A Moment in Time

by Deb Stover

  "Can you wait until after we're in Oregon for a proper honeymoon?"

  Todd said, "Ewwwwww."

  Chief Byron chuckled.

  Jackie sighed and said, "Every day will be a honeymoon with you, big guy, but forget that proper business."

  Cole's eyes glittered. "I guarantee it."

  "Good," she said, heading down the aisle with her husband and new family. As they stepped into the evening together, she sighed.

  "I hope that's a happy sound," Cole said, squeezing her hand. "As long as it isn't singing."

  "I promise. I have everything now–a man who loves me, a son." She smiled at a blushing Todd, then looked at Chief Byron. "And, if you're willing, maybe you can be the father I've never known."

  Chief Byron's eyes widened. "You honor me, Miss Jackie."

  "Thank you." She gave him a peck on the cheek. "But no more of that squaw business, Chief."

  Chief Byron, Cole, and Todd all laughed and Jackie sighed, meeting her husband's loving gaze.

  "Yes, I have it all," she said. "And now I even know how that script ends."

  Page Forward For An Excerpt From

  Deb Stover's Award-Winning

  Another Dawn

  A Time-Travel Historical Romance

  Foreword

  "The current flows along a restricted path...in the meantime the vital organs may be preserved; and pain, too great for us to imagine, is induced... For the sufferer, time stands still; and the excruciating torture seems to last for an eternity."

  ~ Nicola Tesla

  Chapter 1

  The heavy thud of Luke Nolan's heart played a funeral dirge. Footsteps echoed through the tunnel, keeping time with his pulse as if the entire proceeding were meticulously choreographed.

  Music to fry by.

  His hands were cuffed, and chains linked his ankles, their rhythmic chink, chink, chink punctuating his death march. Everything seemed magnified, in slow motion. Surreal neon lighting provided the finishing touch.

  Looking around, he counted one woman–the prison doctor who would pronounce him dead–and eight men. How many assholes does it take to execute Luke Nolan?

  He almost laughed. Hell, he should laugh. Eleven years rotting on death row should give him that right. So much for the Court of Appeals and a pitiful excuse for a public defender.

  How do you plead?

  Not guilty.

  And no one had believed him, including his so-called attorney.

  The prison chaplain appeared at Luke's side, an open Bible clutched in his hands as they continued the long walk to the execution chamber. Luke was beyond prayer, but it couldn't hurt. Maybe, just maybe...

  Get over it. You're dead meat, Nolan.

  He banished hope from his mind and heart as the heavy doors opened before them. It was freezing cold, in absolute contrast to what he'd soon feel.

  Luke swallowed the lump in his throat, commanding himself not to reveal his fear. These sons of bitches wanted him to fry, and there wasn't a frigging thing he could do to prevent it, but he'd be damned before he'd give them the satisfaction of seeing his terror. No matter how real...

  "Would you like last rites, Luke?" the chaplain asked.

  For a moment, Luke met the man's gaze. The expression in the priest's aging eyes left no doubt he disapproved of these proceedings. "Nah, that's all right, Father. Too late for me."

  "I've always believed in your innocence," he whispered. "I'll pray for your soul, my son. Is there anyone you'd like me to call?"

  "No thanks, Father." So there was one person in the whole world who actually believed him. One. "Tell my grandma..."

  "Yes?"

  "Never mind." Luke released a long sigh. "She wouldn't even believe you. Thanks just the same, Father."

  Raised by his devoutly Catholic grandparents, Luke Nolan had been a kid from Denver, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Tough, cool, cocky as hell...

  And gullible.

  Eleven years ago, he'd followed Ricky–a punk from nowhere with no last name–into that liquor store believing they were after a fresh six-pack. One minute they were joking around. A few seconds later, Ricky pulled a gun on the old man behind the counter.

  The crotchety old fart triggered an alarm before Ricky could clean out the register. Enraged by the man's nerve, Ricky shot the clerk between the eyes and ran, leaving both his gun and Luke behind.

