When the tiny procession reached the end of the pod, Thomas saw that the rest of the way through security and all the way to the exit, officers were lined up on either side, standing shoulder to shoulder, feet spread, hands clasped behind their backs, heads lowered. As Brady reached them, each raised his head, snapped to attention, arms at his sides, feet together.
Thomas could barely breathe.
74
Moved by the respect and reverence shown Brady as he was escorted to the chamber, still Thomas felt as if he himself were on his way to the gallows. He fought to not show weakness or grief before Brady now, but this was the longest, most difficult walk of his life.
“Just stay close,” was all Brady asked.
The warden appeared behind them. “Time for your good-byes, gentlemen,” he said.
It was too soon. Thomas sensed the clock speeding. When Frank LeRoy retreated and took other dignitaries with him, Thomas and Brady were left with just the officer who would lead them in.
“So,” Thomas said, “I guess this is it. I love you, Brady.”
Brady looked to the officer as if for permission, and when the man nodded, he embraced the chaplain and whispered, “Jesus said, ‘Be sure of this: I am with you always, even to the end of the age.’”
“It’s time,” the officer said.
Thomas followed the officer and Brady into the chamber, which contained the single camera, four officers lining one wall, a cheap plastic chair for the chaplain, and a rangy man in shirt and tie who had draped his suit coat over the chair. He looked self-conscious standing next to a wood tray filled with spikes and a heavy wooden mallet.
“I’ve practiced this and will do my best is all I can promise,” he said.
“Thank you,” Brady said.
God, Brady prayed silently, we both know who I am, but let me be Jesus for these people and everyone who ever sees this, just so they know what He went through.
A technician, the laminated card clipped to his shirt identifying him as from ICN, slipped in and double-checked the camera. “Rolling,” he said quietly, backing out. The door shut and the curtains were opened, revealing the most crowded viewing area Thomas had ever seen for an execution.
“Stand by!” the warden called out. “When you’re ready.”
Brady hung his head, eyes welling. He imagined himself mocked, jeered, beaten, spit upon. He removed his clothes and stood shivering in his underwear. He had studied this and wished he could also have been shoved up against a broad pole and suspended from the top by his bound hands and there whipped thirty-nine times by a cat-o’-nine-tails, leather strips embedded with bits of rock and iron that would lacerate his back from his shoulders to his waist and lay him open.
Experts claimed irreparable damage had been done to Jesus’ body and that parts of His spine and even internal organs would have been exposed. Each new stroke had dug deeper until Jesus had finally been released to crumble to His knees.
I’m getting off easy, Brady thought. If he could just force himself to go through with this.
“Lie down across the planks,” the executioner said kindly.
Sickened, Thomas stole a glance at the TV monitor to see what was being broadcast. All Thomas could think of was whether Grace yet regretted her decision to watch.
Brady was shuddering, and Thomas leaned forward. “You all right?” he said.
“Fine, Reverend. Let me be.”
“Let me get you a bottle of water,” Thomas said, aching to cradle him.
“Please, no,” Brady said, barely able to be heard. “This has to be authentic as we can make it.”
“It’s too close.”
“Then we’re doing it right. Please. I know you mean well.”
Thomas sat back, gripping both sides of his chair and wishing he could be anywhere else, yet not willing to abandon his friend.
“Final check of vitals,” Frank LeRoy called out, and the doctor stepped in, kneeling next to Brady.
Brady dreaded being nailed to the cross more than he dreaded the end. The state executioner was the only man there licensed to inflict upon Brady intentionally lethal injuries. He alone would drive spikes through Brady’s wrists and feet, and at Brady’s insistence, it would be done precisely so as to remain as close as possible to the scriptural account that none of Jesus’ bones had been broken.
There were few angles and spots where the spikes could be driven to achieve that accuracy, and the man had to be strong enough to strike cleanly and quickly. The spikes had to hold Brady’s weight when the cross was raised by the officers into specially designed supports. Brady knew his pinning to the cross and its being raised alone could kill him if the men weren’t careful.
Was Brady’s own mother watching? He knew Aunt Lois and Uncle Carl were. And Mrs. Carey. And Mrs. Carey-Blanc. And her husband. The guys inside. And much of the world.
God, don’t let this be in vain. Let them see what You want them to see. Your will be done.
The executioner advanced.
When the man grabbed Brady’s arm and stretched it out on the crossbeam, it was all Brady could do to keep from pulling away. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. One of the officers straddled his hand and placed one knee in his palm and the other near Brady’s elbow. His flesh dug into the wood.
