by Lisa Gardner
CONTENTS
Title Page
Acknowledgments
Author's Note
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Lisa Gardner
Praise for the bestselling novels of Lisa Gardner
Preview for Alone
Copyright Page
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AS ALWAYS, I'M indebted to quite a few people for their expertise and patience in helping make this book a reality. Being myself, I took artistic license with a great deal of the information but tried to keep things as rooted in the real world as possible. All mistakes are mine, of course. Special thanks to:
Special Agent Nidia C. Gamba and Supervisory Special Agent John C. Ekenrode of the Boston Federal Bureau of Investigation healthcare fraud squad. I know I didn't have the space to do your job justice, but I hope you'll appreciate the fact that I tried.
Bob and Kim Diehl, former corrections officers for the Texas Department of Corrections. Not just anyone will answer e-mails from a total stranger, particularly a stranger inquiring about proper protocol for the electric chair.
Larry Jachrimo, custom pistolsmith and true artist. I've never liked guns, but you helped me appreciate them.
The Arthritis Organization for the general information on AS and to my brother, who is living with it. The older we get, Rob, the more you are my hero.
Jennifer Carson, R.N., my dear roommate from college and one of the few healthcare professionals who doesn't mind answering all my inquiries about poisons. You've got a devious mind, Jenn, and I love you for it.
Finally, to my agent, Damaris Rowland, for riding this roller coaster with me, and to my new husband, the love of my life. I couldn't do this without you.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
FANS OF THE death penalty in Texas will notice an immediate discrepancy in my novel—that a man is sent to the electric chair in 1977. In fact, Old Sparky was retired in 1964 after the execution of 361 men, and the death penalty was not carried out again until 1982, when Texas got lethal injection. Never let it be said that historical accuracy got in the way of a writer.
For the record, the Huntsville Prison Museum does exist and is an excellent source of information on the colorful world of the Texas Department of Corrections. Bonnie and Clyde are among the most famous prisoners documented there, though I like to think that Russell Lee Holmes would be worthy of similar notoriety. The Captain Joe Byrd Cemetery also exists in real life, and, yes, the day I visited it, there was a freshly dug grave just waiting for the next recipient—I was told there was another execution planned that night.
And the owl did hoot while I was there, and there was one helluva thunderstorm, and I do so solemnly swear I will never commit a crime in the state of Texas.
PROLOGUE
September 1977
Huntsville, Texas
A T SIX A.M. the Huntsville “Walls” Unit went to full lockdown.
Outside the redbrick walls, protesters were already gathering for Texas's first execution in thirteen years. Inhumane, picket signs read. Cruel and unusual. The “Texas thunderbolt” should never have been brought out of retirement. The death penalty was capricious and irresponsible.
An equal-sized crowd begged to differ. Cruel and unusual was still too good for Russell Lee Holmes. Send him to the chair. Let him fry. Execution candidate number 362 was worth bringing back the electric chair—in fact, they should bring back hanging.
Inside the Death House, where he'd been brought just the night before, Russell Lee Holmes settled his sparse frame more comfortably on the lone bunk in his cell and ignored them all. He had watery blue eyes, a thin face, and a hunched, lean frame. After thirty years of chewing tobacco and drinking soda, his teeth were crooked, stained, and half-rotted. He liked to pick them with his thumbnail. He definitely wasn't a pleasant man or a brilliant man. What he was was quiet and, for the most part, indifferent. Sometimes it was difficult to remember just what his small, finely boned hands had done.
In January, when Utah had ended the Supreme Court's moratorium on executions by throwing Gilmore in front of the firing squad, there hadn't been any doubt that Texas would reenter the death business. And there hadn't been any doubt that Russell Lee Holmes would be the first man up to bat.
Maybe that's because when the sentencing judge had asked him what he had to say about kidnapping, torturing, and murdering six small children, Russell Lee had said, “Well, sir, basically, I can't wait to get me another.”
The warden arrived at Russell Lee's cell. He was a fat, barrel-chested man, nicknamed Warden Cluck due to jowls that reddened and shook like a rooster's when he was angry or upset. Russell Lee knew from experience that it didn't take much to get Cluck upset. Now, however, the warden seemed kind, even benevolent, as he unrolled the warrant and cleared his throat so the other four men in the Death House could hear.
“Here's your sentence, Russell Lee. I'm gonna read to you your sentence. You listenin'?”
“They're gonna fry my ass,” he said casually.
“Now, Russell Lee, we're all here to help you today. To get you through this with less fuss.”
“Go to hell.”
Warden Cluck shook his head and got to reading. “It is the mandate of this court, that you, Russell Lee Holmes, shall be executed for the following crimes.”
He ran down the list. Six counts of murder in the first degree. Kidnapping. Rape. Molestation. All-round sadistic bad ass deserving to die. Russell Lee nodded to each charge. Not a bad list for the kid his mama had simply called Trash, as in “filthy white trash,” as in, “no betta than yer father, that piece of no good, filthy white trash.”
