Cut to the Bone

by Shane Gericke

  “Feel like driving to Chicago?”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  Huh. In seventeen years as a state historian, he’d never been asked to go upstate on such short notice. “I suppose I could,” he said cautiously.

  “Good. You’re appearing on Oprah tomorrow.”

  Sanders sat back, stunned. “What? Me? Why?”

  “You’re the crash test dummy.”

  Sanders felt his cheeks tingle. It was fun at first, being a celebrity - even the speaker had called to rib him. Now it was embarrassing.

  “I . . . well . . .”

  “Relax,” his boss said, helping himself to Sanders’s bowl of M&Ms. “It’s priceless exposure, letting Miss Winfrey know what we do down here in the bowels of government. The governor’s pleased and hopes you’ll say yes.”

  Sanders felt sweat roll down his neck. “Why can’t Mr. Covington appear? Or the director?”

  “Because you’re the crash test dummy,” his boss repeated. “Closest thing we got to a dead man who can talk on camera.”

  He flipped M&Ms into his mouth.

  “Oprah wants to know how you felt strapped in that burner,” he said, masticating noisily. It reminded Sanders of feeding time on the veldt. “Saying goodbye to your sainted mother while the juice melts your kneecaps. You know, all that boo-hoo stuff her audience laps up.”

  Sanders squirmed. His only “boo-hoo” was wetting his pants when the death box buzzed. He wasn’t going to tell Oprah that. Then again, maybe she already knew. Oprah was everywhere. “How’d she hear about me?” he asked.

  “Same as us - that newspaper story.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “I assured Mr. Covington you’d be delighted to meet with Team Oprah this afternoon. They’ll put you up on Michigan Avenue and buy your gas and meals. You’ll appear live on the show tomorrow morning. They’ll even let you bring the wife. Whaddaya say?”

  Sanders gulped.

  “That’s the spirit!” his boss said. “I know you’ll make us proud.”

  10:10 a.m.

  “Heard you tripped and fell last night,” the CO jeered.

  Corey Trent stared at the floor, legs splayed because his balls ached so much.

  “Whatsa matter, stinky?” the CO pressed, clearly enjoying himself. “No clever comeback? I’m soooooo disappointed.”

  Trent lifted his bloodshot eyes.

  “My only disappointment’s your wife,” he said, voice gravelly from one of the sock-chops. “The ho ran outta gas before I could-”

  “Put a lid on it, Trent,” the senior CO grunted as he walked up.

  “Yaz, bawse,” Trent said, saluting with both middle fingers.

  “Best not push that,” senior said, “you don’t want to be pushed back.” He turned to his colleague, scowling. “Thought you knew gators bite when you mess with ‘em.”

  The CO tensed like he was going to clobber him.

  “I ain’t in no cage,” senior said quietly, flexing his anchor tattoos.

  The CO blanched.

  Then, unexpectedly, smiled.

  “Guess you’re right,” he said, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Why waste effort on a dead man? Day after tomorrow, he’s a bucket of extra-crispy.”

  Senior slapped his back, and they moved on.

  Trent shook his head.

  “Hey, Core,” said the arsenic poisoner two cages down.

  “Yo.”

  “Way to punk his bony ass.”

  Trent laughed. “Fun slapping around the new fish.”

  “No finer sport,” arsenic agreed. “One thing he’s right about, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You stink like a bucket of turds. Me and the boys voted. You don’t shower by six, we’re gonna make ya.”

  The Row applauded.

  Noon

  “Sorry, dear,” the Executioner said to the dead woman’s driver’s license, which he’d pulled from the fanny pack he’d already ditched. “But your death was necessary to make the authorities keep thinking that Emily - stop, stop, stop, stop, stop!”

  He did.

  Four inches from the reflective sign that shouted, “Danger! Extremely Flammable!”

  Heads snapped around. The Executioner revved the engine to show he was fine.

  They turned away, disappointed.

  The light turned green. The fuel truck belched diesel, rumbled off. The Executioner sat, watching it grow small.

