All the Colors of the Dark — Chapter 233

233

She woke Deputy Michaels, told him to shut the fuck up and listen. And then she told him to get the office of U.S. District Judge Mark Cully. To call Attorney General John Lester’s office. The Missouri Supreme Court. To

wake the whole fucking state.

Marty Tooms was innocent.

“I can do all this,” he said. “But in a little over an hour Marty Tooms will be executed.”

Saint sprinted to the cruiser and flashed the lights as she found the highway. She called the prison as she drove, the lines jammed. Only Judge Cully had the direct line. Tires wailed as she passed a line of trucks, one hand on the wheel and the other calling the Life Project. The phone rang so long she cut when Michaels called through.

“Tooms doesn’t have a lawyer. No one to make the calls.”

“You get Cully?”

“Jammed. Protestors.”

“Fuck, Michaels. You drive to Cully’s and grab him by his fat face and

make him listen.”

“Yes, Chief.”

She knew he’d go, a direct order was what Michaels lived for.

She pared miles of darkness, the blue lights meeting a herd of deer, their black eyes catching moonlight as Saint saw the dash blink once. The fuel gauge red. She screamed every curse word she knew as she slammed her hand against the dash. Saint kept her foot down until the car died and she almost cried out.

On a cold stretch of highway she planted her feet in the middle of the road and flagged down an old Jeep, hauled the driver from his seat, and aimed her gun at his face when he moved to resist. She spun the truck around and left him in the dust. She opened the windows to the night heat, cursed herself for leaving her cell phone in the squad car. No radio, no time to stop at a phone booth, no way of knowing if any of their messages had landed.

She tuned in the radio and found a news station debating capital punishment, same each time. The heavy truck shuddered as she cleared a hundred, then flashed her hazard lights and tore down the wrong side of the road past an old man who raised a fist from the window of his Dodge.

When she saw the sign, the turn, and lights she felt her adrenaline kick harder. Guards had been brought from the category B over in Fordham, and they built out a blockade at the mouth of the track. She careered through ROAD CLOSED signs and took the dirt road at seventy, each bump sending her hurtling high from her seat as she gripped the wheel tight. Half a mile from the prison lights she met a rolling roadblock, its feet embedded in the dirt, the yellow low- bed truck hitched to it empty.

She jumped from the Jeep and ran, her sneakers in the dust as she finally hit the mayhem. News reporters cast their lenses over heavy placards planted in the soil that declared Human Life over Human Vengeance, Premeditated Murder Promotes Violent Society. She hustled past clusters sitting in peace on the ground, hands joined in prayer led by a pastor and beside him a man with a thin white wooden cross. Candles burned, and cops kept peace on the most violent night.

Saint pushed her way to the line, screamed her way to guards who shoved her back, not heeding her badge, more than ready for trouble. She called out her name and rank, asked for Blackjack and Warden Riley. She was ignored.

Saint felt the panic rise as cries intensified. She shoved her way deeper into the crowd. Only when she heard those first notes, and those gathered sang of his presence every passing hour, did she wipe her tears and check her watch and see that second hand make its final approach that day.

I fear no foe.

She thought of Nix and Tooms, and Patch and Misty, and the random convergence of innocence and guilt. She thought of two decades laid out like a twisting path. Her grandmother above them waiting to shepherd another into the lost kingdom.

“Goddamn,” she cried. “Where are you? Why is it all on us?”

Saint said her silent prayer.

Drew her gun.

Aimed it toward the sky and shattered the heavens with her fire.

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