“You understand the sentence, Russell Lee?”
“It's a little late if I don't.”
“Fine, then. The Father's here to meet with you.”
“I only want to speak with you, my son,” Father Sanders said soothingly. “To be with you in this time of crisis. To allow you to unburden your soul and understand this journey you are about to take.”
Russell Lee, always cordial, said, “Fuck you. I don't want to meet no pussy God. I'm looking forward to meetin' Mr. Satan. I figure I can teach him a thing or two about how to make babies scream. Don't you got a kid, Warden? A little girl . . .”
The warden's pudgy face had suddenly turned beet red. He stabbed a thick finger in the air while his jowls started shaking. “Don't start. We're trying to help you—”
“Help fry my ass. I'm no fool. You want me dead so you can sleep at night. But I think I'm gonna like being dead. Then I can go anywhere I want
, be like Casper. Maybe tonight I'll find your little girl—”
“We ain't gonna bury your body,” the warden yelled. “We're gonna put it through the chip machine, you son of a bitch. We're gonna dice you into dust, then dump the dust into acid. Won't be no trace of your sorry ass left on the face of this earth by the time we're done with you. No fucking molecule!”
“Can't help myself,” Russell Lee drawled. “I was born to be bad.”
Warden Cluck hiked up his gray pants, jerked his head at the priest to join him, and stomped out of the cell.
Russell Lee lay back down on his cot and grinned. Time for a good nap. Nothing more to look forward to today. Nothing more to look forward to period, Trash.
His grin faltered when in the corridor, the four dead men took up the chant.
“How do you like Russell Lee? Baked, crisped, or fried? How do you like Russell Lee? Baked, crisped, or fried?”
THREE-THIRTY P.M. Russell Lee got up, his last meal of fried chicken, fried okra, fried sweet potatoes finally arriving. With it came an uninvited guest, reporter Larry Digger—the warden's way of punishing him for his morning display.
For a moment the two men just stared at each other. Larry Digger was thirty years old, his body trim, his face unlined, his dark hair thick. He carried the wind of the outside world with him like a special scent, and all the men stared at him with sullen, resentful eyes. He breezed into Russell Lee's cell and plopped down on the cot.
“You gonna eat all that? You'll burst your intestines before you ever get to the chair.”
Russell Lee scowled. Larry Digger had been latched on to him like a leech for seven years now, first following his crimes, then his arrest, his trial, and now his death. In the beginning Russell Lee hadn't minded so much. These days, however, the reporter's questions made him nervous, maybe a little scared, and Russell Lee hated being scared. He fastened his gaze upon the meal cart and inhaled the oily scent of burnt food.
“Whaddya want?” Russell Lee demanded, digging into the pile of fried chicken with his hands.
Digger tipped back his fedora and adjusted his trench coat. “You seem calm enough. No hysterics, no pledges of innocence.”
“Nope.” Russell Lee ripped off a bite of chicken, chewed noisily, swallowed.
“I was told you'd sworn off the priest. I didn't think you'd take the Jesus route.”
“Nope.”
“No purging of sins for Russell Lee Holmes?”
“Nope.”
“Come on, Russell Lee.” Digger leaned forward and planted his elbows on his knees. “You know what I want to hear. It's your last day now. You know there won't be a pardon. This is it. Final chance to set the record straight. From your lips to the front page.”
Russell Lee finished the chicken, smacked his greasy lips, and moved on to the charcoaled okra.
“You're gonna die alone, Russell Lee. Maybe that seems okay to you now, but the minute they strap you into Old Sparky, it won't be the same. Give me their names. I can have your wife flown in here for you. And your baby. Give you some support, give you family for your last day here on earth.”
Russell Lee finished the okra and plunged three fingers into the middle of the chocolate cake. He collapsed a whole side, excavated it like a tunnel digger, and started sucking the frosting from his palm.
“I'll even pay for it,” Digger said, a last-ditch effort from a man who was paid jack shit, and they both knew it. “Come on. We know you're married. I've seen the tattoo and I've heard the rumors. Tell me who she is. Tell me about your kid.”
“Why does it matter to you?”
“I'm just trying to help you—”
“You gonna bring 'em here and call 'em freaks, that's what you're gonna do.”
“So they exist, you admit it—”
“Maybe they do. Maybe they don't.” Russell Lee flashed a mouthful of chocolate-coated teeth. “I ain't telling.”
“You're a stubborn fool, Russell Lee. They are going to fry you, and your wife will never have benefits and your kid will get raised by some other junkyard dog who'll claim it as his own. Probably become a loser just like you.”
“Oh, it's all taken care of, Digger. It is, it is. Matter of fact, I got me more of a future than you do. That's what they call irony, ain't it. Irony. Good word,
goddammit. Good word.” Russell Lee turned back to his cake and shut up.
Larry Digger finally left in a rage. Russell Lee tossed his leftover food, including most of the cake, onto the concrete floor. He was supposed to share his dessert with his fellow death row inmates; that was protocol. Russell Lee ground the cake into the cement floor with the heel of his right foot.
