“I haven’t really paid them much mind in years. In my head, they’re still twenty-something. The letters from home don’t mention them.”
“Didn’t you care what became of them? You gave up your life for them.”
“I cared at first, but . . . hell: Prison is another country. It’s like my old life was another incarnation—that it was me back in those days, and yet not me, so none of the people and places from before are real somehow. Tom and Ewell are no more real to me now than people I saw in movies when I was a kid. Maybe they’re less real. I still see John Wayne every now and then.”
“You don’t have to keep on lying,” said Spencer. “Let’s just call a press conference and tell what really happened.”
For one moment something flickered in the prisoner’s eyes. He took a deep breath. “Have you got any new evidence? DNA?”
“No. All the physical evidence is gone. All we have is crime scene photos and witness interviews, but they haven’t changed since the trial.”
“And what about Tom and Ewell? Will they back you up?”
Spencer looked away. “No. I called them last night. Ewell swears he’s innocent, and Tom hung up on me. You’re on your own.”
“So it would just be my word and your hunch against a twenty-year-old murder conviction that has withstood decades of appeals?”
“Yes.”
Fate Harkryder shook his head with amused disbelief. “So you call your press conference and announce all this, and then what, Mr. Arrowood? You and me go out for a few beers? It won’t work like that. Nobody will pay us any mind. My deathis news, not my legal arguments. Stanton will shout us down. The journalists will assume it’s a stunt of some kind. People will think I’m a coward, and they’ll sure as hell wonder what yourproblem is.” The spark in his eyes was gone. He looked away again, barely interested in the conversation anymore, barely listening.
“But you have to try,” said the sheriff. “You can’t let yourself be executed for a crime just to protect
your brothers.” “It isn’t about them anymore. Don’t you see that? It doesn’t matter why I came here, or whether I deserved it. Twenty years are gone. Who I was is gone. All that’s left is a tired old man who doesn’t want to be in here another day.”
“But we could get you a good lawyer and ask for a pardon.” “I wouldn’t get one. I’m a poor, dumb hillbilly, Sheriff. Why should anybody bother to keep me alive?
They’d just change the sentence to life and let me stay in here and rot. I had the jewelry on me, remember? I’m not just an innocent bystander. Charles Stanton is never going to let anyone forget that.” “At least you wouldn’t die.” “You don’t get it, do you? I’ve been dead for twenty years. I just want to get out of here and be done
with it. Tonight.” “In a pine box?” “Whatever.” “Well, if you won’t try, at least I can. I don’t want you on my conscience. I have seven hours. I can go
and see the governor—”
Fate Harkryder shook his head. “I want it to be over, Sheriff. It’s too late. I’m tired of this life. Just let it happen, will you? Consider this a dying man’s last wish. Just let it happen.” “But—” Fate Harkryder tapped on the bars. “Visitor’s leaving!” He called out to the guard. In a loud, cheerful
voice meant to be overheard, he said, “Thanks for coming by, Sheriff. Wish me luck tonight, okay?” Spencer Arrowood turned to go. “Mr. Arrowood! There is something you can do for me.” Fate Harkryder flashed his mocking smile, but
his eyes shone. “I got nobody else to ask. But it’s my last wish, and I hope you’ll oblige me.” “What is it?” “When it’s over, I want you to take me home.” Chapter Ten
SPENCER ARROWOOD left the prison a little after three in the afternoon. He had talked to the warden about the final arrangements in case a stay of execution did not come through. There was paperwork to sign, but it didn’t take long. Now he had six hours to kill—an idle afternoon for him, but for Fate Harkryder all the time in the world. He could still contact the newspaper or a local television station to reveal his theory about the murders, but he knew that he would accomplish nothing with such theatrics except to brand himself as a crackpot who balked at seeing a man