The truth is, I no longer feel anything. As a matter of fact, since the trial, I can barely remember what she looks like. I called her my goddess. I said she was put on earth to complete me, but now I think she was just a phase I went through to stifle my endless bouts with self-loathing and boredom.
So here I sit on my metal bunk with my asshole puckered, waiting for my final stroll. I've been told that my execution viewing chamber is sold out. Standing-room only. So, in death, I'm finally a hit. I'm going to try to go out like a starker, live up to my new bad-ass "serial killer" label. But something tells me when they roll up my sleeves and insert the needle, I'm going to snivel and whine, just like always.
We'll find out in two more days. I guess that's it. That's the whole enchilada. I've written my last page and it's time for my afternoon meeting with the prison chaplain, because, strange as it sounds, I've at long last found Jesus. I know, I know, pretty transparent and pathetic. I'm sure St. Peter won't be standing at the pearly gates with my white robe, wings, and a map of the celestial grounds.
But you never know. As P. T. Barnum said, "There's a sucker born every minute?' A sentiment my bullshitting father certainly always endorsed.
And who knows? Maybe I'll get a few points for chutzpa.
Chapter 46
THE DAY CHICK WAS SCHEDULED TO DIE IT WAS RAINY and cold in Los Angeles. I'd moved here four years ago to run Chandler's foundation. I had fifteen people working for me and was well into my new life. I was happy, or at least as happy as I allowed myself to be.
I woke up that morning feeling angry. I was angry because Chick's death was the final chapter of the worst event of my life, and I knew that no matter how hard I tried to deny it, this would be a day of vengeance for me. I wanted Chick to die for what he did. I hated myself for it, but I had lost so much, it was hard for me not to be vengeful.
I tried not to watch television, but I was drawn to it. Finally, I was sitting in front of the tube, channel surfing, hunting for stories about Chick's upcoming execution. On several of the newscasts, there was B-roll of him being led down a prison corridor. He had lost weight. He looked stoic. His eyes never came up toward the camera.
All day, I listened for Chandler's voice. Maybe he would reach out and find a way to talk to me today, the way he had at the hotel or on the cliff in Big Bear. Maybe he could ease all of this, take away my thirst for revenge, cut through all this self-destructive anger. I waited patiently, but his voice never came. He never whispered in my ear, never told me what to do.
I heard from Robert Butler instead. It was a card. On the front there was a yellow bird sitting on a tree limb with an olive branch in its mouth. Inside, it said:
GET WELL
Under that, he had written in his neat, careful hand:
Avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.
Romans 12: 19