“Let them all share that. Let the motherfuckers share that.”
Abruptly a loud crunch rang down the corridor, the noise growing, swelling, into a fierce, angry crescendo. It paused, dipped low, then soared high, going from a whine to a snarl.
The executioner was warming up the chair, testing his equipment at 1800 volts to 500 to 1300 to 300.
Suddenly the moment was very real.
“How do you like Russell Lee?” the corridor pulsed. “Baked, crisped, or fried? How do you like Russell Lee? Baked, crisped, or fried?”
Russell Lee Holmes sat down quietly on the edge of the cot. He drew in his shoulders, thought of the nastiest things he could think of. Small, soft throats, big blue eyes, shrill little-girl screams.
I won't say a word, baby. I'll keep it to my grave. 'Cause once there was someone who at least pretended to love Trash.
Boston, Massachusetts
JOSH SANDERS TRUDGED down the brightly lit halls. A first-year resident, he was going on hour thirty-seven of a supposed twenty-four-hour ER shift and he functioned purely on autopilot. He wanted sleep. He must find an empty room. He must sleep.
He came to the door of room five. No lights were on. Dimly he recalled that the boards listed five as unoccupied. Slow night in the ER.
Josh entered the room and yanked back the curtain surrounding the bed, ready to collapse.
A whimper. A hoarse, strangled wheeze. A moan.
The freshman doctor caught himself and snapped on the overhead light. A fully clothed little girl lay magically sprawled on top of the bed.
And she was clutching her throat as her eyes rolled back into her head and her whole body went limp.
THE DEATH TEAM was well trained. Three guards snapped Russell Lee Holmes into leg irons and a belly chain. He informed the warden he could walk out on his own, and everyone fell into position.
The guards flanked Russell Lee. Warden Cluck led. They marched down the forty-five-foot corridor, where the green door that had greeted 361 men now held Russell Lee's number.
At five the barber had shaved his head, sculpting a perfectly bald crown for the electrode plate. Then there'd been one last shower before he'd donned the execution whites. White pants, white shirt, white belt, all made from cotton grown on the prison farms and cut, spun, and sewed by prison inmates. He was going to his death looking like a fucking painter and without a trace of the outside world upon him.
The door swung open. Old Sparky beckoned. Rich burnished wood, over fifty years old and gleaming. High back, solid arms and legs, wide leather straps. Looked almost like Grandma's favorite rocker except for the face mask and electrodes.
The executioner took over and everything happened in a blur. The guards were strapping Russell Lee to the golden oak frame. One thrust a bite stick between his teeth, the other swabbed his left leg, head, and chest with saline solution to help conduct the electricity. The executioner followed up with metal straps around his calves, metal straps around his wrists, two diodes on each side of his heart, and finally a silver bowl on top of his shaved head. In less than sixty seconds Russell Lee Holmes had been crowned king.
The executioner taped up his eye sockets so there would be less mess when his eyeballs melted, and stuck cotton balls up his nose to limit the bleeding.
Eleven-thirty P.M. The dea
th squad left the room, and Russell Lee's “torture time” began. He sat, strapped to his death chair, surrounded by blackness and waited for the phone on the wall to ring, the phone connected directly with the governor's office.
In the three viewing rooms across from him, others also waited. In room one were the witnesses—Larry Digger and four relatives of Russell Lee's victims who could afford to attend. Patricia Stokes had lost her four-year-old daughter Meagan to this monster's handiwork. Her husband was on duty at his new job, so she'd brought along her fourteen-year-old son instead. Brian's young face was immobile, but Patricia was sobbing quietly, her thin arms wrapped tightly around her tall, gaunt frame.
In room two, the executioner stood ready. This room contained the second phone connected directly with the governor's office. It also boasted three large buttons, an inch and a half in diameter, which jutted out of the wall. One main inducer and two backups. The state of Texas always got the job done.
Room three was for family and friends of the inmate. Tonight its only occupant was Kelsey Jones, Russell Lee's beleaguered defense attorney, who was wearing his best suit—a mint-colored seersucker—for the occasion. Kelsey Jones had a special assignment. He was to watch. He was to report back, Russell Lee's last consideration to the woman who had loved him.
Then Kelsey Jones was to forget all about Russell Lee—a task he would gladly accept.
Eleven thirty-one P.M. The countdown began, and the many subterfuges and manipulations that had started more than five years before finally came to a head. All rooms were quiet. All occupants were tense.
The man who was responsible sat in the chair with tape over his eyeballs and ground his teeth into the bite stick.
I AM POWERFUL. I AM HUGE!
His bowels let loose. And he gripped the end of the armrests so hard his knuckles turned white.
Love you, baby. Love . . . you.
“CODE BLUE! CODE BLUE!” Josh simultaneously shouted orders and checked the little girl's pulse. “I need a cart, stat! We got a young female, looks to be eight or nine, barely breathing. Somebody call peds!”