Prayers the Devil Answers (34 page)

Lonnie Varden and Albert were about the same size—two of a kind, again—and I decided that in addition to the hood, I would furnish him the clothes he would die in. Albert had been buried in his good black suit, but the rest of his things were still in the wardrobe in our bedroom, because I hadn't been able to bear to give them away. Now, though, I resolved to see all of them gone before the boys got back from the farm. The church could give the clothes to folks in need of them, but first I would do two things: first, I would get out Albert's second-best trousers, the best white Sunday shirt he had left, and the old navy-blue suit jacket he had worn at our wedding,
so that I could take them along to the jail in the morning. Second, I was going to burn all my late husband's underwear in the woodstove so that any taint of
her
would be gone for good.

The day had come.

I got to the office early on purpose, because I didn't want to have to dodge questions from packs of baying newsmen and fight my way through the crowds. On the door Roy had put up a notice that read,
EXECUTION AT NOON
,
but we expected the spectators to start showing up by nine o'clock, staking out the best places to watch the hanging from. A day or so earlier Tyree said he'd heard that people were renting out spaces at their windows overlooking the gallows. Even the tall sycamore trees by the creek would be occupied. I hoped most of those present would be sober. We had enough to contend with as it was. All four deputies were on duty for the day—the crowd alone would have justified that, but each of them also had a part to play in the ritual of execution. I rapped twice on the front door, and Galen let me in.

“Still quiet out there, Sheriff?”

“So far. How's the prisoner?”

“Calm. I don't think he slept much, but maybe that's good. I wouldn't want to be alert and wide-awake for what he has to face today.”

“Has he had his breakfast?”

“I took it back there. He didn't seem interested in eating it, though.”

“I'll look in on him later.” I hadn't had any appetite for breakfast, either. For what I had to do, I wanted my stomach to be empty so that if my nerves got the best of me, I wouldn't disgrace myself by vomiting in public.

Galen sighed. “It's going to be a long morning.”

“Yes.” I handed him the paper sack I had brought from home. “I have a change of clothes here for the prisoner so that he won't have to be hanged in his prison uniform. You and Falcon can take it back to him about eleven, when you start getting him ready. One of you stays outside the cell with the shotgun aimed at him, while the other one helps him change. When you're getting him dressed make sure you don't have the manacles and the shackles off him at the same time. First one and then the other.”

Galen let the top of the bag fall open until he could see the blue suit jacket resting on top. He recognized it at once. “But that belonged to—”

I nodded. “I won't be wanting it back, Galen. The prisoner will be buried in it. Just see that he gets it on without causing a ruckus. And after he's dressed, one of you needs to stay back there with him at all times just in case.”

In my office I had written up a chart listing everyone's duties during the execution, and even the order of the procession. I went over it again and reread the short official speech I was required to make before the hanging began.

A few minutes later Falcon appeared in the doorway, looking smart in a neatly pressed uniform, but he was worried. “Do you think there might be a reprieve, Sheriff? The phone keeps ringing, but it's mostly those damn reporters. I was wondering what would happen if the governor's office tried to call us and couldn't get through?”

“Roy says they won't. There was one appeal, because by law every death sentence has to be appealed, but it was denied. There's no doubt of his guilt.”

“I know he doesn't deserve a reprieve, Sheriff, but I feel sorry for him all the same.”

“I understand. He seems to be a nice fellow, who did something unforgivable in a panic, and it is about to cost him his life. If it helps you any, Falcon, just remind yourself of Celia Varden falling to her
death off The Hawk's Wing. No mercy was shown to her. Anyhow, all you need to worry about is doing what you're told. And remind me to tell Galen that at ten thirty I want him to take the car and drive to Reverend McKee's house. I want him to have an escort here to the jail. He might have a hard time fighting his way through the crowds, and I don't want any delays.”

“Yes'm.” Falcon looked at me curiously. “Aren't you dreading all this?”