The executioner deftly lined up the spike just below the heel of Brady’s hand, and Brady could feel the cold steel and the shift in the man’s weight as he raised the thick wood mallet.
With a loud thunk the hammer drove the spike clean through Brady’s wrist and into the crossbeam.
Brady cried out as blinding pain shot through him. All else was forgotten as flesh and tendon and sinew gave way and nerves fired messages of agony to his brain. With another quick blow, the spike was driven deep into the wood and Brady’s wrist further severed.
He writhed and moaned and cried, his legs spasming as the men shifted to the other arm and repeated the ritual. Brady closed his eyes as everything around him spun madly. He could not imagine worse pain.
When the process was repeated to pin his feet to the vertical beam, he thrashed and pulled, heart thundering and breath coming in great gusts through clenched teeth.
Brady knew he was in danger of going into shock. He fought to stay conscious, determined to see this through. Chaplain Carey looked deeply pained. Brady only hoped his friend and mentor could imagine Jesus Himself enduring this for him.
Deep in another part of his consciousness, a hidden chamber he was surprised even existed, Brady was aware that many people who loved him and cared for him were weeping and saying their good-byes. Such a difference from those who jeered Jesus and called out to Him, demanding to know how He could save others and not Himself.
Even in the midst of His agony, Jesus had not forgotten His mission. “Father,” He had said, His voice certainly as raspy and guttural as Brady’s felt now, “forgive them, for they don’t know what they are doing.”
Brady came close to crying out for relief when the corrections officers gathered and used a rudimentary pulley to lift the cross upright. Everything in Brady cried out, even before they let it drop into the supports, and his whole weight pulled against the torn flesh around the spikes.
It was then that Brady fully understood what it was he was trying to get the world to see. Jesus had not just hung there in beautiful repose. He had to have done what Brady was forced to do now. Brady hung in a position that allowed him to draw breath, but to exhale he had to jerk and hunch himself up until his strength gave out and he slumped again, unable to exhale. He would die of asphyxiation if he didn’t muster the strength to rise a few inches every several seconds. All this while his bloody, pierced body writhed, and every effort to rise and exhale put all his weight on the spike-torn wounds.
His head banged against the wood, and Brady felt himself slipping away. He closed his eyes against the pain and imagined he could hear the thieves hanging on either side of Jesus, one saying, “So You’re the Messiah, are You? Pro
ve it by saving Yourself—and us, too, while You’re at it!”
But the other said, “Don’t you fear God even when you have been sentenced to die? We deserve to die for our crimes, but this Man hasn’t done anything wrong. Jesus, remember me when You come into Your Kingdom.” And Jesus had responded, “I assure you, today you will be with Me in paradise.”
Brady hunched again to exhale, knowing he was fighting the clock. His vision was going, his muscles cramping.
It was all he could do to breathe. Everything in his system fought for relief and labored to keep him alive, yet he was drifting, drifting. He had to exhale but didn’t know if he had the strength.
For more than two of the worst hours of Thomas’s life, he sat transfixed, tears streaming, as Brady continued to thrash just enough to exhale every few seconds. It seemed the young man would die any moment, and yet he lingered, writhing. Thomas was aware of spectators who rose and left, clearly having not been prepared for such a lengthy ordeal.
God, please, Thomas said silently. He’s obeyed You. Take him.
Brady fought to pull himself up one last time, and as he exhaled, he forced himself to speak once more the words of Jesus.
“Father, I entrust my spirit into Your hands!”
Thomas stood as Brady’s chest heaved, his limbs twitched, and suddenly he was still.
“Doc!” the executioner called out.
The doctor slipped in and slid Thomas’s chair to the foot of the cross, mounted it, and pressed his stethoscope to Brady’s chest. He pronounced him dead, marking the time.
Thomas had seen enough. He had honored Brady’s request and learned the hardest way possible what Jesus had endured on his behalf.
Thomas hurried away, out of the chamber, down the long corridors, through the security envelopes, past the cellblocks and pods. All were as silent as he had ever heard them.
In every cell, at every security checkpoint, and even in every office in the administration wing, TVs showed the closed-circuit feed to sober, somber eyes. No one spoke or even acknowledged Thomas as he gathered up his stuff and headed out to his car.
The officer at the guardhouse waved him through, and he drove past the media and the protesters—now on their knees, cupping candles incongruously flickering in the midday sun.
Fortunately for Thomas, hardly any other cars were on the road. At home he found Gladys sitting next to Grace’s bed, holding his wife’s hand as they silently watched the wrap-up of the televised coverage.
Dirk and Ravinia sat on Thomas’s bed, ashen faced.