  “That’s twice you failed to pay attention,” he berated himself, as he knew Bowie would later. “I know you’re excited with Friday so close. But your brilliant plan is useless if you’re not around to carry it out . . .”

  Even as he talked, a delicious new twist formed in his mind.

  “Risky,” he decided after thinking it through. “But doable.”

  Fun, too.

  He reacquired the fuel truck at the next red.

  Checked his Rolex.

  Yes. The timing would work just fine.

  He flicked the license out the window, cranked the wheel, and followed.

  2:15 p.m.

  “Good gravy, Wayne!” Angel Rogers sputtered. “You can’t be serious!”

  “As a heart attack,” Covington said.

  “It’s insane. Unheard of. You just . . . can’t.”

  “I’m the governor,” Covington said, rolling a long, thin cigar between his fingers. “I can do whatever I want.”

  “Well, of course, you can,” Angel said. “I’m just saying it’s a terrible idea. Insane.”

  “You already said insane.”

  “That’s because it is,” she snapped. “You simply cannot walk into the Justice Center on Friday and run the execution.”

  “I built it,” Covington said. “Why shouldn’t I throw the switch?”

  “The media, for starters,” she said, slapping his coffee table. The humidor jumped. “Every editorial writer in America will crucify you. Not to mention the late-night TV monologues.”

  “So what?”

  “‘So what’ is the fact that they control the public debate. Guaranteeing the political fallout will bury you.” She uncrossed her arms to smooth her jet-black hair. “I admit it’s a great angle, Wayne. Personally running Corey Trent’s execution is inspired. But it’s not worth the downside if you want to live in the White House.”

  “That’s because you’re thinking like a press secretary.”

  “It’s what you pay me for.”

  “Of course. And from that perspective, you’re absolutely right - the press will accuse me of grandstanding, debasing the system, ad nauseum. But I’m not doing this for photo ops.”

  He stalked from behind his desk. “I’m serious about protecting the innocent, Angel,” he said, waving the cigar. “I’m cleansing the world of Corey Trents, and I’m doing it with 2,000 volts. I, myself, not some faceless bureaucrat. I, myself, will throw that switch.”

  “Wayne . . .”

  “If my taking charge makes the next punk think twice about cutting a baby out of a mother, it’s worth it,” Covington said. “So let the media complain. Voters are behind me on this. Not just law-and-order types, either. Since September 11, even liberals are happy I’m putting these goons to death. Even if they won’t say so publicly.”

  He snatched up his cigar cutter.

  “It’s not hype, politics, PR, or spin control,” he said, notching the end to suck in the flame of the wooden match. “It’s right. I believe that to the core of my soul.”

  Angel sighed. “Did I ever mention how much I hate true believers?”

  “The truth shall set you free,” Covington said.

  “Sure, in the long run,” Angel said. “But you’re elected in the short. Every protest sign will feature your head on Hitler’s body, shoving people into ovens. In bright neon colors to show up on TV.” She shuddered, thinking how awful this train wreck could be. “You do this, they’ll dine on your flanks for years.”

  “Let ‘em,”
Covington said, slapping his. “I got plenty. Start the press conference.”

  2:25 p.m.

  “Are you nuts?” Cross groaned. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Can’t you lock him in his office . . . yeah, yeah, I know, his decision, not yours. Ask his nibs to call me ASAP so we can prepare.” He disconnected, scowling.

  “What?” Branch said.

  Cross slumped heavily into his swivel chair. “Angel Rogers says Covington’s going to run Trent’s execution. He’s telling the world now.”

  Branch flipped on the TV.

  “Reporting live from Springfield,” an anchor bawled, animated as a reality host. “With full Action News coverage of this dramatic . . .”

  Branch thumped his cane. “He’s gonna draw crazies like flies to horse flop.”

  “No kidding,” Cross said. “We have to call the cavalry now. No choice with Wayne coming. Go ahead and notify the State Police.”

  “When do you want ‘em?”

  “By noon tomorrow,” Cross said. “I’m also asking for the National Guard. Not enough cops in the world to stop 10,000 protesters if they go nuclear-”

  “Chief?” his secretary interrupted, poking in her head.

