Shame (35 page)

“It’s probably not my place to ask, but...”

“Yes?”

“I was curious about my father’s death. Your book was personal in so many ways, and yet when it came to describing his execution your writing was very...”

Elizabeth found the word for him: “Mechanical.”

“Yes.”

She had her pat answers; that the book was about the living Gray Parker; that death speaks for itself; that she hadn’t wanted to be a ghoul; but those were lies.

“I have to make an admission: I had a great deal of trouble writing about your father’s death. That’s something no one knows except my editor.”

Elizabeth continued haltingly. “Your father all but asked the world to do away with him. He was the one who called up the police and said, ‘Here I am.’ And he was the one who streamlined the legal process to expedite his death, doing his best to handcuff his own defense lawyers. At the same time, though, he had what I would have to call a love of life. Ironic, isn’t it, that he could kill so callously and yet love life. And so I kept trying to dig for answers. In the end, it was hard digging.”

“I see.”

Elizabeth shook her head, frustrated with herself and her answer. I’m lying again, she thought. She expected Caleb to be honest with her, and yet she wasn’t willing to reciprocate. Shame syndrome. They were both expert at avoiding their pasts.

“That’s not really it, though,” she said. “I tried writing about his death as I experienced it, but it tore at me too much. I tried and tried and tried. And what I finally did write my editor didn’t like. She said it wouldn’t play in Peoria.”

“What wouldn’t?”

“My thoughts on his death. She said they were too sympathetic. She reminded me over and over that this was a man virtually everyone wanted to see dead. Final justice was what the country wanted, both in person and in print. She told me my observations were
disjointed and emotional
. I remember how
harsh those words seemed. She said my objectivity was lacking. But what she objected to most was the elephant.”

“The elephant?”

“The elephant that kept trumpeting in my head. Not an angel of death, but an elephant. I wrote how in your father’s final hours on this earth I kept imagining this elephant’s agonized cries as I watched everyone getting ready to kill him. My editor thought it read like Sylvia Plath meets James Joyce, when what it should have been was Truman Capote meets Norman Mailer.”

Elizabeth shivered and was glad Caleb wasn’t there to see that.

“Your father invited me to watch him die. That’s not the kind of invitation you get every day. I was ambivalent about going, but my publisher insisted.

“I arrived early and spent that time walking outside the prison, nerving myself up before going inside. Around me it felt as if a pep rally were going on, not a death watch. I made my way through the crowd. Most who were there were young, loud, and drunk. There were vendors selling buttons, T-shirts, and Shame voodoo dolls. There was even a disc jockey broadcasting live. Every hour on the hour he threw eggs and bacon on a hot pan and then played the sizzling sounds over loudspeakers. That was always good for deafening cheers. The countdown to death was like waiting for the ball to drop on New Year’s Eve. But the music, the crowds, even the cheers were just background noise to me. What I kept hearing was that elephant trumpeting.

“I know the reason for it. There’s a logical explanation. There always is. While researching capital punishment I discovered that Thomas Edison was one of those who had worked on building a better fatal mousetrap.”

“Edison?”

“It surprised me, too. I always thought of Edison as this dedicated scientist who tirelessly worked for the sake of scientific
inquiry. I remember in school I had this teacher who always used to quote Edison to motivate us. I can still hear her now: ‘Genius is ninety-nine percent perspiration, and one percent inspiration.’ But I learned about Edison’s strange sideline show. He paid the children around his Menlo Park neighborhood a quarter each for every stray dog and cat they could round up. Thirty pieces would have been more appropriate. Those were animals earmarked for death. They were paraded about in much-publicized shows. Then Edison’s assistants forced them out onto a sheet of tin where they met their deaths from the high voltage of an alternating generator.

“Of course, Edison had a reason for those spectacles. He and George Westinghouse were vying to get acceptance of their electrical currents. Edison wanted to show everyone that Westinghouse’s AC current was much more dangerous than his DC current, so he went around electrocuting animals with AC current. Edison also said he wanted to provide a more humane way for people to die. But isn’t it strange how ostensibly noble motives can bring about such ignoble results?

“Edison’s experiments weren’t done quietly. On film, he proposed a unique experiment to the nation—the electrocution of an elephant. The three-ton challenge, right? I got to see an old movie clip, the same clip that filmgoers throughout the nation saw. It demonstrated the result of Edison’s so-called experiment. A full-grown African elephant was led out to an iron grid, and the killing switch was flipped.

“In death, the elephant screamed. Its feet smoked and its trunk writhed and twisted. When the animal toppled over, its flesh stuck to the iron grid.”

Caleb could hear her unsteady breathing over the line. It was his turn to be the calming voice. “Where was the one percent inspiration in that?” he quietly asked.

“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “Where was it?”

“You don’t need to tell me any more.”

“Yes, I do,” she said. “I know it sounds crazy. I suppose the elephant was just some kind of defense mechanism my mind came up with, something to divert me from all the horror at hand. I had all these conflicting emotions. I saw Mr. and Mrs. Krulak, Tracy’s parents, for the first time since her funeral. I remembered how Mrs. Krulak had always sent Tracy care packages, packages meant to be shared with us. I felt guilty seeing them, felt the guilt that survivors feel, and wondered why I had been spared and Tracy hadn’t. And I saw others I had interviewed for the book. There were thirty of us altogether, twelve official witnesses, twelve from the news media, and six staff members. We were crowded together in the witness area. It was such a strange gathering, all of us there to watch a man die.

