Bradley Denton - Blackburn

Blackburn tried to pull the gun away. "No," he said. "You don't deserve to die."

Morton was stronger than he looked. He held Blackburn's hand and pistol tight against his chest. "The beggar died and was carried by the angels into Abraham's bosom," he said. "The rich man also died, and fried like a sliced 'tater. Pull the trigger, asshole."

"Drop the weapon now!" a man in the circle bellowed. "If it moves any way but down, I'll blow your brains out!"

"It'll be all right, Morton," Dr. Norris cooed.

Blackburn decided that the question of whether Morton deserved to die wasn't the question he should be asking.

"Are you sure?" he whispered.

Morton nodded. "Verily, I say unto thee: Let's do it."

Blackburn pulled the trigger. The noise was a loud thump.

The men in the circle fell silent, unsure of what they had heard.

Morton closed his eyes and smiled. Blackburn lowered him to the ground.

"Let us go over unto the other side of the lake, Jimmy," Morton murmured. "We gonna catch us a whopper."

Then something hit Blackburn in the head, and he fell. A man with a rifle stood over him, tall as a tree. Others appeared beside him.

"I said drop the gun," the man with the rifle said.

Blackburn considered killing him and decided not to. The man's voice held no cruelty, only a resigned determination to do his job. That wasn't worth a bullet.

He let his fingers relax. The Python was taken away, and then the men jerked him to his feet.

"I know you now," the cop who had scowled said. "You're Jimmy Blackburn."

Blackburn looked down at Morton, and at the red spot on the white gown. Morton wasn't breathing. Even though Blackburn had not been able to make it a head shot, Morton had died fast.

"Yes," Blackburn said. "But I never told him my name, and he called me by it anyway. He said we'd go fishing."

He looked up at the angry faces, lit by white and yellow flashlight beams and orange flickers from the dying fire. He had to let them know what had really happened this night in the wilderness of Palestine.

"Truly," he said, "this was the Son of God." He looked down at Morton again. The smile was still there. "I shit you not."

Jasmine came to see him in February. Blackburn was surprised. She hadn't written to tell him she was coming. He almost said that he wouldn't see her, but then decided it would be worth it to get out of his cell for the walk to the visitation area. Ever since he had been reclassified from "death row work capable" to "death row segregation," his legs had been stiff.

"Jimmy. Hi." Jasmine was wearing a dark blouse, and her hair was cut just above her shoulders. She sat with her shoulders hunched, as if afraid of being hit. She looked more like Mom than ever.

Blackburn sat down. He hadn't been here before. A Plexiglas panel and a metal grating were set into the wall, and there were wide counters on both sides. Brother and sister were six feet apart. Blackburn didn't mind. He wouldn't have wanted to be closer.

"Hi," he said. "Welcome to Ellis Unit."

Jasmine frowned. "Is it bad?"

Blackburn tried not to laugh. He didn't want to insult her. But he couldn't help smiling.

"I'm sorry," Jasmine said.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for," Blackburn said. "Did you come all the way from Seattle?"

"I'm in Spokane now. I'm a C.P.A."

"Doing okay?"

"Not bad. I make enough."

"I'm glad. You didn't have to spend it to come here, though. But as long as you did, you ought to hit the Huntsville tourist attractions."

Jasmine's eyebrows rose. "I didn't know there were any."

"You bet," Blackburn said. "I haven't seen them myself, but I've read about them in the library. I recommend the Texas Prison Museum, featuring balls and chains, Bonnie and Clyde's rifles, and best of all, 'Old Sparky.' "

"What's that?" Jasmine asked.

"The Texas State Electric Chair, now retired in favor of a more energy-efficient method. But beloved nonetheless."

Jasmine looked down at the counter. "I don't want to talk about this."

"I'm not talking about it," Blackburn said.

Jasmine looked up. She was angry. "Yes, you are."

She was right. Blackburn didn't have any business bothering her with it. But on the other hand, he hadn't asked her to come.

"You had to know it'd be on my mind," he said.

Jasmine was quiet for a long moment. "Yes," she said then. "But there's nothing I can do. So I was hoping we could talk about other things."

"Like what?"

"Well, I thought you might want to hear about Mom. And Dad."

Blackburn supposed that made sense on her side of the wall. "Okay. How's Mom?"

"She got married at Thanksgiving. Her husband's name is Gary. He worked at a cannery for thirty years, but he's retired now."

"That's nice," Blackburn said. "How about you? Married?"

"No."

"Shacking up?"

Jasmine reddened.

"Take precautions," Blackburn said.

Jasmine laughed. Her eyes looked moist.

"I'm not kidding," Blackburn said.

Jasmine put a black purse on the counter and took a tissue from it. She wiped her eyes. "I know you're not," she said. "That's not why I'm laughing. I'm laughing so I don't cry."

"I don't get it."

"I wouldn't expect you to."

Blackburn decided he was glad she had come. He and Jasmine understood each other.

"All right," he said. "So what about the old man?"

Jasmine crumpled the tissue. "He passed away in September."

"He lasted that long?"

Jasmine nodded. "He got better for almost two years. Then he went downhill fast. I had him at my place in Spokane when it happened. He was watching the cable news, and they were talking about you pleading guilty, but I don't think that's what did it. He just sort of dozed off. He was on a lot of painkillers by then, so I don't think he hurt much."

Blackburn sighed. It figured. Those who caused the most pain almost never suffered any themselves. But maybe that meant Blackburn could hope for an easy death of his own. "What are you going to do with the homestead?"

"Sell it," Jasmine said. "I certainly don't want it, and you-" She cut herself off. She looked scared.

"It's okay," Blackburn said. "I don't mind. All I mind is that it's taking so long."

Jasmine shook her head. "I don't understand why you don't fight it," she said. Her voice quavered. "You're the last person I'd expect to give up."

"I'm not giving up," Blackburn said. "I'm accepting reality. It's going to happen, so it might as well be soon." He gestured at the walls. "This place is no fun. For example, I was converting all the work-capable Jesus freaks to Mortonism, so the chaplain had me reclassified. Now I only get three hours a day out of my cell, five days a week. And the cell's six by nine, most of which is bed and toilet." He stood. "I'm upsetting you. I should go."

"Don't," Jasmine said. "We have time left."

"You should spend yours in Spokane." Blackburn turned and nodded to the guard.

"I love you, Jimmy," Jasmine said.

Blackburn couldn't imagine how that could be true. But he had never known Jasmine to lie. He looked back at her and said, "Thanks." Then he returned to his cell.

A week later, an attorney he didn't know came to see him. The attorney sat in the same chair in which Jasmine had sat. He looked miserable.

Blackburn took that as a good sign. "What's the word?" he asked.

The attorney, a man only a few years older than Blackburn, adjusted his crooked wire-framed glasses, making them more crooked. "I have a ruling from the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals," he said. "They upheld your sentence. I'm afraid where the murder of a Texas peace officer is concerned, the court has little compassion for the accused."