Warren Murphy: Created, The Destroyer

"Do you want to be saved, my son?" he asked. It was rather loud for such a personal question.

"Sure," Remo said. "Who doesn't?"

"Good. Do you know how to examine your conscience, make an act of contrition?"

"Vaguely, Father. I..."

"I know, my son. God will help you."

"Yeah," Remo said without enthusiasm. If he got this over fast, maybe there'd be time for another cigarette.

"What are your sins?"

"I really don't know."

"We can start with violation of the Lord's commandment not to kill.".

"I've not killed."

"How many men?"

"Including Vietnam?"

"No, Vietnam doesn't count."

"That wasn't killing, huh?"

"In war, killing is not a mortal sin."

"How about peace, when the State says you did, but you didn't? How about that?"

"Are you talking about your conviction?"

"Yes." Remo stared at his knees. This might go on all night.

"Well, in that case..."

"All right, Father. I confess it. I killed the man," Remo lied. His trousers, fresh gray twill, hadn't even had a chance to get worn at the knees.

Remo noticed that the monk's cowl was perfectly clean, spotlessly new too. Was that a smile on his face?

"Coveted anyone's property?"

"No."

"Stolen?"

"No."

"Impure actions?"

"Sex?"

"Yes."

"Sure. In thought and deed."

"How many times?"

Remo almost attempted an estimate. "I don't know. Enough."

The monk nodded. "Blasphemy, anger, pride, jealousy, gluttony?"

"No," Remo said, rather loudly.

The monk leaned forward. Remo could see tobacco stains on his teeth. The light subtle smell of expensive aftershave lotion wafted into his nostrils. The monk whispered: "You're a goddam liar."

Remo jumped back. His legs hit the floor. His hands moved up almost as if to ward off a blow. The priest remained leaning forward, motionless. And he was grinning. The priest was grinning. The guards couldn't see it because of the cowl, but Remo could. The state was playing its final joke on him: a tobacco-stained, grinning, swearing monk.

"Shhh," said the brown-robed man.

"You're no priest," Remo said.

"And you're not Dick Tracy. Keep your voice down. You want to save your soul or your ass?"

Remo stared at the crucifix, the silver Christ on the black cross and the black button at the feet.

A black button?

"Listen. We don't have much time," the man in the robe said. "You want to live?"

The word seemed to float from Remo's soul. "Sure."

"Get on your knees."

Remo went to the floor in one smooth motion. The cot level was at his chest, his chin before the robe's angular folds that indicated knees.

The crucifix came toward his head. He looked up at the silvery feet pierced by a silver nail. The man's hand was around Christ's gut.

"Pretend to kiss the feet. Yes. Closer. There's a black pill. Ease it off with your teeth. Go ahead, but don't bite into it."

Remo opened his mouth and closed his teeth around the black button beneath the silver feet. He saw the robes swirl as the man got up to block the guard's view. The pill came off. It was hard, probably plastic.

"Don't break the shell. Don't break the shell," the man hissed. "Stick it in the corner of your mouth. When they strap the helmet around your head so you can't move, bite into the pill hard and swallow the whole thing. Not before. Do you hear?"

Remo held the pill on his tongue. The man was no longer smiling.

Remo glared at him. Why were all the big decisions in his life forced on him when he didn't have time to think? He tongued the pill. Poison? No point in that. Spit it out? Then what?

Nothing to lose. Lose? He wasn't winning. Remo tried to taste the pill without letting it touch his teeth. No taste. The monk hovered over him. Remo nestled the pill under his tongue and said a very fast and very sincere prayer. "Okay," he said.

"Time's up," the guard's voice boomed.

"God bless you my son," the monk said loudly, making the sign of the cross with the crucifix. Then, in a whisper, "See you later."

He padded from the cell, his head bowed, the crucifix before him and his left hand flinting steel. Steel? It was a hook.

Remo placed his right hand on the cot and got to his feet. The saliva seemed to gush into his mouth. He wanted to swallow bad. Hold down the pill. Under the tongue. Right where it is. Okay, now swallow... carefully.

"All right, Remo," the guard said. "Time to go."

The cell door was open, with one guard on each side. A large, blond man and the regular prison chaplain waited in the center of Death Row. The monk was gone. Remo swallowed once more, very carefully, clamped his tongue down over the pill and walked out to meet them.

CHAPTER FOUR

Harold Haines didn't like it. Four executions in seven years, and all of a sudden, the state had to send in electricians to monkey with the power box.

"A routine check," they had said. "You haven't used it for three years. We just want to make sure it'll work."

And now, it just didn't sound right. Haines' pale face tilted toward the head-high gray regulator panel as he turned a rheostat. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced momentarily at the glass partition separating the control room from the chair room.

The generators moaned uphill to full strength. The harsh yellow lights dimmed slightly as the electricity drained into the chair room.

Haines shook his head and turned the juice back down. The generators resumed their low, malevolent hum, but just didn't sound right. Nothing was right about this execution. Was it the three-year layoff?

Haines adjusted his gray cotton uniform, starched to almost painful creases. This one was a cop. So Williams was a cop. So what?

Haines had seen four go in his chair and Williams would be his fifth. He'd sit in the chair too petrified to speak or move his bowels and then he'd look around. The brave ones did that, the ones who weren't afraid to open their eyes.

And Harold Haines would let him wait. He'd delay turning up the voltage until the warden looked angrily toward the control room. And then Harold Haines would help Williams by killing him.

"Something the matter?" came a voice.

Haines spun suddenly around as though a teacher had caught him playing with himself in the boys' room.

A short dark-haired man in a black suit, carrying a gray metallic attache case, was standing beside the control panel.

"Something the matter?" the man repeated softly. "You look sort of excited. Flushed in the face."

"No," Haines snapped. "Who are you and what do you want here?"

The man smiled slightly, but did not move at the sharp question.

"The warden's office told you I was coming."

Haines nodded quickly. "Yeah, that's right, they did." He turned back to the control board to make the final check. "He'll be here in a minute," Haines said, glancing at the voltmeter. "It's not much of a view from where we are, but if you go to the glass partition, you can see fine."

"Thank you," the dark-haired man said, but made no move. He waited until Haines involved himself with his toys of death, then examined the steel rivets at the base of the generator cover. He counted to himself: "One, two, three, four... there it is."

He carefully set the attaché case at the base of the panel where it touched the fifth rivet in the row. The rivet was brighter than the others, and for a good reason. It was not steel but magnesium.

The man glanced casually around the room, Haines, the ceiling, the glass, and when he seemed to be focussing on the death chair, his right leg imperceptibly pressed the attaché case against the fifth rivet, which moved an eighth of an inch.

There was a faint click. The man moved away from the panel toward the glass partition.

Haines had not heard the click. He glanced up from the dials on the board. "You from the state?" he asked.