“It’s chicken. ‘Pic-cat-it-all’ you want.”
Samuel didn’t bother arguing. A whole lotta good it would do him.
Arguing hadn’t helped him up till now.
He had no sooner picked up the four iron when the police broke through the door.
It only got worse from there.
First off, Darleen wasn’t going to be much help. She was lying in a pool of blood in the living room, and definitely dead.
Secondly, the club had blood and other gooey stuff all over it that made his stomach churn. Of course, he didn’t notice that until the cops had their guns pointed at him.
Third, and worst of all, it was absolutely his four iron, right outta his golf bag where it stayed unused because he couldn’t hit it for shit.
Unfortunately, this didn’t mean a thing to the officers. Their grim expressions and tight grips on their service revolvers made it clear they thought he’d whacked his wife with it. And they were going to penalize him for taking extra strokes.
Never mind that Samuel didn’t do it. He could protest till he was blue in the face. It didn’t matter.
As far as the cops were concerned, it was open and shut. Only a matter of time till they heard about the fight.
Samuel would be crazy to try and explain.
So, he did something stupider.
He ran.
Considering Old Sparky was now just around the corner of the (not so) Long Mile up ahead, running hadn’t been such a fabulous idea.
Samuel had ended up trapped in the back room of a paint store down the block for the better part of a day. By the time the cops hauled him away, he had practically asphyxiated from constant exposure to acrylic fumes, and was dying of hunger. He emerged in handcuffs to find his neighbors banded together like a mob hunting Dr. Frankenstein’s namesake, calling for his head on a stick and for his body to be burned at the stake.
As the guard who had served him the wrong chicken escorted him down the corridor, Samuel wondered if he hadn’t protested enough. He had been run through the justice system faster than a bullet train; charged, tried, and sentenced by a jury that came back so quick that he wondered if they were double-parked outside the courthouse. He fired his lawyer but then couldn’t find one who would take his appeal.
The Iron Killer.
Some local TV asshole had called him that and it stuck.
Everyone saw it the same way.
Man has knock-down drag-out fight in restaurant with wife; she’s dead three hours later, her skull crushed by his four-iron. Same man found by cops standing over her with said murder weapon.
The only thing he didn’t do was sign the scorecard.
Samuel got public opinion.
But he also knew the truth. He was innocent. He didn’t do it. He’d swear that until his dying day.
The only problem was in a few more steps, that day was here.
Boxers or briefs?
Wasn’t that the stupid question that nosy talk-show hosts asked celebrities, trying to unravel the world’s greatest conspiracy?
Samuel had never paid any attention to their responses.
But one thing he did know.
His marriage had crumbled over it.
One pair of measly, skimpy, damned Jockey briefs found amongst a ton of laundry in a hamper. Samuel had been searching for his favorite green T-shirt when he came across the offensive (to the eye and heart) scarlet pair of men’s briefs.
He had stared at them in disbelief—his brain assaulted by a flood of memories, none good. He knew the last pair of Jockey briefs he’d owned had been pre-puberty, and those had been white and way too confining. He’d played a ton of sports and had spent too much time in cups and jockstraps, so when his mother had taken him shopping for the new school year, he had leapt at the opportunity to buy a three-pack of boxer shorts. He never looked back—and certainly wouldn’t have owned, let alone worn, a pair of briefs as garish as these.
The other memories were much more recent and disturbing. Missed dinners on Darleen’s part; excuses about why she couldn’t meet him; late meetings at the bowling alley she ran. Samuel fumed. He’d thought it strange at the time. What the hell was there to discuss about bowling alley operations? You set up the pins, tossed the ball down the frikkin’ alley, and wore weird shoes. End of story.
No doubt about it; Darleen was having an affair. Seeing someone who wore bright red Speedo-type underwear! In his own damn house.
By the time Samuel found his green T-shirt, got in the car, and raced downtown to the restaurant where he was meeting Darleen, he’d run five stoplights and run his blood pressure up thirty points.
He found her at the bar, laughing it up with Samuel’s brother and his date, who they were meeting for dinner. But they never made it to the table. Samuel ordered a double-malt Scotch and pounded it back like apple juice, and then another straightaway. Darleen made the mistake of asking what had gotten into him.
“Maybe you should be telling me who got into these?” barked Samuel.
He gulped down the second Scotch with one hand, and used the other to pull the scarlet briefs from a pocket with a flourish that would do a magician proud.
His brother and date burst out laughing. Which only fueled Samuel’s temper. Darleen ordered him to put “those” away while turning shades of color that matched the flailing underwear.
“Not before you tell me what they were doing in our house!”
“Later,” responded Darleen, lowering her voice in the way one does when they are so embarrassed they’d rather be anywhere else. “We’ll talk about it later.”
“No,” said Samuel. “I think we should talk about it right now.”
Things went quickly to shit after that. Darleen broke out crying. His brother’s date ended up escorting her from the restaurant. Samuel ordered another round of drinks; his brother tried to keep up with him.
