Then he slumped over as if beaned by a falling anvil. His head bounced on the floor.
“Jesus H. Christ,” the good father moaned. “What in heaven …”
Another guard rushed over with a towel. He touched the bars with a quick flick of a finger, nodded to the priest, and snapped a key from the large key ring hooked to his belt. He stuck it in the lock. His partner had decided to quit screaming, and got woozily to his feet. “Whuzza?” he asked, staring at his hands. “Whuzza-what happened?”
The other guard went into the cell and slung the towel around Pinker’s neck. “I don’t whuzza any more than you do. All I saw was weird smoke blowing around. Then the TV went.”
“Drag his ass outta there. His brain’s been fried. I’ll go round up a stretcher as soon as I get back from the infirmary. Leave his stupid corpse on the floor.”
The other frowned. “What about the execution? We’re running late already, and you know how the warden is.”
His partner nodded, blowing on his burned hands. “I guess we gotta put some life back into him so he can die again. Give him mouth-to-mouth or something.”
All he got was a disgusted look. “You give this animal a blowjob. I ain’t touching him.”
“Alright, alright.” He bent down, swallowed at the greasy taste that had crawled into his mouth, pinched Pinker’s nostrils shut, and gave it a shot. When Pinker was full he drew back and let him exhale. The guard, one John Tarkins if you could trust his nametag, wrinkled his nose. “Jeez if this animal don’t stink. Smells like a skunk crawled up his ass and died. You take over.”
“No way, José. You be the hero.”
Growling, the guard named John Tarkins fastened his mouth over Pinker’s once again, and Pinker struck quick as a cobra, sinking his teeth fully shut on John Tarkins’s lower lip. Tarkins let out a whoop of pain and surprise, trying to pull back, feeling his lower lip stretch, aware of the stagnant-water taste of blood in his mouth, needing to pull free but unable, and God oh God, did it hurt! He bellowed for help, staring into the red cesspools of Pinker’s eyes. He was smiling with a mouthful of lip.
John’s partner fell on his knees and began fumbling with Pinker’s mouth, trying to pull his jaw down, scrabbling at his eyes, all the while screaming at no one to give him a hand. Father Vanatti wasn’t able; he was busy demolishing the horrid tabernacle Pinker had set up, fuming and cursing in a decidedly unpriestly way. Tarkins barked and howled while tears of pain slid down his cheeks.
“Let him go, you creep,” the other guard growled. Pinker responded quickly. He let go of Tarkins’s lip and crunched his teeth down on two of the fingers that had tried so hard to set Tarkins free. He got a quick response:
“Nooooooo!”
Bones crunched. Pinker worked his jaw back and forth, grinding his teeth. The guard pulled his hand free with a jerk, and then blood was jetting all over the floor, splashing on Pinker. The guard stared at his new hand with amazement.
Pinker spit the fingers out, then smiled. “Finger-lickin’ good!” His voice was low and rumbling, hinting at hidden powers and an inconceivably destructive force.
By now four more guards had heard the commotion and came running. Tarkins and his pal ran down to the infirmary. Pinker was hauled upright.
“Howya doon?” he said casually. “Time to get on with the killing?”
They hauled him away, beating and kicking him in a frenzy.
He seemed to enjoy it.
Chapter •
Seven
Jonathan was sitting in the viewing room with a fist pressed to his mouth, remembering Alison, conjuring up mental images of her face when she was alive and happy. He realized with a start that he didn’t even have a picture of her; perhaps it was okay, because he could see her clearly on the inner screen of his mind, as clearly as he had seen her that day in the bleachers, the day he had kissed the goalpost.
He was aware that Don had craned around in his seat. A door banged, loudly enough to make everyone jump. Pinker was hauled in by two guards, looking ferociously insane and absolutely ridiculous in the orange overalls. Another guard was in front, another behind. Tagging along was a priest who looked pale and sick.
Pinker was hauled past Jonathan. Grinning like a clown, he tried to jerk away from the guards who held his elbows. His eyes locked with Jonathan’s.
“Come to look death in the face, schoolboy?”
