He hesitated a moment, and she nodded a final time, her chin folding so firmly into her neck that the warden backed away, as if allergic to such utter conviction. He made his way to the northeast tower, which looked down on to the main gate and its approach. The guards nodded at his appearance, then melted into the corners to give him space. The warden mopped his face from the long climb, then looked down on to the dusty approach, and said, “Good God Almighty. How many?”
The nearest guard said, “Protesters or news vans?”
“Vans, I suppose.”
“Thirty-seven, last I counted.”
The other guard said, “Thirty-nine,” and pointed off in the distance, where two more vehicles made bright spearheads on plumes of boiling dust. The warden shaded his eyes, and stared down at TV people in their fine clothes and blown hair. As for the protesters, he guessed there were at least a few hundred, with more certain to come. He counted seven buses from churches with names like Grace Baptist and Mount Zion Church of Christ. They’d parked haphazardly in the fields, and a few were still spilling parishioners out into the heat, most of them holding placards with slogans like ONLY GOD SHOULD TAKE A LIFE or BELIEVE IN THE REDEEMER. By midday, the merely curious would begin to arrive, as would those who supported the death penalty, and those darker souls who wished nothing more than to be nearby when a human being was cooked alive from the inside out.