For a bit.
Finally, his brother and the bartender took Samuel’s keys. His brother told him to sleep it off, and made the barkeep promise to put Samuel in a cab.
The bartender did exactly that, a couple of hours later.
That’s when Samuel arrived home around two in the morning and got reacquainted with his four iron for the first time since hitting a ball out of bounds on the fourteenth with it three months earlier.
Talk about wishing he had a mulligan.
He knew he should have thrown the golf bag in the lake that day.
Fucking game.
Maybe none of this would’ve happened.
But, then he realized the killer would have used whatever blunt object had been available on Darleen. There were plenty of things in the house to club her over the head with.
It was thoughts like these that had occupied his aching head for the past few months. Now that his head had been completely shaved, his blond hair put in a plastic bag that some asshole probably swiped from the trash to sell on eBay.
The Iron Killer’s Golden Tresses—Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow.
Except he wasn’t the killer.
He had told anyone who would listen. But when pressed to ID the actual perp, Samuel just stared at them blankly.
Hell if he knew.
Until he found the scarlet underwear, he didn’t even know Darleen was cheating on him.
They reached the end of the corridor and the guard banged on a door. It was quickly opened by an even larger uniformed hunk, who grabbed Samuel by the arm and led him into a rectangular room with just two things in it.
A third guard, holding a bowl of water and a sponge.
And right beside him, Ol’ Sparky itself.
The electric chair.
Just waiting to give Samuel a proper sendoff.
His eyes darted to the glass that ran the length of one wall. Samuel knew it was a one-way window with a couple of dozen witnesses on the other side. People who loved Darleen. Reporters. Higher-ups in the prison system and in government. Samuel even mused there might have been a few contest win
ners—“KILL radio is offering up two seats to The Iron Killer’s execution. They’re all yours if you’re the nineteenth caller as soon as I play ‘Don’t Do Me Like That’ by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers!”
But there was one group of people he knew wouldn’t be behind the one-way glass.
His family.
His brother had shown up just once at the prison.
A month after he’d been sentenced to death. It was only the second time Samuel had seen him since that night in the bar.
The other had been the day he’d appeared on the stand as a witness for the prosecution.
Consequently, it had been awkward in the prison visiting room. His brother dropped into the seat opposite Samuel. And they stared at each other through unbreakable glass in silence for what seemed like forever.
Finally, Samuel spoke.
“What? You had to come and gloat?”
“Not at all.”
“What then? You going to start a re-poll-the-jury campaign?”
“You and I both know it won’t do any good,” said his sibling. “I came because I had to say I was sorry.”
“Really? Sorry, huh? Sorry because I’m going to the chair? Or because your testimony put me in it?”
“Both.”
“Screw you.”
“What was I supposed to do, Samuel? Lie? There were a dozen other customers who heard you that night. I just happened to be the one who was sitting with you.”
“You could’ve told them I didn’t do it,” lamented Samuel.
“It’s a court of law. They didn’t ask my opinion. It wasn’t like I couldn’t testify against you. That’s a privilege reserved for your wife….”
“… who is dead and I didn’t kill!” yelled Samuel.
Inmates and their visitors turned and stared. A prison guard started to move forward, but Samuel forced himself to calm down and waved the man off.
When he turned back to face his brother, Samuel saw he was sadly shaking his head.
“You think I did it, don’t you?”
“I don’t want to, none of us want to but….”
“Get out of here.”
“Samuel….”
Samuel stood up. He screamed at the top of his lungs.
“Get the fuck out of here. I never want to see you again.”
And he never did.
Now, months later, as he was strapped into the chair by his soon-to-be-executioner, Samuel was certain none of his family members were on the other side of the glass.
He was okay with that.
Samuel imagined one day they might come to their senses, look back and realize he couldn’t have murdered Darleen in cold blood. They’d see Samuel as the offended one. He was the one she had cheated on. He’d finally have their sympathy, not their disdain.
That and a dollar wouldn’t get him on the subway. By then he’d be fried to a crisp.
The guard soaked the sponge in the bowl until it was good and damp.
As the guard did this, he bent down and spoke to Samuel.
“Do you have any last words?”
Samuel thought about it.
“Like regret?”
“If you want,” said the guard.
“Not for something I didn’t do,” replied Samuel.
The guard used the sponge to soak his head. Then he affixed the metal-conducting skullcap, linked to the power generator that would send thousands of volts coursing through Samuel’s body.
In that moment, Samuel realized there was something he actually wished. Not about Darleen—she was dead, and frankly, he didn’t give a shit about her. She’d cheated on him. Not that she deserved what she got, but he would’ve probably divorced her within a week.
What he wished for was now pointless.
Another chance with his family. To let them know he wasn’t the psycho killer they’d written him off as.
Talk about wasting your last breath.
He glanced over and saw the guard moving toward the switch that would send him into the Great Hereafter.
