I beg you to spare the fair Petitioners, with the most of whom I have the pleasure of acquaintance, that the kindest motives which influenced their memorial in behalf of the unfortunate convict, are duly appreciated and that no one can participate more deeply than I do in their sympathy for her melancholy fate.
I am, Sir, very respectfully
your obt. Servt.
D. L. Swain
To: W. C. Bevins, Esq.
I set down the letter, hardly trusting myself to speak. “The governor appears to think that Mrs. Silver has already been executed,” I said at last.
“So it would seem,” said Bevins.
“But how can he think that? David Swain himself ordered that stay of execution not three weeks ago. He himself postponed the date of her death from the twenty-eighth of June until the twelfth of July, acting upon a request from Thomas Wilson. I saw the letter myself. How can he write now and say that the sentence has already been carried out?”
“Perhaps he has other things on his mind,” Bevins suggested, but I thought I detected a sneer in his voice.
“Very well, let us apprise him of his mistake,” I said. “We will go directly to the stage office and draft a letter that Colonel Newland can-”
My voice faltered, and Bevins nodded, seeing that I had realized my error. “Mr. Gaither, you had forgotten the date.”
I stared at him. “It is the eleventh of July,” I said. “Certainly it is too late to rely upon the stagecoach to send an answer, but-”
“It is too late altogether,” Bevins said quietly. “Mrs. Silver is to be hanged tomorrow. And no power on earth could get a letter from Morganton to Raleigh and back again in less than a day. The governor knew that when he posted his reply.”
“Then why equivocate with this pretended misunderstanding of dates? Why did he not simply say,I refuse to pardon the prisoner. ”
“He has said it, Mr. Gaither. As plainly as any politician ever spoke.”
THE KNOCK at the door brought the sheriff out of his reverie. Spencer hobbled to the door without bothering to peer out the window to see whose vehicle was in his driveway.
There stood Charles Wythe Stanton, holding a potted plant with a yellow satin bow stuck into the soil among the leaves. Spencer had not seen the man for twenty years, except as a face in a news photo or a fleeting image on a television screen, but he recognized him at once. Colonel Stanton looked much as he had at the time of his daughter’s death. A little grayer, perhaps, and leaner, so that the lines on his face were more prominent, but he was still as handsome as a recruiting poster. The sort of person of whom people were wont to ask, “Are you somebody?” on the off chance that he might be Oliver North or Harrison Ford, or some other larger-than-life person that one never expected to meet in the flesh.
Spencer stepped back and motioned for him to come inside.
“Hello, Sheriff,” he said, holding out the plant as if it were a peace offering. “I’m glad to see that you’re up and about.”
Spencer set the arrangement on the nearest flat surface and followed his guest into the living room. Colonel Stanton had walked over to the sliding glass doors at the far end of the room, and he was admiring the view of green mountains reflecting cloud shadows in the sunshine. “It’s so peaceful up here,” he said. “I wanted to bury Emily in a cemetery near Johnson City, so that she could be encircled by mountains. She loved it up here. Anne wouldn’t hear of it, though. She wanted to bring our daughter home. To be near us. Perhaps she was right to do that. I don’t know.”
Spencer didn’t see that it mattered. “How is Mrs. Stanton?” he asked politely.
Stanton turned away from the view and did not look at it again. “We divorced some years back,” he said. “Emily was our only child. Losing her was hard on us. I expect there was more to the breakup than that, but it was certainly the precipitating cause. Chalk up another death to Lafayette Harkryder. One marriage.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Spencer.
The colonel shrugged. “These things happen.” He seemed for the first time to notice that his host was still standing. “Please sit down,” he said, gesturing toward the sofa. “I know you’re an invalid at the moment. I didn’t mean to keep you on your feet, Mr. Arrowood.”
Spencer began, “How did you know-”
Stanton smiled. “How to find you? Or that you were ill? A helpful young lady in your office answered both of those questions. I told her that we were old friends.”
“It’s been a long time,” said Spencer, making a mental note to give the new dispatcher, Jennaleigh, further instructions regarding the privacy of peace officers. He eased himself down in the overstuffed chair next to the sofa and motioned for the colonel to sit down.
“How are you, Sheriff?”
“On the mend. I’ll be back on duty by next week, I think.”
“A gunshot wound is a sobering experience, isn’t it? I took a hit once overseas, and I’ll never forget that feeling of stupefaction, followed by the absolute conviction that I was already dead. You never forget it.”
“I don’t guess I will.” Spencer didn’t want to swap war stories.
“I hear, though, that the person who shot you was killed in the capture.” The colonel smiled. “Your deputies are to be commended. They saved the state a lot of time and trouble.”
Spencer reminded himself that a man who had lost his only child was hardly the most objective observer of criminal proceedings. Besides, since Stanton knew nothing of the case or its participants, he could not realize how deeply the sheriff regretted the death of that particular fugitive. Spencer decided to let it pass. “What brings you to Tennessee?” he said.
Charles Stanton smiled. “The same unfinished business that brought me the first time we met, Mr. Arrowood. Lafayette Harkryder. I’m driving to Nashville to watch him die.”
“You’re going to be a witness?”
“Oh, yes. I promised Emily that at her funeral twenty years ago. No matter how long it takes, I told her, I will be there when his time comes, and I will watch him die.”
Spencer couldn’t think of anything to say. He couldn’t dispute the man’s right to justice, but his evident satisfaction made the sheriff uneasy.
“You’ll be there, too, won’t you?”
Spencer nodded. “Sheriff of the home county.”
“I thought so. I’ve been studying execution procedures for the last couple of months. There can be only sixteen witnesses at an execution.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “The warden or someone designated to represent him, the surgeon of the penitentiary, the prisoner’s attorney, relatives, and any clergyman he wishes to be present.And six respectable citizens. ”
Spencer nodded. “The sheriff, or his representative and one other witness chosen by him. I knew that. I waived my other choice. And the other four are chosen by other law enforcement agencies, aren’t they?”
“Right.”
“But you’re going to witness the execution?” Spencer didn’t think the TBI would have appointed Colonel Stanton as one of their official witnesses. The eagerness in his voice would have put them off.
Stanton smiled. “Media witness. Don’t forget our friends in the press. The state press association, the Associated Press, and the radio and television newspeople get a total of five witnesses, and five alternates, in case one of the others can’t make it. I got one of the AP slots, in exchange for a promise to write about it.”
Spencer repressed a shudder. “Will you write the article?”