“Yes.”
“Tomorrow and tomorrow,” he intones, “and tomorrow. Macbeth’s so-liloquy. ‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow / creeps in this petty pace from day to day / to the last syllable of recorded time.’ Except that the petty pace runs out on the third tomorrow.”
“Do you want to talk about death, Preston?”
“What’s there to talk about?” He considers his own question, shakes his head. “I think about it all the time. I could probably find things to say about it.”
“Oh?”
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“There are days when I almost look forward to it. To get it over with, you know? To get on to the next thing. Except, of course, that in this case there’s not going to be a next thing.”
“Are you sure of that?”
The man’s eyes narrow, and his expression turns guarded. “Arne,” he says, “I appreciate the friendship you’ve offered, but there’s something I have to know. You’re not here to save my fucking soul, are you?”
“I’m afraid salvation’s a little out of my line.”
“Because if you’re here selling fear of hell or hope of heaven, I’m not in the market. There’ve been a couple of clergymen who’ve tried to get in to see me. Fortunately the state gives a man a certain amount of control over things to compensate for the fact that they’re planning to take his life. I don’t have to see anyone I don’t want to see, and I’ve been able to keep the gentlemen of the cloth out of this cell.”
“I swear I’m not a priest, minister, or rabbi,” he says, smiling gently.
“I’m not even a religious member of the laity. I might be concerned with saving your soul if I were more nearly convinced that you have one, and that souls can be saved, or need saving.”
“What do you believe happens when you die?”
“You first.”
His words brook no argument, and Applewhite seems indisposed to offer one. “I think it ends,” he says. “I think it’s just over, like a movie after the last reel runs out.”
“No final credits?”
“Nothing at all. I think the rest of the world goes on, the same as it does when anybody else dies. Subjectively, I think it’s a resumption of the same nonexistence one had before birth. Or before conception, if you prefer.
It’s hard at first to accept the notion that you’re not going to exist anymore, but it gets a little easier when you think of all the centuries, all the millennia, when you hadn’t yet been born and the world got along just fine without you.”
“One hears of near-death experiences . . .”
“The tunnel, the white light? Some sort of hallucination, very likely with a physiological basis to it, and one that medical science will no 48
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doubt be able to explain to us at some future date. I won’t get to hear the explanation, but I guess I can live without it. Or die without it, come to think of it.”
“Gallows humor.”
“There’s a phrase due for an update. Hard to find a proper gallows in our enlightened age. Well, better the needle than the rope. But now it’s your turn. What do you think happens when we die?” He doesn’t hesitate. “I think we go out like a light, Preston. I think it’s like going to sleep, but with no dreams and no awakening. And why should that be so hard to believe? Do we think cattle go from the abattoir straight to cow heaven? What’s so special about our consciousness that it should be permitted to survive?” The rueful half-smile. “Although I expect I’ll be drawn down the tunnel to the white light. But when I pop through at the end of the tunnel I’ll cease to be. I’ll become part of that light, perhaps, or I won’t, and what possible difference will it make either way?”
“I’d like to come again tomorrow, Preston.”
“I’ll be grateful if you do. Do you think they’ll let you?”
“I don’t anticipate any problem. The warden thinks I might accomplish something.”
“Help me resign myself to my fate?”
He shakes his head. “It’s his hope that you’ll tell me where the Willis boy’s body is buried.”
“But—”
“But if I truly believe in your innocence, how can I possibly attempt that? Is that what you were going to say?” A nod.
“I’m afraid I may have dissimulated some with Warden Humphries. I may have led him to think that I believe you believe in your innocence.” Briefly, he sketches what he’d postulated for the warden, explained how the wish could be father to the thought, how a man, in the course of denying his crimes, could genuinely convince himself that he had not in fact committed them.
“Is that what you think?”
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49
“Do I think it ever happens that way? I know for a fact that it does. Do I think that’s what’s operating in your case? Absolutely not.” Applewhite ponders this. “But how could you be sure?” he wonders.
“Even if you’ve got some kind of built-in lie detector, all that would tell you is that I’m speaking what I believe to be the truth. But if I’ve sold myself a bill of goods—”
“You haven’t.”
“You sound so certain.”
“I’ve never been more certain of anything.” On the way out, he gets the guard to take him to the warden’s office. “I think I’m making progress,” he tells Humphries. “I think it’s just a matter of time.”
It’s raining when he leaves the prison, a light rain that’s not much more than a mist. He has difficulty finding the right setting for the windshield wiper, and it makes driving less of a pleasure and more of a chore than it has been.
It’s midafternoon when he gets to the Days Inn, and the parking lot is virtually empty. He parks in back and goes to his room. It’s a little early for a drink, he decides, but not too early for a phone call.
It turns out there’s a message on his voice mail. He listens to it, deletes it. He makes three calls, all to numbers on his speed dial. The third is to a woman, and now his voice is different, the tone deeper, the phrasing more deliberate.
“I’ve been thinking of you,” he says. “More than I should, actually. I have challenging work to do, and I should be giving it a hundred percent of my attention, but instead I’ll find myself thinking of you. God, I wish I knew. Four or five days, I would think. I wish I could tell you where I am. It’s a place where they have a different attitude toward privacy. I wouldn’t be surprised if this phone is tapped. My cell? I left it home, it wouldn’t work here. If you left me a message, it’ll be waiting for me when I get home. So there are things I’d say, but I’d better not. Yes, as soon as I know. And I miss you, too. More than I can say.” 50
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He rings off, wondering if he’s made a mistake by denying that he’s calling from his cell phone. It’s set up to block Caller ID, so anyone with that feature should get a number unavailable or caller out of area message, but glitches happen. Does she have Caller ID? He’s never thought to check, and that, he decides, is a sin of omission. Not necessarily a grievous sin, it shouldn’t matter, but he’d rather leave as little as possible to chance.
He’s checking his e-mail when it strikes him that he hasn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. He’s not hungry, he never gets hungry, but his body ought to have regular feedings.
Emporia’s not a large town, the population’s around five thousand, but it’s the county seat of Greensville County, and it’s got an Outback Steakhouse. He’s noted the sign several times now, near the Interstate exit for U.S. 58. He drives ten miles into Virginia, finds his way to the place, and orders a rare rib eye steak with fries and salad, and a big glass of unsweetened iced tea. Everything’s good, and the steak they bring him is actually rare, just as he ordered it, a welcome surprise in a part of the country where everything’s overcooked, and almost everything’s fried.