  “Ma’am?”

  “You’ve got to see this.”

  “You’re kidding,” said the managing editor of the Chicago Sun-Times.

  “Nope,” said the news editor. “Wanna put out an Extra?”

  “Is the pope Catholic?”

  “Are they saying what I think they’re saying?” Cross asked, looking down on the police station entrance from the upper-floor windows. To his left was Fire Department headquarters and Lake Osborne. To his right, animal control and Safety Town.

  “Yup,” Branch said.

  Twenty-six sailboats.

  “Who let these idiots breed?” a traffic cop complained. “Em’s the good guy, not the bad.”

  Cross smiled to himself. The officer was the oldest of old-school, his entire career a suspicion of “wimmen police.” But Emily’s gritty performance two years ago changed his opinion, and these days he was, if not Dr. Phil, at least open-minded. Little victories.

  “Want me to move ‘em out?” Branch asked.

  Cross considered it, then saw Viking, a barrel-chested paramedic who’d been here since Naperville grew corn, not condos. He was backing a truck out of the fire station attached to headquarters. It bristled with lights, ladders, and water cannons, the high-pressure pumps that knocked down fires in seconds flat.

  “Don’t think you’ll have to,” Cross said.

  Viking locked down the rig and hopped out of the cab. Went to the pump controls, flipped some, twisted others. He aimed the shiny nozzles toward Lake Osborne and let ‘er rip.

  The wind bent the spray sideways. Water typhooned over the cop shop. Drowned khakis ran for their minivans, sputtering and screaming.

  “Oops,” Branch said.

  The Executioner munched another bologna and cheese as he watched the coverage with Bowie. Of course Covington would be the headliner.

  Friday wouldn’t work without him.

  3:48 p.m.

  Johnny Sanders window-shopped Michigan Avenue, killing time till his meeting with Oprah’s producers. His wife was crushed to not accompany him. Both her coworkers had called in sick, so she’d been stuck. He wanted to buy her something nice, make up for the hurt.

  He ducked into a jewelry store faced in white-veined black marble.

  “How much?” he asked the counter man over strains of Vivaldi, pointing to the tennis bracelet he’d spotted in the window. He’d splurge because she’d adore it. Anything up to 5,000 he could handle . . .

  “Eighty-four thousand dollars,” the man said. Matter-of-fact, like people bought a yacht’s worth of baubles every day. “Plus tax. Shall I wrap it for you?”

  “Just looking,” Sanders said.

  He continued walking north, chuckling at his naiveté, moving slowly to avoid sweating up his weddings-and-funerals suit. The breeze off Lake Michigan caressed him at each cross street. Two cabs, one yellow, one white, both filthy, traded horns and middle fingers. A Chicago Police wagon serpentined down Michigan Avenue, siren blapping, blue lights flashing. Muscled Latinos dumped newspapers next to vendors – ELECTRO-GOV! - the front page screamed - and he caught whiffs of caramel corn, pizza, and Chinese. One woman screamed at another in a language he didn’t know.

  “Shine your shoes?” a kid asked at Ohio Street.

  Sanders nodded. Nothing too good for Oprah.

  He put his wingtips on the crate, let the kid rap his life story as he waxed and buffed. What a great job, Sanders enthused. I can see my reflection. The rap was catchy, even if he didn’t get most of the words. All that for five bucks! Sanders gave him twenty, earning a toothy grin. Then the kid was off stalking his next tourist.

  Five minutes here is a year in Springfield, he thought happily.

  4:09 p.m.

  “So now I’m ‘Ken’ instead of ‘Chief Bite Me’?” Cross said.

  The guffaw on the phone was deep and genuine. “You know I can’t stay mad at you.”

  “I liked it better when you were,” Cross said. “At least you weren’t handing an engraved invitation to every death-penalty yahoo on the planet.”

  “That’s why you get the big bucks, my friend,” Covington said. “I hear you called the State Police.”

  “I’m ramping up security now that you’re coming. While we’re on the subject . . .” He pitched his thoughts on calling out the Illinois National Guard.

