He lit another cigarette. Again it was dry and burned raw against his throat. He coughed, flung it away. His palms were sweating like leaking faucets; his nerves felt stretched beyond the confines of his body. What a fool he was; he’d never be able to carry it off, not in a million years. He cursed himself, cursed the endless days of torture and hopelessness which drove him to the brink of this crazy precipice.
Suddenly, came the sound he’d been listening for, the unclasping of the steel bolt on the cell block door as it slid ponderously back from its locked position; the Warden was arriving.
“Darcy, for the last time—”
“Shut up!”
He took a deep breath, his gun cautioning his prisoners for absolute silence. This was it, the last piece in the jig-saw puzzle. Now if only they followed the same procedure that had been followed all the other times. He listened for the tell-tale footsteps.
Always in the past the Warden entered alone, conferred quietly for several minutes with Darcy and the Chaplain, while the two guards on duty remained in the background, and then the Warden signaled an official within the Execution Chamber to admit the large entourage of reporters and State dignitaries, who wished to witness his death, to a special room on the other side of the electric chair, where they could observe his final moments in soundproof comfort.
It was usually at this point that the Governor would call, granting Darcy another stay. His audience would leave, his guards and the Warden would congratulate him on his good fortune, and he’d be returned to his cell to await the outcome of new legal maneuvers, new protest marches, new headlines denouncing him as the vilest, blackest murderer ever to appear in the annals of crime.
He waited. Outside, just beyond his vision, the cell block door swung open, shadows danced along the corridor walls, a flurry of excited whispers came to an abrupt halt, the heavy door creaked on its hinges and swung shut. Darcy pressed deeper into the shadows. Everything depended on the pattern being repeated detail for detail.
More silence. Perspiration dripped from his chin. The men across from him stayed motionless, listening as attentively as he for the first shuffling of feet. Would it be one or many?
Then a single pair of footsteps reverberated across the corridor. The Warden had entered alone. Perfect. Darcy breathed again, smiled fleetingly at his prisoners.
In a matter of seconds he saw the bulbous shape of the Warden come in view. He was a plump man, who moved slowly and took great pride in the progressive way his penitentiary was run.
“Good evening, Darcy,” he said.
“Good evening, Warden,” replied Darcy, and showed the gun. “Nice of you to join the party.”
The plump man bleached white; he was already standing inside the cell, where his excess weight made any thought of agile heroics utterly impossible.
“Where...?”
“Let’s just say it came from outer space, Warden. What’s important is that I’m holding it, and six bullets are in it.”
“You must be out of your mind.”
“Possibly.”
“Damn it, Darcy, don’t you realize there’s an army of people here tonight? Reporters, cameramen, prison authorities, picket lines; even the state militia’s been called out this time. You’d never get two feet beyond this cell block without someone spotting you and giving the alarm.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Then give up this ridiculous idea. Spare a lot of innocent bloodshed.”
“I’ve no intention of hurting anyone.”
“Then give me your gun.”
“Not till I’m over the hump.”
“Three minutes to eleven, William,” said the Chaplain. “What can you hope to gain at this point?”
“Don’t you know yet? Don’t any of you know?”
They stood staring at him, a mere three feet away, their faces blank, puzzled, openly hostile. Darcy wanted to yell his heart out, and shake them until at least one felt the pain and terror gnawing his insides. Twelve years he’d lived with it, and how pathetic it was to find this private legacy of fear still nontransferable.
The Warden stirred restlessly; the heat was getting to him, and he was thinking more of his reputation now than of the immediate circumstances.
“I’ll be the laughing-stock of the country once this gets out. I say we’ve got to rush him.” He took a step forward.
“Warden, please,” said Darcy, “don’t make me do something we’ll both be sorry for later.”
The Warden wiped a hand across his red, perspiring face. He glanced at the two guards hopefully.
“You with me, boys?”
“A minute. Another minute,” pleaded Darcy, edging back along the wall. His heart was beating hard against his chest.
“Why? What’s going to happen then? You expecting help?”
“Maybe.”
“He’s bluffing, boys,” said the Warden, attempting another half-step forward. “Rush him, when I give the word.”
Darcy reached the furthest corner of his cell, felt the cold, ungiving steel of the bars penetrate his cotton shirt; this was the end of the line.
The two guards, nervously inched forward, closing their ranks. The air was stifling, noiseless.
“Listen to me,” shouted Darcy. “Twelve years I’ve been in this hell—”
“Brick, you get him from the left,” said the Warden. “And you hit from the right, Fred.”
“Okay, I robbed a bank and a man was killed.”
“Leave the middle for me, boys,” said the Warden.
“Some believed the killing was accidental. Some didn’t. Me — I don’t know anymore. Whether I intentionally pulled the trigger or whether it accidentally fired when I was overpowered from behind, is, after twelve years, hazy in my mind...”
The three men moved in on Darcy, slowly, carefully.
“You understand, I can’t remember what I was feeling when the gun went off. No image from the past focuses. But what does that matter. What’s important is that a jury found me guilty, a judge sentenced me to death, and—”
It was then that the first sharp, jolting ring of the telephone struck, reverberated up and down the length of the entire cell block. It shattered all other sounds, all other motions, it reached each of the men like a blast of clean air.
The Chaplain reacted first. “Thank God,” he said relieved, and stepped forward, his hand outstretched to receive Darcy’s gun.
“No,” said Darcy firmly, the weapon remained clutched in his fist tighter than ever.
The Chaplain stopped dead.
The phone rang a second time.
“Darcy, it’s the Governor. It’s your reprieve,” fumed the Warden, pushing the others out of his way as the phone rang a third time. “Hell, he’s saved you again. Let me go answer it.”
Darcy kept the gun leveled at the plump man’s forehead.
“You move another foot and I’ll kill you, Warden. I swear it.”
“You damn fool,” wailed one guard.
“How long you think he’s going to keep ringing?” screamed the other.
“Get him, boys. He’s out of his head. This time let’s get him,” commanded the Warden, and started to charge forward.
An arm reached out, gripped his wrist, holding him in check. It was the Chaplain.
“Wait. I think I understand. This is his breakout. This is the way he, as an individual, has chosen to go.” He looked toward Darcy for confirmation.
“Chaplain, you and me talk the same language. Thanks.” Darcy smiled appreciatively.
The Warden pulled free of the Chaplain’s grasp, studied both men quizzically. “You’re as crazy as he is,” he told the Chaplain. “If I don’t get to that phone, he pays with his life.”