  Luke was a wild kid, but not a killer. He'd never even owned a piece, for Christ's sake. But when the cops rushed in and found him on his knees with a rag pressed to the man's bloody forehead, it was a done deal.

  No witnesses and no prints on the gun–just an eighteen-year-old punk who'd already found plenty of trouble in his young life. Luke was arrested, tried and convicted practically before the victim drew his last breath.

  Eleven years. Luke sighed and looked around the room–anything to keep him from fixating on the chair. Public outrage over capital punishment had delayed his execution countless times. With so many idle hours on his hands, he'd even managed to earn his college degree.

  After the raging hormones of adolescence had loosened their grip on his sanity, Luke discovered a new side to himself. If his appeal had ever came through, he'd intended to complete his Master's and teach high school. Hell, maybe he could've prevented a few punks from ending up like him.

  Idealistic bastard.

  Bitterness settled in his gut like acid and he swallowed the bile that burned his throat. Hell, at least getting his degree had kept him busy.

  "I have something for you," the priest said, jerking Luke back to the present. "Your grandfather wrote a–"

  "My grandfather died three years ago." Disbelief and the pain of remembrance sliced through Luke. His pulse escalated to a jarring thud in his ears as he recalled his grandmother's words when she'd phoned with the news. She'd accused him of murdering the old man with shame.

  The priest lowered his gaze for a moment, then drew a deep breath, reached into his pocket and withdrew an envelope. "Your grandmother sent this yesterday. Your grandfather left instructions that you were to have it if..."

  Luke gnashed his teeth, hoping the noise might blot out the memory of his last visit from his grandfather. Albert Nolan was the only man in the world Luke had ever truly respected. That respect had given the old man power–too damned much power.

  With shaking fingers, Luke took the envelope, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Thanks, Father." It wasn't the priest's fault that Luke had once cared enough for someone to make himself vulnerable to this kind of pain.

  "What's that?" Warden Graham stopped in front of Luke and snatched the envelope.

  "It's only a letter from the boy's grandfather," the priest explained, sighing.

  With a smirk, Graham looked at the envelope, then returned it to Luke. "Make it quick."

  Luke refused to meet the warden's gaze, knowing he'd find a malicious gleam in those accusing eyes. After the warden turned and walked away, Luke opened the envelope and unfolded the single page to view his grandfather's spidery scrawl. His vision blurred, but he blinked several times to clear it, then noted the ten-year-old date at the top of the page–the same day Luke's death sentence was handed down.

  You shamed me. I will go to my grave grieving the end of the Nolan name. I hereby disown you. Albert Nolan.

  Neatly, Luke refolded the page and returned it to the envelope. "Will you destroy this for me later, Father?" He cleared his throat and tried not to see the pity so obvious in the priest's faded gray eyes.

  "Of course, my son." He sighed. "I'm sorry."

  "Don't be, Father," Luke said, looking beyond the priest's white hair to the stark walls of the chamber. "Don't be."

  Then a prickling sensation on the back of his neck told him someone was watching him. He looked up and met the doctor's anxious gaze. She looked nervous as hell as she tucked a dark curl behind one ear. Something sparkled on her cheek and she brushed it away with the back of her hand. Tears? Fat chance. No one would cry for him.<
br />
  "It's time," a rough voice said from behind the priest.

  "I hate this," the woman said loud enough for everyone to hear. "Why won't you let me ex–"

  "Too late now, Doctor," the warden said, rubbing his chest.

  "But you can't do–"

  "All you have to do is tell us when it's over and sign the death certificate." The warden turned his back on the doctor and approached Luke again. "Now I can retire knowing I did my job right," he said, his eyes glinting with malicious victory before he walked away.

  Luke drew a deep breath, deciding not to waste it on a response. The warden's wishes had been obvious for years. Swift justice. Yeah, right. Justice.

  "Go with God, my son," the chaplain said quietly. As he backed away murmuring in outdated Latin, he made the sign of the cross toward Luke. A blessing.