Samuel started to close his eyes.
But not before the room was filled with blinding purple light.
Heaven.
I’m in heaven.
Some song he remembered as a kid, with that Fred Astaire guy dancing.
It was the first thing he thought of when he opened his eyes and saw clouds above him. They were the big puffy cotton-ball type. Samuel stared for a long time, wondering if some bearded guy would emerge from them with a welcoming hand.
He tried to raise his own.
And realized he couldn’t.
Samuel looked down and almost passed out again.
His arms were still strapped to the electric chair.
Tight as a drum.
Samuel’s eyes darted around. The room had completely changed.
Well, what remained of it. It had been completely blown inside out. The ceiling was gone, which was why he saw the billowing clouds above. The glass on the opposite wall had shattered into a billion pieces, revealing the fifty or so chairs that had been set up for witnesses to watch an execution Samuel was starting to realize had been somehow aborted.
The spectators were nowhere to be seen. Samuel wondered where they might have gone. Had they run for cover from whatever storm, hurricane, or earthquake had occurred when he blacked out? He couldn’t imagine there was something more interesting for them to watch.
The witnesses weren’t the only people missing.
There wasn’t another soul in sight.
No guards, prison officials, no nothing.
“Hello? Is anyone around?”
All Samuel got was one big fat echo.
He tried to move but couldn’t budge an inch. He was strapped in that snugly.
He quickly realized he was all by himself, trapped in the mechanism that was supposed to end his life.
It didn’t take long to figure out that if he remained in it too long without someone coming to the rescue, it might fulfill its purpose anyway.
Samuel started screaming.
But no one came.
Not then. Not in the next hour.
Or the rest of the day.
“What the fuck?”
Samuel repeated it like a mantra. It didn’t help. Explanations were as plentiful as people.
By nightfall, he realized he was hungry. That fried chicken had been burned up really fast by a nervous digestive system. And he was dying for a drink—of anything.
He glanced down and saw the bowl of water and sponge on the floor. Literally inches from his bare feet.
Close but so far away….
He wiggled his toes and stretched for all he was worth.
His toes edged up against the sponge. A couple of more tries and he was able to grip it, then dunk it up and down in the bowl of water.
He took his time. Samuel tried to make a flipping motion with his toes. He gripped down tight on the wet sponge, opened his mouth, and then flicked with all his might.
The sponge went flying up in the air.
And over his head.
He moaned.
Samuel kicked the bowl. The water splashed all over the ground.
He started crying.
It was three days later when the sound woke him.
He was already semi-delirious, his bodily functions starting to give way. He’d been dreaming of death—fantasies of an electric charge rushing through his body. At least that would have been quick. This was torturous.
Then he heard the sound again.
A rumble. Loud.
Thunder.
Samuel’s eyes flicked open and he looked up at the clouds.
They were no longer marshmallow white. Dark storm clusters had gathered overhead—and after one more burst of thunder, they opened up.
Rain began to fall.
At first, Samuel was too out of it to comprehend what had happened. Only when the rain pelted his face through the open ceiling did he laugh out loud.
He ope
ned his mouth wide, tilted his head back, and took in as much of the blessed rainfall as possible without choking on it.
Luckily, it was the start of the rainy season.
But a man has a hard time living by water alone. Samuel learned that lesson quickly.
It rained enough over the next few weeks so he didn’t shrivel up, dehydrate, and die. But that was the only nourishment he got.
Samuel remained strapped in the electric chair and nary a single person set foot in what was once the state prison. Where all the guards, prison workers, or the inmates themselves had disappeared to, Samuel hadn’t a clue.
All he knew was that he was wasting away.
A month without food takes a toll on any man.
Even with a bunch of water.
Samuel remembered some movie where the guy was left on the ocean with just a volleyball. Or was it a tiger? Maybe he was confusing them. Probably. Either way, both guys had their arms free. At least they’d been able to catch a fish. What Samuel would give for that?
He went through some version of the DTs, shivering and sweating. His mind began playing tricks on him. He became so delirious at one point, he began wondering what his own flesh would taste like—and then thought himself lucky he couldn’t actually put his mouth on any. He was so famished that he would have gobbled it right up.
But it wasn’t necessary.
His body was starting to feed on itself.
He became aware of it one day when he wiggled his arm trying to get free for the umpteenth time.
The straps budged. Maybe a millimeter of an inch.
But they definitely moved.
Suddenly a plan was hatched. A mad one, to be thought up only by someone losing his mind.
But he had no choice.
Now, all he could do was wait.
It took almost six more weeks.
Samuel was locked in a battle of water versus weight. He had to hope it’d rain enough so he could continue to stay alive. But not take in too much, so his body would keep at itself. (He’d long ago stopped thinking of terms like “eating,” “inhaling,” or “devouring.” Acknowledging self-cannibalism was more than his addled brain could handle).
The Seventh Day Page 17