I nodded. “I'll be glad when it's over.”

chapter eighteen

T
he execution was less than an hour away. Falcon found himself thinking about the funeral of the late Sheriff Robbins a few months back. He had been a pallbearer then—for the first time ever—and the calm, but urgent directing of the participants in the ceremony had been similar to this.

Just before eleven o'clock Galen arrived with the minister, and Falcon had gone out to help the two of them push through the crowds blocking the door. Rev. McKee, already sweating and rumpled from his exertions, held his Bible high over his head as they propelled him past a knot of reporters and news photographers, all of whom were trying to get a shot of him as he hurtled along. Finally, they reached the office and slammed the door, shutting out some of the shouting outside.

Ellendor Robbins came out of her office and thanked the preacher for coming. She was calm, but paler than he had seen her since the day of her husband's burial. He thought she had lost some weight in the past few days, too. She was wearing the same brown dress she had worn for her husband's funeral, but now it gaped at the neck and hung loosely over her frame. She was frowning out the window at the milling crowd. “Vultures! You don't think they're fixing to storm the jail, do you?”

Roy laughed. “I reckon that sorry bunch would lynch anybody who tried to
stop
the hanging. They came to see a spectacle, and they won't be done out of it.”

Galen nodded. “It's better than the county fair. The people in those little houses between the gallows and the creek have rented out space on their porches. I reckon the sycamore tree limbs were free for the taking, though, for anybody who was spry enough to climb that high up.” He hauled himself out of the swivel chair and picked up the paper sack next to the desk. “Eleven o'clock. I'm going to take the prisoner his change of clothes now. Falcon, you come on back and keep me covered. Sheriff's orders.”

Rev. McKee started to follow them. “I should go back and see if he wants me to pray with him while there's time.”

The sheriff nodded. “
Outside
the cell, though, Reverend, please. Stand next to Deputy Wallace here. And, Galen, you come back when you're done getting him changed, but Falcon needs to stay with the prisoner until we're ready to begin. Understand? I'm taking no chances.”

Falcon's eyes widened when she said that, but he picked up the shotgun and led the procession back to the cells. The sheriff turned her attention back to the window. “The doctor's here.”

Roy opened the door wide enough to admit him and slammed it shut in the faces of two shouting reporters.

“This whole town has gone mad,” muttered the doctor. “I'll bet half of them don't even know what the man is being hanged for.”

Roy bolted the door. “Is everybody here now, Sheriff?”

“Yes. Everybody we're letting inside, anyhow. The commissioners, Mr. Lidaker, who built the gallows, and any other dignitaries who plan to attend will be waiting for us outside at the foot of the scaffold. They won't participate in the hanging itself, and they won't go up on the platform. There will be eight of us in the procession. I'll go first. Then Reverend McKee. Then the prisoner, followed by Deputies
Wallace and Madden . . .” She looked around the office. “Where is Tyree?”

Roy coughed nervously. “In the john, Sheriff. He's been in there most of the morning. I think I heard him being sick a time or two.”

The doctor stirred. “Should I go and have a look at him?”

“I think he'll be all right, sir, once he finishes getting the liquid courage out of his system.” Seeing the sheriff's look of surprise, Roy added, “It beats all, don't it? Tyree is the last one in the world I'd have expected to come down with a case of nerves over this hanging. My money would have been on young Falcon, but there it is.”

Ellendor Robbins shook her head. “Maybe Tyree has more imagination than we gave him credit for. I never thought he'd turn a hair at the prospect of an execution. Falcon and Tyree will follow directly behind the prisoner. He'll be manacled, so you'll all need to make sure he gets up the steps without a mishap. Catch him if he starts to fall. And you'd all better keep an eye on Tyree as well.”

The doctor frowned. “Am I in this parade of yours?”