  “Sure. How many you want?” Covington asked. “A hundred?”

  “Five,” Cross said.

  “Jesus! I don’t think I’ve got that many in the entire state, thanks to Iraq,” Covington said. “But I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?”

  “Yes. Get whooping cough so you can’t show up.”

  “Same old Ken,” Covington chuckled.

  4:42 p.m.

  “Death Row?” the left side called.

  “Hell no!” the right side responded.

  “Death Row?”

  “Hell no!”

  “Death Row?”

  “Hell no!”

  “Very good,” the minister said, tapping his air brakes in applause. “Let’s try number seven.”

  “One, two, three, four! Racist, sexist, anti-poor!”

  “Quick, number eleven, don’t peek at the sheet.”

  “Politicians, they don’t care, if innocent people get the chair!”

  Everyone cheered.

  Horns sounded outside the bus. Everyone looked out.

  Passing drivers showed thumbs-ups.

  The minister chuckled. It was much nicer than the screaming middle fingers they usually got because of the signs on the side of the bus. The congregation whistled and double-thumbed back.

  An eight-year-old girl made her way to the front, knee-long braids swaying with the ruts and bumps of the interstate. She hugged her thin arms around his waist.

  “Are we there yet, Grandpa?” she asked.

  “No, honey,” he said, patting her head without taking his eyes off the road. The flock was precious cargo. Particularly her. “Not yet.”

  “Soon?”

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “Remember what we talked about before we left Boise?”

  The girl sat on the bench seat behind him, folding her freckled face. “That it’s a very long ride to Noonerville?”

  “Naperville,” he corrected.

  “Naperville,” she repeated. “And that we have to drive through Idaho, Utah, Wyoming, Nebraska, Iowa, and Illinois to get there?”

  “That’s right, honey. Seventeen hundred miles. Thirty hours of driving. Plus stops for meals, stretching, and the potty.”

  A Kenworth hauling water pipes passed on the left. The minister blinked his headlights twice. The Kenworth swung to the right, flashing taillights in thanks.

  “Do you think it’s worth it, honey?” he asked, curious to see what she’d
say. “Spending all this time away from home? Away from mommy and your friends?”

  The girl nodded. “Yes, Grandpa. The death penalty is totally creepy. I’m glad our church is protesting against it.”

  “And why is the death penalty wrong, honey?”

  “Um,” she said, sucking on her finger as she searched for the answer. “Thou shalt not kill?”

  “Amen!” the bus agreed.

  The minister was pleased.

  And deeply afraid.

  5:18 p.m.

  The fuel truck driver hustled into the office.

  Four minutes later, he was back in his cab, parking the truck at the edge of the concrete apron. He hopped out and unreeled a long rubber hose.

  The Executioner watched.

  The driver removed the cover from the fill pipe that led to the underground storage tank. He dropped the hose in the pipe and pushed a button. A pump began whirring. The Executioner assumed it whirred, anyway. Even with his window down, he couldn’t hear it.

  Which was very good.

  The Executioner drove to the air pump. Exited the Land Rover, listened hard. Still no whir.

  “How’s it going?” he greeted, unhooking the inflation chuck.

  “Hanging in, hanging in,” the driver said. “Want me to do that for you? I’m already dirty.” “That’s a mighty nice offer,” the Executioner said. “But I’ve got it, thanks.” He nodded at the back of the truck. “That’s the quietest pump I’ve ever heard.”

  “Electric, with triple armor,” the driver explained. “Can’t afford a spark around premium unleaded.”

  Bingo!

  “I thought tankers were miles long with fifty tires,” the Executioner said, showing him the “Golly, I’m confused” face.

  “Now you’re talking main rigs,” the driver said. “Those water buffaloes carry 10,000 gallons.” He grinned, showing gapped Chiclet teeth. “Mine’s only two.”

  “You work for yourself?”

  “Yep. BP hires me to service their small clients.”

  They chatted about the weather and Chicago Bears prospects.

  “This your last delivery?” the Executioner asked, keeping the air chuck mostly off the tire valves so he could keep the conversation going.