The guards pushed him forward to the door and heaved him roughly into the chamber. He caught his balance and walked serenely to the chair, his dead foot dragging. He plopped himself down on the grotesque killing machine like a man about to get a leisurely shave and a haircut. Two guards produced knives and went to work slitting his overalls at the ankles, peeling them upward to make room for the straps. Pinker didn’t seem to mind at all. His eyes still held Jonathan’s, and his grin hung on.
The priest stepped into the chamber and cleared his throat. “Would you like to pray with me, my … son?”
Pinker leered at him. “Go pray with your choirboys, you faggot. I got other things on my mind.”
The priest, whose name Jonathan would never know, backed out with an audible sigh of relief. He left the viewing room and quietly clicked the door shut.
The straps were pulled tight. A bizarre copper beanie, looking for all the world like an upside-down cereal bowl, was pulled down tight over Pinker’s head. A leather chin strap was cinched tight. He looked at Jonathan again, studying him as if he had known him all of Jonathan’s life. Jonathan squirmed uncomfortably, trying to fathom the meaning behind those savage eyes.
The guards checked him again, then backed out of the cell. The door slammed shut. Pinker giggled.
The viewing room door snapped open again, and this time a man in an ordinary suit strode to the front. He turned his back to Pinker. “Ladies and gentlemen, as warden of this facility I am directed by the state to ask you all to bear witness to this execution. In most cases this is a duty I would rather was not mine. But today, I feel justice is being served.”
He looked around, adjusting his tie. There was a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Is the state medical officer present?”
The woman to Jonathan’s right spoke up. “I am, Warden. But I must insist that this procedure is against all the laws of man and nature. We’re treating this man as if he were some sort of animal.”
Don leaned over to Jonathan, whispering. “Why give animals such a bum rap?” He chuckled, enjoying his joke. Jonathan couldn’t even look at him. Something about Pinker’s eyes, or his face. Something …
“The state makes the rules, Doctor. If you can’t stomach this, find yourself a new job.”
The woman stared at him, tried to speak, then sat down. She adjusted her clothes with prim little motions of indignation.
The warden glanced at the clock. It was motoring along toward the hour. He stepped sideways and addressed himself to Pinker. “Does the prisoner have any final words?”
Pinker continued to stare at Jonathan. “Not for you, asswipe. It’s the boy I wanna talk to.”
The warden spread his hands. “The prisoner is allowed to speak his piece. Go ahead.”
Pinker grinned even wider. “Your pitiful little memory has wiped it all out, hasn’t it? I used to beat you real good, sonny. I was beating you good when your momma tried to stop me with a gun—”
Don Parker had jumped to his feet. “Shut up,” he shouted. “You hear me?”
Pinker ignored him. “I was beating you good when your momma tried to stop me with that gun she snuck into our happy home. You watched me kill her—remember how she screamed? A pig in a slaughterhouse, that’s what she sounded like when I—”
“You stop it!” Don screamed. “Shut your lying mouth!”
The warden intervened. “Lieutenant, the man has a right to say his last words. It’s the law and we have to obey it. Sit down.”
Don seemed to be about to lunge forward. He hesitated, wavering. Then he slumped into his chair.
The warden made a go-ahead motion. Pinker nodded under his dunce cap. “You were pretty clever, sonny. You grabbed that gun and shot me through the knee, little peckerhead with that big gun, blasting away at your daddy with murder in your eyes. Like father, like son.”
Jonathan felt his lungs trying to lock up and deprive him of air in a room that had become incredibly stuffy. Pinker’s presence was overpowering, his pale face under its cap seeming as big as the moon. Jonathan wondered dimly if everyone here was being affected as he was. Surely it couldn’t be, but he was barely able to breathe, unable to take his eyes off this monstrosity in orange. Sweat broke out on his hairline.
Incredibly, Pinker puckered his lips and blew an obscene kiss in Jonathan’s direction. Then he turned to the warden. “What are you waiting for, shithead? Do it to me!”
The warden took a faltering backward step. Sweat was running openly down his face now. He looked over to the guard who was waiting at the switch to pull the plug on Pinker forever. He gave him a nod. “You heard the man,” he croaked. “Do it.”