“Yes, sir. Just after the first two deputies. You need to be on the platform in case anything goes wrong beforehand. After the trapdoor is released, you'll have several minutes to get down to the area beneath the scaffold so that you can check on the prisoner's vital signs and officially pronounce him dead.”

“Several minutes
.
”
The doctor spat out the words.

She sighed. “It can't be helped. We're following the law as best we can.” She glanced down at her notes. “After the doctor ascends the platform steps, Deputies Phillips and Aldridge will follow, both armed with shotguns. I don't anticipate any trouble from the crowd—expect maybe shoving in hopes of getting a closer look—but we have to be prepared for anything. They will guard the steps while Mr. Wallace and Mr. Madden are preparing the prisoner—adjusting the hood, tying his legs with rope instead of the iron shackles, and so on.”

Roy Phillips bit his lip and shuddered a little. “Do you have any idea how long all this is going to take, Sheriff?”

It was the doctor who answered. “Deputy, it will be the longest fifteen minutes of your life.”

Galen Aldridge came back from the cell corridor alone, carrying a rolled-up bit of paper. “The prisoner is dressed, Sheriff. That suit fits him pretty well. The preacher decided to stay back there and pray awhile longer, but Mr. Varden doesn't seem overjoyed to have him there. It'll prove a distraction, though. Falcon is standing guard, as ordered.” He handed the rolled-up paper to the sheriff. “The prisoner asked if you were coming back there, and I said I thought not, so he asked me to give you this. Said he stayed up most of the night to finish it.”

She unfolded the paper, setting an empty coffee mug on the end of it so that it would stay open. Roy took the other end and unfolded it slowly so that the sheriff could see the picture. Lonnie Varden had drawn portraits of the Robbins children, but his work was not an exact copy of the snapshot he had used as a guide. Instead of depicting the two little Robbins boys in their Sunday clothes, seated on a log, he had drawn only the head and bare shoulders of each child, but there were five images in all, both in profile and full face, one of them looking directly out at the observer, with a hint of wings here and there where the shoulders should be. The images were positioned opposite one another, looking off into the distance with gentle, angelic smiles. The likenesses of Eddie and George Robbins were excellent, idealized, but easily recognizable to anyone who knew them. They were the Robbins children as seen through the eyes of a loving mother. The composition of the portrait itself was even more recognizable, though not, perhaps, to the residents of a backwater mountain town. And what did it matter, anyhow? Lonnie Varden, even knowing that this small sketch was his last chance to make art, had copied Sir Joshua Reynolds's
A Cherub Head in Different Views
,
familiar to any student of art, even if he had not seen the original, which was in a museum in London.

Ellendor Robbins had not taken her eyes off the drawing. “It's beautiful. A perfect wonder.” Gently, she touched one finger to the charcoal-shaded cheek of the younger boy.

Galen nodded. “Like I said, it took him most of the night to finish it. They look like Christmas angels. I wonder what Eddie will think of it? Are you sure you don't want to go back there and see him, Sheriff?”

For a moment she hesitated, glancing back at the door to the cells. “It's best that I don't. I'll thank him when I see him, for he has given me a priceless gift here, but if I tried to see him now I might start to cry and that won't do. I mustn't show weakness.”

“Ain't it about time we got this show on the road?” Tyree Madden, red-faced and still far from sober, staggered out of the john, one hand on the holstered pistol at his side.

Galen and Sheriff Robbins exchanged glances. She nodded toward the coffeepot. “Get a cup of coffee down his sorry throat while the rest of us get ready. And see that he washes his face. Then get the rope, go out to the scaffold, and set it in place. Make sure it's well fastened to the crossbeam.” She turned to the other deputy. “Roy, please go back there and tell Reverend McKee to finish up with the prisoner. It's time for him to join us out here.”

She let the drawing roll up and glanced up at the clock. “It's quarter past eleven. I'll just go and put this in my office and get the hood to cover the prisoner's head. Let's begin in ten minutes. We'll assemble here and have the pastor say a prayer for all of us before we go out.”