Thomas sat next to his daughter and draped an arm around her shoulder. She was shivering. Suddenly she let her head fall to her father’s chest and buried her face in him as she sobbed.
After several minutes she pulled away, wiping her face. “I’m going to go,” she managed. “I need to be with Summer.”
“I need to be with you both,” Dirk said softly.
“Well, come on, then,” she said.
They each embraced Grace, and Thomas followed them to the front door and watched as they walked to their respective cars. Dirk put a tentative hand on Rav’s shoulder. She slipped a hand around his waist.
Before they parted, they stopped and held each other.
Epilogue
Not since 9/11 had churches been so full, and this time the phenomenon circled the globe. Every ministry Thomas knew of reported record inquiries and changed lives. Thomas himself had been busy since the little revival started on death row months before, but even that was nothing compared to now. He even had to talk with Warden LeRoy about hiring help. Requests for visits and New Testaments and books poured into his office.
Four days after Brady Wayne Darby was crucified, his autopsy became part of the public record, and he was buried in a quickly fashioned one-grave cemetery at Adamsville State Penitentiary, per the agreement with ICN. No press was allowed.
Thomas officiated the brief, very private ceremony, attended by fewer than twenty people. Besides a few state officials, the group consisted of the warden, the warden’s secretary and her husband, Brady’s aunt and uncle, his mother, his lawyer, her husband, and the chaplain’s wife.
Grace was bundled head to toe despite the heat and sat in a wheelchair. Thomas knew it was likely her last venture outside their home. But she had insisted on attending, and he would not deny her.
After Thomas spoke and the casket was lowered, Gladys sang “Rock of Ages,” which had been Grace’s suggestion. Most hummed along, but Thomas noticed that Ravinia joined in, full voice.
As they were leaving, Brady’s aunt Lois confided to Thomas that Erlene Darby had agreed to move in with her and Carl, “just for a few months until she can get back on her feet. We’re going to get her to church somehow.”
Dirk and Ravinia were back in counseling and talking about his moving back home again.
Four months later, many of the same contingent joined the congregation at Village Church for Grace Carey’s funeral. And, acceding to his beloved’s last request, Thomas asked Gladys to sing the same hymn again.
Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee;
Let the water and the blood,
From Thy riven side which flowed,
Be of sin the double cure,
Save from wrath and make me pure.
Not the labors of my hands
Can fulfill Thy law’s demands;
Could my zeal no respite know,
Could my tears forever flow,
All for sin could not atone;
Thou must save, and Thou alone.
Nothing in my hand I bring.
Simply to Thy cross I cling;
Naked, come to Thee for dress;
Helpless, look to Thee for grace;
Foul, I to the fountain fly;
Wash me, Savior, or I die.
While I draw this fleeting breath,
When my eyelids close in death,
When I soar to worlds unknown,
See Thee on Thy judgment throne,
Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.
Again Ravinia joined in the singing, and as she and Dirk and Summer rode with Thomas to the cemetery, she reached for her father’s hand.
“I want to come home,” she said.
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” he said.
“No, I mean home to church. Will you save me a seat?”
Christ
Yesterday, Today, Forever
Praise for Riven
“Thoroughly moving, Riven leaves an indelible impression on the reader. Its characters and message stay with you long after the final chapter. For me, it is also a deeply personal reminder of why God called me to prison ministry so many years ago.”
Chuck Colson, founder, Prison Fellowship
“Jerry Jenkins sets the standard for creative stories and compelling novels. Any bookshelf that is lacking his writing is missing a treasure.”
Max Lucado, pastor and best-selling author
“Jerry Jenkins writes from his heart a unique and engaging story. Riven is touching and unforgettable.”
Randy Alcorn, best-selling author of Heaven
“This novel will stay with you long after the final page. Riven’s complex characters will keep you riding an emotional wave until you are washed ashore in an astonishing conclusion. Read Riven at your own risk. It might unsettle the way you live.”
Dr. Michael and Cindy Easley
Dr. Easley is president of the Moody Bible Institute of Chicago
“Some books are fun to read; other books testify to real life transformation. Riven does both. You’ll recognize yourself in the characters—the weary man of God, the rebel without cause, the searching
20-something. Find in their stories the place where real life begins—on level ground at the foot of the cross. Jenkins gives hope to anyone thinking that they’ve run too far from God. Riven pictures God’s relentless pursuit of each of us. Riven is a testimony to God�
��s power to transform any and every repentant person.”
James MacDonald, pastor and Bible teacher, Walk in the Word
Table of Contents
Part One
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
Part Two
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
Epilogue
Riven Page 52