He did. Something buzzed loudly. Pinker convulsed in his chair with a disgusting, piglike grunt. Sparks popped and flew. Pinker strained against the straps with his eyes rolling up in his head. A blast of smoke shot out from under the copper cap, yet still he grinned, and grinned, beaming with some wild brand of insane ecstasy.
The lights went out.
Jonathan felt Don hop to his feet. Someone shouted. Someone—the doctor, Jonathan thought—jumped up and stomped on his foot.
The lights struggled back on, glowing from orange to full power. Pinker had slumped back into the electric chair, no longer straining. His eyes rolled down and focused on Jonathan while puffs of smoke chugged out of the upside-down cereal bowl. His grin seemed to be tattooed to his face forever.
The doctor gasped, still standing on Jonathan’s foot. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “Oh my dear God.”
The warden followed her eyes to the chair. He jerked back. “Check him out, lady! Now!”
She ran for the chamber door, hurled it open, and reached out to touch Pinker’s neck. Jonathan rose up, too stunned to think, knowing only that Pinker was righting himself in the chair while smoke puffed out of his leering mouth. His eyes had closed down to mindless black slots.
The doctor touched him. There was a bright explosion of blue sparks between them. She screamed and was blown backward, but before Jonathan could react the lights snapped off again and darkness settled over the viewing room. For a moment there was only the acid hum of electricity pulsing through unseen power lines. A woman screamed, but surely not the doctor, Jonathan thought, because of the fact that she was currently dead, roasted alive by a nightmare named Pinker.
The lights tried to stutter back on. Again something distant and unseen buzzed, like angry hornets. Jonathan fumbled through the dark, thudding into people, grabbing handfuls of clothing, knocking over chairs. The lights sputtered their way back on, this time for good. Jonathan spun around.
Pinker was gone. The medieval monstrosity that was the electric chair stood empty, the thick leather straps burned and smoking, the wood itself, wood that had been cut and carved so many years ago, now charred and ruined.
Jonathan swung back around. The guard who had stood at the entrance door was facedown on the floor, his dead eyes open and glassy as he stared at the legs of chairs and the dustballs that had accumulated there. The simple wooden door was open, the wire-mesh glass cracked in a spiderwork mosaic. Jonathan shoved his way to the door and flung it open. The glass fell out in a sheet and shattered on the cement floor with a noise like a hundred light bulbs exploding. Jonathan took a step, his eyes wide and searching. No Pinker.
No Pinker!
The warden shouted at his guards. “I want the whole goddam cellblock sealed until we find him! He won’t get far after taking a hit like that!”
Bullshit, Jonathan thought as his spirit sunk into his shoes. Just watch him, watch that man Pinker go.
The guards hustled past him, followed by Don Parker. He drew up beside Jonathan, breathing hard. “Forget what he said, Jon. The ravings of a madman.”
“Yeah?” Jonathan gave him a sour and defeated look. “Tell me it isn’t true, then. A lie, all that crap about me when I was seven.”
“Ignore it. It’s been in the news that you were a foster child. Pinker was just messing with your mind. Let’s go help find the bastard.”
He started away, glanced back, and saw that Jonathan was staring off to nowhere, his face ashen and grave.
“Come on, Jon.” He touched his arm. “Still with me?”
Jonathan sniffed, his nostrils widening slightly. “Pinker,” he whispered.
“Of course Pinker. Come on.”
“Electricity …”
Don eyed him.
“Over there,” Jonathan said, his voice faint and squeaky. He lifted one limp hand as if controlled by hidden wires. “That room …”
Don whirled, following his dangling finger. A door, set into the concrete to the right, was slightly open and stamped with a skull and crossbones that warned whoever might enter there that they must cross the threshold at their own risk. Smoke was curling out of the gap at the bottom. Things were snapping and popping behind it, filling the air with the stench of burned connections, fried insulators, and … something else.
