The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

This time Hallas’s smile was wide and genuine. ‘I know you don’t believe a word of what I’ve told you, and hey, who could blame you? But just for a minute engage those brains of yours and think about it. This was a white male child – the sort of kid most apt to be missed and eagerly sought after in a society that still values white male children above all others. The kiddies are fingerprinted these days as a matter of course when they start school, to help ID them if they’re lost, murdered, or abducted. I believe in this state it’s even a law. Or am I wrong?’

‘You’re not.’ Bradley said this reluctantly. ‘But it would be wrong to make too much of it, George. This kid happened to fall through the cracks, that’s all. It happens. The system is fallible.’

Hallas’s smile became a full-fledged grin. ‘Keep telling yourself that, Mr Bradley. You just keep telling yourself that.’ He turned and waved to McGregor, who removed his earbuds and got to his feet.

‘All done?’

‘Yes,’ Hallas said. He turned back to Bradley as McGregor bent to unchain him. His grin – the only one Bradley had ever seen on his face – was gone as if it had never been. ‘Will you come? When it’s time?’

‘I’ll be here,’ Bradley said.

8

And so he was, six days later, when the curtains in the observation room drew back at 11:52 a.m. to reveal the death chamber with its white tiles and Y-shaped table. Only two other witnesses were present. One was Father Patrick of St Andrew’s. Bradley sat with him in the back row. The district attorney was all the way down front with his arms folded across his chest and his eyes never leaving the room on the other side of the window.

The execution party (a grotesque term if ever there was one, Bradley thought) was in place. There were five in all: Warden Toomey; McGregor and two other guards; a pair of medical personages in white coats. The star of the show lay on the table, his outstretched arms secured by Velcro straps, but when the curtains opened, Bradley’s eye was first taken by the warden, who was weirdly sporty in an open-necked blue shirt.

Wearing a seatbelt around his waist and a three-point harness over his shoulders, George Hallas looked more ready to zoom off in a space capsule than to die by lethal injection. As per his request, there was no chaplain, but when he saw Bradley and Father Patrick, he raised one hand as far as the wrist straps would allow in a gesture of recognition.

Patrick raised a hand in return, then turned toward Bradley. His face was paper pale. ‘Have you ever attended one of these?’

Bradley shook his head. His mouth was dry, and he didn’t trust himself to speak in a normal tone of voice.

‘Me, either. I hope I’ll be all right. He …’ Father Patrick swallowed. ‘He was very good to all the children. They loved him. I just can’t believe … even now I just can’t believe …’

Bradley couldn’t, either. Yet he did. Had to.

The DA turned to them, frowning like Moses above his crossed arms. ‘Zip your lips, gentlemen.’

Hallas looked around the last room he would ever inhabit. He seemed bewildered, as if he wasn’t quite sure where he was or what was happening. McGregor laid a hand on his chest in a comforting gesture. It was now 11:58.

One of the whitecoats – an IV tech, Bradley assumed – cinched a length of rubber tubing around Hallas’s right forearm, then slipped in a needle and taped it down. The needle was attached to an IV line. The line went to a wall console, where three red lamps burned above three switches. The second whitecoat moved to the console and clasped his hands before him. Now the only movement in the death chamber came from George Hallas, who was blinking his eyes rapidly.

‘Are they doing it?’ Father Patrick whispered. ‘I can’t tell.’

‘I can’t either,’ Bradley whispered back. ‘Maybe, but—’

There was an amplified click that made them both jump (the state’s legal representative remained as still as a statue). The warden said, ‘Can you folks hear me okay in there?’

The DA gave a thumbs-up, then crossed his arms again.

The warden turned to Hallas. ‘George Peter Hallas, you have been condemned to death by a jury of your peers, a sentence affirmed by this state’s supreme court and the Supreme Court of the United States of America.’

Like they ever said balls about it one way or the other, Bradley thought.

‘Do you have any last words before sentence is carried out?’

Hallas began to shake his head, then appeared to change his mind. He peered through the glass and into the observation room.

‘Hello, Mr Bradley. I’m glad you came. Listen, okay? I’d watch out, if I were you. Remember, it comes as a child.’

‘Is that it?’ the warden asked, almost jovially.

Hallas regarded the warden. ‘One more thing, I guess. Where in the Christ did you get that shirt?’

Warden Toomey blinked as if someone had suddenly flicked cold water in his face, then turned to the doctor. ‘Are you prepared?’