Tyree put his fist to his mouth to cover a belch. “Are we the Christians or the lions?”

At eleven forty-five the door to the sheriff's office opened partway, and a great roar went up from the onlookers close enough to observe this. Their shouts alerted others that the ceremony was beginning, and the crowd left the main street in front of the office and surged through the grass and gravel alleyways between buildings in order to reach the back lot where the gallows stood. Some of the photographers stayed put beside the steps to the sheriff's office, hoping for one good close-up shot of the condemned man struggling in his shackles, and of the lady sheriff weeping into a lace handkerchief. They were to be disappointed, though: neither the prisoner nor his executioner showed any sign of emotion. They walked slowly, but without hesitation, ignoring the crowd, which parted to let them pass: first the sheriff, shorter than the rest, with her badge pinned neatly to the front of her brown dress. Behind her walked a spare, balding gentleman, obviously a clergyman, because, although he wore no dog collar, he was holding a Bible and murmuring to himself. The prisoner, stumbling a little in his leg irons, stared straight ahead, affecting not to notice the strangers shoving one another in hopes of getting a closer look at him. Their efforts to reach him were thwarted on either side by stone-faced lawmen carrying shotguns. The frowning, fair-haired man in the black suit who trailed them must be the physician, judging by the leather satchel he carried, and behind him two more deputies brought up the rear, preventing the spectators from closing in behind the procession. A three-minute walk, around the side of the building and down the gravel alleyway to the back street, and they had arrived at the foot of the scaffold.

The sheriff stopped for a moment, looking up at the newly built platform, still smelling of pine resin and sawdust. From the crossbeam erected at one end of the flooring hung a thick hemp rope, itself smelling faintly of lard. “You have to grease the rope,” one fellow was explaining to his neighbors, “and then tie it to a beam with a weight tied to the end of it, else the bulk of the hanged man will stretch the
rope during the execution, perhaps carrying the prisoner all the way to the ground below
.
” Someone else said, “It's a short rope, no danger of it stretching that much.”
No hope of a quick, clean death by a broken neck either.

Mrs. Robbins took a few steps forward to inspect the bottom of the platform. The supports of the structure were thick and well braced, and the trapdoor was bolted firmly in place. All was in readiness.

From the other side of the dusty lot someone waved to get her attention. She recognized Mr. Lidaker, the carpenter, respectfully attired in his Sunday suit, and she nodded an expressionless greeting. When he was sure she had seen him, he motioned toward the small flatbed truck containing the coffin, hastily constructed from scrap lumber left over from the building of the gallows. The sheriff's expression still did not change, but she nodded again, and then turned to mount the steps—thirteen of them, as required by tradition.

Reverend McKee waited until the sheriff reached the third step before following her on the ascent. His lips were moving, and he stared straight ahead, as if there were no crowd surrounding them. The roaring was so loud now that even if he had shouted his orisons, no one would have heard them.

Lonnie Varden mounted the steps slowly, and when the shouting grew louder, he shuddered a little and glanced about him. He stumbled once as the iron shackles caught on the edge of the step, but the tall young deputy just behind him lifted the chain above the step and watched for the rest of the climb to make sure it did not catch again.

The doctor who followed the first two deputies stopped halfway up the steps to survey the bawling spectators with a look of utter scorn. They paid him no mind, though, and with a sigh of disgust he made his way up to the platform.

The last two lawmen, shotguns in hand, barrels pointed at the ground, went up one after the other, with the last—a scowling banty
rooster of a fellow—undertaking to ascend the steps backward so that he could face the crowd, in case someone tried to storm the steps. For a lark a drunken spectator pretended to head for the steps, but the last deputy brought up the barrel of his gun and motioned with it for the man to back off. The joker staggered away, shaking his head at the ferocious response to his jest, and by then the participants were all assembled on the platform, so the crowd quieted down, captivated by the drama before them.