“Your father was brought into the room wearing a black rubber mask. I remember being grateful for that. I didn’t want to see his expression as he died. And yet, even with that mask he wasn’t anonymous. He sought me out among those in the gallery. He nodded at me, and I nodded back. I think there was some hissing among the gallery at our signaling—there wasn’t much sympathy for your father in that room—but I can’t be sure. The elephant was trumpeting nonstop then. It made it hard for me to hear, hard for me to focus on things in a linear fashion.

“I remember how time slowed down for me in his last moments. In my mind, everything is so defined. Even with the din in my head I remember the expressions on the faces around me. Even now, I can still picture everything and everyone. But the sounds come back whenever I think about it. Everything intermixes. Death and trumpets.

“The electrodes were attached to your father’s head and leg. All that remained was for him to ride the lightning. I stopped watching your father immediately after the first two thousand volts were administered. I listened, mostly. Around me I heard gasps and prayers and sounds that weren’t words. A few of the
men cursed your father, as if dying weren’t enough. And for just a little while the elephant kept trumpeting and trumpeting.

“And then I heard nothing, nothing at all, and that was the worst sound of all.”

There was an unwilling tremor in Elizabeth’s voice as she finished. This time she was the one who was angry at showing a side of herself she always kept concealed.

“I wish your editor had let you write that chapter just the way you described it,” Caleb said.

“Even if she had, I wouldn’t have been satisfied. I’ve always had this feeling that the last chapter was yet to be written. Something always nagged at me, always told me that there was more there, but I never found it.”

E
LIZABETH TOOK THE
stairs up to the second floor of the Amity Inn. I need the exercise, she told herself. But even more than that, she didn’t want to have to worry about sharing the closed space of an elevator with a stranger. Since the attack, her unease had grown, not lessened. Even walking up the stairwell made her apprehensive. It wasn’t an open stairway but an enclosed tower. She hurried up the steps.

Being attacked and knowing she was a target had forced her to rethink her standard precautions. Though she was working under an assumed name, it wasn’t a new one. She had kept her current half dozen aliases for at least three years. It was time to get some new IDs, time to switch her routines around.

Elizabeth exited the stairwell on the second floor. The inn was midday quiet. Even the pool was deserted. She started forward along the walkway, her footsteps loud and hurried. Maybe I should get a bodyguard, Elizabeth thought, at least for a few days. The idea didn’t sit very well with her. She didn’t like being dependent on anyone.

Just ahead of her a door opened, and a man backed out carrying two large suitcases. Heavy suitcases, judging by the way he was straining to lift them. She couldn’t understand people who didn’t have wheels on the bottom of their luggage. Maybe it
was a male thing. Maybe it was also a male thing to try to carry too much luggage in one trip, as he was doing. He put down his bags and reached for two hanging bags that were draped over the railing. With all the luggage in her way, Elizabeth couldn’t pass. “Excuse me,” she said.

The man suddenly straightened, apparently surprised by her voice. As he turned toward her, the thought struck Elizabeth: it’s late to be checking out. Her realization came an instant too late.

His blow caught her on the side of the head. As she was falling he grabbed her by the hair, then pulled her head toward him. He covered her mouth and nose with a wet rag that reeked of some chemical. Elizabeth stopped breathing. She shook her head violently, trying to pull her face clear of the rag.

His grip tightened, and he started to drag her into his room. With her mouth covered she couldn’t scream, but she bucked and kicked. It was broad daylight. Someone had to see what was going on. But he had picked the perfect spot to ambush her, had used the stairwell tower, his shoulder bags, and the right angle of the walkway effectively to block his assault from anyone’s view.

With a vicious yank, she landed in his room. He kicked the door closed behind them. Elizabeth again tried to shake her head clear of his hand, but he pressed it all the tighter against her face.

Don’t breathe.

With his mouth next to her head, he spoke, his breath hot on her face. “Before being led to the gas chamber, Robert H. White was asked if he had any last wishes, and you know what he said? ‘Yes. A gas mask.’”

Elizabeth tried to butt him with her head but succeeded only in bumping his chest. She was already lightheaded and began to see stars.

Don’t breathe.

Elizabeth tried falling forward, but he held on. Her lungs were burning.

Don’t breathe.

She tried to flail, to make some kind of noise, tried pounding the flooring with her feet, but the carpeting was too damn thick.

“Still with us?” he asked. “This one’s my favorite. Tommy Grasso wasn’t happy with his last meal. While being led off to his death he said, ‘I did not get my SpaghettiOs. I got spaghetti. I want the press to know this.’”

He started laughing, and Elizabeth tried to buck him off of her, but even she knew the attempt was feeble. Without oxygen, her limbs couldn’t respond. She couldn’t bite, couldn’t knee, couldn’t scratch. All she could do was pray, and even that took air.

Don’t...

She took a breath. Still, her lungs burned for more oxygen. Everything started growing fuzzy. In her mind’s eye, Elizabeth saw her own picture. She had become part of that terrible collage, part of the scene of the scream.

Elizabeth took another breath and blessedly lost consciousness.

Feral lay on a chaise longue at the side of the pool. Predators, he knew, liked to wait in ambush around some watering hole.

The last light of day was giving way to darkness. His time. Feral stretched. He could feel the anticipation. He raised himself from the chaise and put aside the magazine he’d been pretending to read.

Four people were in the spa. Boiling away. Fools. Feral didn’t like making a lobster of himself. There was only one other adult in the vicinity, a man in the pool, a type A assiduously doing his laps.

And there were the two children.

“Marco,” yelled James.

“Polo,” yelled Janet.

James lunged, swimming furiously in the direction of her voice, but just as quickly Janet was swimming away, evading him.

Feral stretched, then dove into the pool.

“Marco,” yelled James.

“Polo,” said Janet.

“Polo,” said Feral.

For a moment James hesitated. The man’s voice was very near to him. And he’d been “it” for a long time.