Execution Eve. William Buchanan

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      “Morning, Bob.” Tom spoke up so his voice would carry through the corridor. “Didn’t know you were speaking to me these days.”

      “I’ll be speaking to you plenty before this day’s out, you no-good bastard,” Robert Anderson replied. “So will my lawyers. This rap’s not going down like you set it up. You can bet your ass on that.”

      Tom looked at the clock across the hall. It was 9:00 A.M. “You’ve got fifteen hours left, Bob. I advise you to use it to make peace with God.”

      “You can stow that shit, too.”

      In his office across the corridor from the cells, Death House Supervisor John Rankin shook his head as he listened to yet another acrimonious exchange between Anderson and Penney. Rankin was a huskily built man with thick gray hair and Brillo-pad eyebrows that no barber dared touch. Although his pay scale reflected the rank of a captain of the guards, the only supervisory duty he had over other prison officials was on the evening of an execution, when a guard detail was assigned to death house duty. His usual dress for his job was everyday civilian clothes, but on this day he was immaculately attired in the dark blue uniform denoting his rank. From the beginning of his employment at the penitentiary as assistant death house supervisor twenty-three years before, his only wards had been condemned men. Two years later, when he was promoted to fill the position of the retiring death house supervisor, he began the full-uniform ritual on the final day of a condemned man’s life. He considered it an act of common decency. His compassion for his charges had earned him sincere respect from all inmates at the institution.

      Captain Rankin rose from his desk, took three heavy white china mugs from the cupboard, and filled them with hot coffee from a pot on his office stove. He stirred two heaping teaspoons of sugar and a couple of ounces of canned milk into one cup. The other two he left black. He put the cups on a tray and stepped across the corridor to Bob Anderson’s cell.

      “This isn’t a day for that sort of talk, Bob,” he admonished. He handed one of the black coffees through the bars.

      Thirty-eight-year-old Bob Anderson looked anything but what he was—a convicted killer. Of average height, stockily built with a double chin and distinct paunch, he had not, as had his two associates, lost weight during incarceration. His round, almost cherubic face usually shone with good humor. It was only when talking to or discussing Tom Penney that his dark eyes flashed with anger.

      He took the coffee. “Thanks, Captain Rankin. No offense meant to you or anyone else except that bastard at the end of the hall.”

      Captain Rankin let it pass and stepped to Willie’s cell. He handed the sugared and creamed coffee through the bars. “Here’s your morning milkshake, son.”

      Willie smiled at the longstanding joke between him and Captain Rankin. He took the cup. It was the only thing he ever took for breakfast. Pearl didn’t like that about him, he remembered. She always tried to get him to eat a bowl of cereal, or at least a piece of toast, with his coffee. The thought made him sad. He didn’t want to think about Pearl anymore. He tried to banish her from his mind by concentrating again on the limited view beyond the window.

      At the last cell Captain Rankin handed the remaining black coffee through the bars. “Looks like you’re catching up on your correspondence, Tom.”

      “Yes sir.” Tom rose from his desk and took the coffee. “Thank you, Captain.”

      Captain Rankin stepped to the center of the corridor, where he could be seen by all three men. How much easier it would be, he thought, if they were kept in adjoining cells. But the separation was the warden’s orders, and Captain Rankin didn’t question orders.

      He cleared his throat. “Tom . . . Willie . . . Bob”—he looked at each man as he spoke their names—“there’s going to be a lot of people showing up here today. Lawyers, reporters, preachers. They’ll surely want to talk to you. Warden Buchanan says that’s your decision. As you know, he usually invites reporters to come with him when he makes the final reading of the warrants. If you want to talk to them afterward, fine. If you don’t, that’s fine, too. The warden has instructed me to respect your decision in the matter.”

      He moved closer to the green-and-tan door.

      “Now, since you’ve been here you’ve seen eight men go through this door. You know the routine. And you know I’ll be here for you. If there’s anything you want, anything I can do, just ask.”

      Bob Anderson called out, “How about a one-way ticket to Louisville, Captain?”

      Rankin chuckled at the death house humor. “Out of my jurisdiction, Bob. I’m afraid the only person who can do that for you now is Governor Johnson.”

      “Not true,” Bob retorted. “There’s someone else can do it. You listening, Penney? Tell the captain how you railroaded me. You and your Holy-Joe act about being so concerned for your soul. You may have everybody else around here conned, but you ain’t fooling me one bit. My life’s on your soul, Penney, and we both know why. And you’re going to burn in hell for it unless you come clean in time for Johnson to act. Tell him that, Captain. Talk some sense into his thick skull.”

      Captain Rankin shook his head and went to his office. He switched on the radio connected to two speakers mounted on the wall across from the cells. A rich baritone voice was singing: “Heaven . . . I’m in Heaven . . .”

      “Hey, Penney,” Bob called. “Hear that? That’s the Old Groaner himself. He helped put your ass in this hell-hole, remember? Well, soon as I get sprung I’m going to make a special trip to Hollywood just to shake his hand for that.”

      Tom ignored the diatribe. Seated at his desk, where he had been since dawn, he leaned back in his chair and listened to the mellow voice of Bing Crosby croon the words to “Cheek to Cheek.” It was one of Penney’s favorite songs.

      The song ended and the announcer introduced another record. Tom Penney turned back to his work. On his desk was a writing tablet, a Watterman fountain pen, a package of Chesterfield cigarettes, and a box of Whitman chocolates, unopened. A shelf above the desk held a dozen well-thumbed books, among them The Long Way Home by Robert Benson, The Following of Christ by Thomas à Kempis, The Spiritual Life by Edgar Brightman, The Song of Bernadette by Franz Werfel, and the Catholic Bible. Beneath the shelf, stuck to the wall with tape, was a list of names scrawled in Toms handwriting: Father George, Father Brian, Sister Robert Ann, Sister Mary Laurentia, Mother. The first name had been lined through. One letter lay folded on the bed.

      He thought of a name not on the list. He sat back and looked toward the cell window and conjured up her image.

      Pam. Blithe spirit with the bewitching smile.

      He wondered where she was. Had she followed her dream to California? He wished he knew, wished he could write to her and explain the dreadful things she must have read about him by now.

      After a moment he turned back to the desk and picked up the pen and started a letter to Father Brian. Before he finished the salutation he laid the pen down. He leaned forward with his elbows on the desk and gripped his head with both hands. He hadn’t gone to bed until well after midnight and had tossed fitfully until sunup. It had been that way now for seventeen months, ever since that night of horror in Lexington. For a long while afterward he had avoided sleeping at night, thinking that by napping during the day he could avoid the dream. It was futile, for the dream came not with darkness but with sleep. So he had turned to alcohol. Thereafter, his sleep СКАЧАТЬ