  Once upon a time, Luke would've understood the words. Now, too late, he wished he could remember their meaning. He wished so damned many things, but he dared not think of his grandfather again. Anything but that.

  Defeated, he pushed away thoughts of the priest and all things religious. This was the end–he had to face it. Resolutely, he forced his gaze back to the vehicle for his one way trip to hell. It looked like something from Dr. Frankenstein's lab. A moment later, two men led him to the chair, replaced the chains and handcuffs with automatic restraints, then placed electrodes on his shaved head and one leg.

  The sick part of him had wanted–needed–to know exactly what would happen today, so he'd researched the fine art of electrocution in preparation for the big event. These innocuous little electrodes would send two thousand volts of current blasting through his body. Nineteen hundred degrees fahrenheit. His eyeballs would pop out of their sockets, and his face and appendages would become hideously contorted and disfigured. The stench of his burning flesh–inside and out–would permeate the chamber.

  The burning flesh of an innocent man...

  The condemned usually defecated and urinated after the current had done its job. Pity he'd be too far gone by then to witness his executioners' gagging and retching. They'd know soon enough why Luke Nolan had requested a hot and nasty burrito for his last meal.

  Another man rushed into the room, his face flushed and his breathing labored. Luke couldn't prevent a surge of hope, and he exchanged a questioning glance with the priest. Could this be a last minute reprieve?

  "We got a bomb threat and we're evacuating," the man said. "Not a chance. We'll be finished in a few minutes," the warden said. "Those bleeding hearts don't see a damn thing wrong with blowing us to hell and back, but they cry cruelty at simple justice."

  Last year, when a particularly aggressive activist organization had threatened to prevent Luke's execution by any means necessary, the authorities had transferred him to a brand new, underground facility far up in the mountains. He didn't even know exactly where they were–some new prison with high-tech equipment for ridding the world of scum like him. The maximum security facility was built into a mountain like NORAD. It wasn't even officially open yet, and as far as he knew, he was the one and only prisoner.

  Soon, there would be none.

  Compassion filled the priest's eyes, and Luke jerked his gaze away, hating himself for hoping, even for a moment. "Just get it over with," he muttered, grinding his teeth. He refused to beg for his miserable life.

  The doctor stood beside the priest, more tears trickling unheeded down her cheeks. Everyone deserved at least one mourner when they died, and now Luke had two more than he'd expected.

  Except for the doctor's murmuring to the priest, an obscene silence fell over the room as the head fry cook pulled a black hood over Luke's face. The mournful wail of sirens sounded in the distance as thunder rumbled to a roar then faded, only to return even louder. Closer. Not thunder, Luke realized. Explosions.

  The first searing jolt tore through his body and he screamed. Unbearable pain... If the current failed to kill him, insanity would finish the job. No human could endure such pain and live.

  The chaplain reverted to English and Luke clung to the familiar words above the boom of another explosion. Pandemonium erupted around him just as the next surge plundered through him. This time he didn't scream. Instead, he could've sworn he heard his own desperate voice join the priest's.

  Our Father, who art in Heaven...

  Something heavy pressed down on Luke's chest, pinning him beneath its oppressive weight. He had to breathe. He clawed the hood from his face, but even without it only darkness greeted his gaze.

  His arms and legs were free. Strange. When had they released the automatic restraints? Or maybe he was already dead and this was hell.

  He drew the deepest breath possible as he ran his hands down his chest until he found something cool and rough. Jagged edges scraped his burned fingers and he realized the weight was a pile of pieces, rather than one large object.

  His heart slammed against his chest as the truth emerged from his fried brain. No, not quite fried–only singed. The explosions had saved him.

  I'm alive.

  Joy and fear rushed through him as he shoved the crumbled stones from his chest. Little by little, the weight eased until he could breathe. His ribs were intact–a miracle.

  Luke closed his eyes and sighed. A miracle, yes.

  He remembered the prison chaplain and the doctor. Were they alive, too? Then another thought made his gut wrench into a tight fist against his heart.

