Джон Гришэм - The Chamber

Where are the clothes, the blue prison pants and white tee shirt? Get them. Enter the chamber. Dress the corpse. No shoes are necessary. No socks. Hell, he’s just going to the funeral home. Let the family worry about dressing him for a decent burial. Now the stretcher. Get him out of there. Into the ambulance.

Adam was near a lake somewhere, over a bridge, through a bottom, the air suddenly damp and cool. Lost again.

The first glint of sunrise was a pink halo over a hill above Clanton. It strained through the trees, and was soon turning to yellow, then to orange. There were no clouds, nothing but brilliant colors against the dark sky.

There were two unopened beers sitting in the grass. Three empty cans had been tossed against a nearby headstone. The first empty can was still in the car.

The dawn was breaking. Shadows fell toward him from the rows of other gravestones. The sun itself was soon peeking at him from behind the trees.

He’d been there for a couple of hours, though he’d lost track of time. Jackson and Judge Slattery and Monday’s hearing were years ago. Sam had died minutes ago. Or was he dead? Had they already done their dirty act? Time was still playing games.

He hadn’t found a motel, not that he’d looked very hard. He’d found himself near Clanton, then was drawn here where he’d located the headstone of Anna Gates Cayhall. Now he rested against it. He’d drunk the warm beer and thrown the cans at the largest monument within range. If the cops found him here and took him to jail, he wouldn’t care. He’d been in a cell before. “Yeah, just got out of Parchman,” he’d tell his cell mates, his rap partners. “Just walked out of death row.” And they’d leave him alone.

Evidently, the cops were occupied elsewhere. The graveyard was secure. Four little red flags had been staked out next to his grandmother’s plot. Adam noticed them as the sun rose to the east. Another grave to be dug.

A car door closed somewhere behind him, but he didn’t hear it. A figure walked toward him, but he didn’t know it. It moved slowly, searching the cemetery, cautiously looking for something.

The snapping of a twig startled Adam. Lee was standing beside him, her hand on her mother’s headstone. He looked at her, then looked away.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, too numb to be surprised.

She gently lowered herself first to her knees, then she sat very close to him, her back pressed to her mother’s engraved name. She wrapped her arm around his elbow.

“Where the hell have you been, Lee?”

“In treatment.”

“You could’ve called, dammit.”

“Don’t be angry, Adam, please. I need a friend.” She leaned her head on his shoulder.

“I’m not sure I’m your friend, Lee. What you did was terrible.”

“He wanted to see me, didn’t he?”

“He did. You, of course, were lost in your own little world, self-absorbed as usual. No thought given to others.”

“Please, Adam, I’ve been in treatment. You know how weak I am. I need help.”

“Then get it.”

She noticed the two cans of beer, and Adam quickly tossed them away. “I’m not drinking,” she said, pitifully. Her voice was sad and hollow. Her pretty face was tired and wrinkled.

“I tried to see him,” she said.

“When?”

“Last night. I drove to Parchman. They wouldn’t let me in. Said it was too late.”

Adam lowered his head and softened considerably. He would accomplish nothing by cursing her. She was an alcoholic, struggling to overcome demons he hoped he would never meet. And she was his aunt, his beloved Lee. “He asked about you at the very end. He asked me to tell you he loved you, and that he wasn’t angry because you didn’t come see him.”

She started crying very quietly. She wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands, and cried for a long time.

“He went out with a great deal of courage and dignity,” Adam said. “He was very brave. He said his heart was right with God, and that he hated no one. He was terribly remorseful for the things he’d done. He was a champ, Lee, an old fighter who was ready to move on.”

“You know where I’ve been?” she asked between sniffles, as if she’d heard nothing he said.

“No. Where?”

“I’ve been to the old home place. I drove there from Parchman last night.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to burn it. And it burned beautifully. The house and the weeds around it. One huge fire. All up in smoke.”

“Come on, Lee.”

“It’s true. I almost got caught, I think. I might’ve passed a car on the way out. I’m not worried, though. I bought the place last week. Paid thirteen thousand dollars to the bank. If you own it, then you can burn it, right? You’re the lawyer.”

“Are you serious?”

“Go look for yourself. I parked in front of a church a mile away to wait for the fire trucks. They never came. The nearest house is two miles away. No one saw the fire. Drive out and take a look. There’s nothing left but the chimney and a pile of ashes.”

“How—”

“Gasoline. Here, smell my hands.” She shoved them under his nose. They bore the acrid, undeniable smell of gasoline.

“But why?”

“I should’ve done it years ago.”

“That doesn’t answer the question. Why?”

“Evil things happened there. It was filled with demons and spirits. Now they’re gone.”

“So they died with Sam?”

“No, they’re not dead. They’ve gone off to haunt someone else.”

It would be pointless to pursue this discussion, Adam decided quickly. They should leave, maybe return to Memphis where he could get her back into recovery. And maybe therapy. He would stay with her and make sure she got help.

A dirty pickup truck entered the cemetery through the iron gates of the old section, and puttered slowly along the concrete path through the ancient monuments. It stopped at a small utility shed in a corner of the lot. Three black men slowly scooted out and stretched their backs.

“That’s Herman,” she said.

“Who?”

“Herman. Don’t know his last name. He’s been digging graves here for forty years.”

They watched Herman and the other two across the valley of tombstones. They could barely hear their voices as the men deliberately went about their preparations.

Lee stopped the sniffling and crying. The sun was well above the treeline, its rays hitting directly in their faces. It was already warm. “I’m glad you came,” she said. “I know it meant a lot to him.”

“I lost, Lee. I failed my client, and now he’s dead.”

“You tried your best. No one could save him.”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t punish yourself. Your first night in Memphis, you told me it was a long shot. You came close. You put up a good fight. Now it’s time to go back to Chicago and get on with the rest of your life.”

“I’m not going back to Chicago.”

“What?”

“I’m changing jobs.”

“But you’ve only been a lawyer for a year.”

“I’ll still be a lawyer. Just a different kind of practice.”

“Doing what?”

“Death penalty litigation.”

“That sounds dreadful.”

“Yes, it does. Especially at this moment in my life. But I’ll grow into it. I’m not cut out for the big firms.”

“Where will you practice?”

“Jackson. I’ll be spending more time at Parchman.”

She rubbed her face and pulled back her hair. “I guess you know what you’re doing,” she said, unable to hide the doubt.

“Don’t bet on it.”

Herman was walking around a battered yellow backhoe parked under a shade tree next to the shed. He studied it thoughtfully while another man placed two shovels in its bucket. They stretched again, laughed about something, and kicked the front tires.