Don hauled the door fully open, burning his hand on the doorknob. The opening part wasn’t hard; it was what came next that would sear itself into his brain and intrude for the rest of his life in daydreams and nightmares. Lazy flames were beginning to crackle as he looked inside and saw the gadgetry that fed two thousand volts to the chair. A spark blew out, sizzling past his ear. Horace Pinker was inside too, looking a bit slumped and worn out in the weirdly sparkling light. Burn lines had etched themselves into a ring around his forehead. Smoke still drifted off him, but it was dying smoke. Don reached to haul him out.
Pinker beat him to it. He fell face-first out of the tiny room and thudded lightly on the floor. Jonathan stepped over, still acting stunned and woozy, and prodded Pinker’s head with a foot.
Pinker fell apart like the fat ash from a cigar. Only his Day-Glo orange overalls remained intact, looking mildly cooked, the load of Pinker-ash still inside but rapidly deflating.
Don stared at the disintegrating husk. “Jesus,” he said. “That chair really kicks ass.”
Two guards hurried past with the doctor propped between them. She was moaning and thrashing while white smoke poured out of her hair.
“Where’s she off to?” Don barked.
They stopped, and one guard looked back. “Infirmary. She’s flipping out. Electrocution.”
Don shook his head. “The infirmary here is worse than a Civil War amputation tent. Head downtown with her. Hospital. Get me?”
The other guard looked back, seemed about to make a remark, then hoisted the doctor higher and dragged her down the corridor with his partner hurrying to keep pace.
“Idiots,” Don mumbled.
Jonathan shook his head to clear it. He wrinkled his nose. “Jesus, I’ve got to get some air. How do we get out of here?”
“Same way we got in, I guess,” Don said, and led the way out.
The idiot guards Don Parker had barked at went by the name of Chadwick and Jones, two ordinary middle-aged working types who mildly hated their jobs but had to have them in order to support their various needs. For example, Chadwick needed beer the way most people need oxygen. Jones, no slouch with the bottle, liked to take a toke now and then on his pocket bong, a habit he had acquired while still a teenager. The difference between day and night slid past them as easily as sand through an hourglass, because the party just never stopped, not for Chadwick and Jones it didn’t. Both were divorced. Both had nasty child-support payments to make every month. Both sported beer bellies the size of a middle-aged watermelon. Both were extremely upset that they had to drive this doctor bitch to the hospital, because at four o’clock every T
uesday the gang leader of cellblock six put in his weekly order, which Jones and Chadwick eagerly supplied. Cocaine was going for eighty-five on the street; in the joint the cons managed to dredge up a hundred ten. Lots of ounces, lots of cash. But this week might as well have been spent in a dumpster, because with no one there to take the order, nothing happened. And the cons could get mean if they put their minds to it.
“Damn,” Chadwick groaned after they had tossed the smoky-headed brain-damaged bitch across the back seat and taken their places on the front seat. This was an official state prison car, a green affair with blackwall tires and white stenciling on the doors that warned passersby to keep away from all this official business. They drove this highly official car to the gate and Chadwick laid on the horn. Pretty soon the gate swung open as if pulled by ghosts, and they headed out toward Maryville, quite a drive even for a sober man.
Jones dug behind his jacket to his shirt pocket, where a very large chrome flask of Everclear 190-proof distilled spirits permanently resided. It tasted like turpentine. It was as warm as bathwater. There was a warning on the label that said it was highly flammable; Jones believed this with all his heart, for taking a swig of this poison was like swallowing razor blades. But it did the trick, made the days and nights fly by a little faster and a little more bearably, so he drank it. Plus it was economical: one Jones-size flask of the stuff equaled two bottles of regular hooch.
He handed it over to Chadwick, who was driving while straining slightly to see the road through a cold and miserable drizzle falling outside. The wipers thumped out a steady backbeat. “Ain’t this just shit?” he moaned, then took a drink. His ears became instantly red and his eyes began to water. He coughed once, took a breath, and handed the bottle back. “Christ, that shit’s gonna kill you one day.” He took a hand off the wheel and fanned his mouth. “Damn goat piss.”
“So don’t drink it then,” Jones snarled, sticking it back in his shirt. For a brief moment he felt like apologizing, then forgot about it. The day was screwed, the week’s extra cash was screwed, and the boys of cellblock six would be highly steamed. A man had a right to be irritated by such a screwup.
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