  Escape was his only hope. If anyone found him, they'd only try again. Hell, they'd probably pin the bombing on him, too. But wasn't there something in the law about men who survived execution? No, he couldn't be sure of that. Warden Graham would find a way.

  But Luke Nolan would commit suicide before he allowed them to strap him into that chair again. The pain...

  Sweat popped from every pore and his skin stung. He felt sunburned. Yes, his skin was burned all right. No telling how much internal damage all that electricity might have inflicted. He could still die.

  The hell I will.

  Determinedly, Luke freed himself from the rubble and sat upright. His head throbbed and he rubbed his temples, struggling with his memory. They'd brought him down one or two floors in an elevator, then through a long tunnel. The building must have collapsed during the explosions. Now all he had to do was find his way to the surface.

  To freedom.

  At least he wasn't completely buried. A few more small rocks fell, as if to remind him how quickly that could change. Shielding the top of his head with his folded arms, he rose. The entire mountain could come down at any moment. He had to get out of here fast, for more reasons than one.

  The air was thick with dust and smoke. With gas and electric lines, the place could go up without warning. Resisting the urge to cough, he took a step just as a beam of light appeared in front of him. Instinctively, he ducked, bumping his knee against something hard and smooth. Somehow, he knew it was the electric chair, and he swallowed convulsively.

  The light grew brighter, dragging Luke's gaze to it again. At first, he'd thought it was a flashlight, but now he realized it was the sun. Of course. His execution had been scheduled to occur before dawn.

  Another dawn he was never meant to see.

  "God, I'm alive," he whispered, his parched throat stinging as his eyes filled with tears. This sunrise was a gift, a sign. A new beginning. Drawing a deep breath, he took a step toward the light, praying it would lead him outside.

  A sharp pain shot through his knee and he stumbled, barely preventing a fall. His injuries were minor compared to electrocution and being buried alive.

  Alive.

  Limping, Luke continued his slow trek through the debris, picking his way blindly over piles of rubble. If only he had shoes...

  A sudden sound made him freeze. Despite the thud of his pulse, he listened. There it was again, a low moan. Someone else was alive in this mess. But who? More importantly, did it matter?

  An icy chill raced down his spine. Whoever it
was could very well cost him his freedom. Nothing–nothing–was worth that price.

  He pushed his foot forward to continue his escape, but the moan came again. Closer. Keep going, Nolan. He slid his other foot forward, but it stopped against something solid and warm.

  A body.

  Warm and alive, the body trembled, and Luke jerked his foot back. God, no. Please, no.

  "Help me."

  The voice was so weak he'd barely heard it. Maybe he hadn't.

  "Help," it came again, barely more than a strangled whisper.

  He mentally kicked himself for not running. What made him pause? His conscience? Fat lot of good that had done him the night he tried to help a dying liquor store clerk.

  Remembering the injustice, the past eleven years of living hell, and the horrors of the electric chair, he started to walk away just as icy fingers clamped around his bare ankle. Luke's gasp sounded more like a shout in the deathly silence. He struggled to free himself, but the person's fingernails gouged his singed flesh.

  A death grip.

  Terror plucked at his sanity as he remembered the pain of the electric chair. No, he couldn't go through that again. He'd rather die here and now by any other means.

  Panic strengthened him as he freed his foot and lunged forward, falling headfirst over another body. A strangely still body. Cold like death.

  He eased back on hands and knees. The sun was higher now, glinting off something on the dead man's chest. With shaking fingers, Luke reached out to touch the object, knowing without seeing. The crucifix felt cool and smooth beneath his burned fingers.

  "Go with God, my son." His memory of the priest's words filled Luke's head even as another moan reached his ears.

  The only man who'd believed in his innocence was dead. Luke was supposed to have died this morning, but for some reason he was alive and this man wasn't. He eased the crucifix over the priest's head and slipped it over his own, holding its weight in his palm before releasing it.

  It's a sign.

  The sun now filled the chamber with enough light to allow Luke to see the dead man. His injuries must've been internal, because there wasn't a mark on him.