When he woke up he was lying on his right side. He felt a prickly wool blanket against his cheek. He saw a steel wall in front of his eyes.
He listened. Dead silence. His ears strained for a sound. There was nothing.
He became frightened. Lines sprang into his forehead.
He pushed up on one elbow and looked over his shoulder. The skin grew taut and pale on his lean face. He twisted around and dropped his legs heavily over the side of the bunk.
There was a stool with a tray on it; a tray of half-eaten food. He saw untouched roast chicken, fork scrapes in a mound of cold mashed potatoes, biscuit scraps in a puddle of greasy butter, an empty cup. The smell of cold food filled his nostrils.
His head snapped around. He gaped at the barred window, at the thick-barred door. He made frightened noises in his throat.
His shoes scraped on the hard floor. He was up, staggering. He fell against the wall and grabbed at the window bars above him. He couldn’t see out of the window.
His body shook as he stumbled back and slid the tray of food onto the bunk. He dragged the stool to the wall. He clambered up on it awkwardly.
He looked out.
Gray skies, walls, barred windows, lumpy black spotlights, a courtyard far below. Drizzle hung like a shifting veil in the air.
His tongue moved. His eyes were round with shock.
“Uh?” he muttered thinly.
He slipped off the edge of the stool as it toppled over. His right knee crashed against the floor, his cheek scraped against the cold metal wall. He cried out in fear and pain.
He struggled up and fell against the bunk. He heard footsteps. He heard someone shout.
“Shut up!”
A fat man came up to the door. He was wearing a blue uniform. He had an angry look on his face. He looked through the bars at the prisoner.
“What’s the matter with you?” he snarled.
The prisoner stared back. His mouth fell open. Saliva ran across his chin and dripped onto the floor.
“Well, well, well,” said the man, with an ugly smile, “So it got to you at last, haah?”
He threw back his thick head and laughed. He laughed at the prisoner.
“Hey, Mac,” he called. “Come ’ere. This you gotta see.”
More footsteps. The prisoner pushed up. He ran to the door.
“What am I doing here?” he asked, “Why am I here?”
The man laughed louder.
“Ha!” he cried, “Boy, did you crack.”
“Shut up, will ya?” growled a voice down the corridor.
“Knock it off!” the guard yelled back.
Mac came up to the cell. He was an older man with graying hair. He looked in curiously. He saw the white-faced prisoner clutching the bars and staring out. He saw how white the prisoner’s knuckles were.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Big boy has cracked,” said Charlie, “Big boy has cracked wide open.”
“What are you talking about?” asked the prisoner, his eyes flitting from one guard’s face to the other. “Where am I? For God’s sake, where am I?”
Charlie roared with laughter. Mac didn’t laugh. He looked closely at the prisoner. His eyes narrowed.
“You know where you are, son,” he said quietly, “Stop laughing, Charlie.”
Charlie sputtered down.
“Man I can’t help it. This bastard was so sure he wouldn’t crack. Not me boy,” he mimicked, “I’ll sit in that goddamn chair with a smile on my face.”
The prisoner’s grayish lips parted.
“What?” he muttered. “What did you say?”
Charlie turned away. He stretched and grimaced, pushed a hand into his paunch.
“Woke me up,” he said.
“What chair?” cried the prisoner, “What are you talking about?”
Charlie’s stomach shook with laughter again.
“Oh, Christ, this is rich,” he chuckled, “Richer than a Christmas cake.”
Mac went up to the bars. He looked into the prisoner’s face. He said, “Don’t try to fool us, John Riley.”
“Fool you?”
The prisoner’s voice was incredulous. “What are you talking about? My name isn’t John Riley.”
The two men looked at each other. They heard Charlie plodding down the corridor talking to himself in amusement.
Mac turned aside.
“No,” said the prisoner. “Don’t go away.”
Mac turned back.
“What are you trying to pull?” he asked, “You don’t think you’ll fool us, do you?”
The prisoner stared.
“Will you tell me where I am?” he asked, “For God’s sake, tell me.”
“You know where you are.”
“I tell you . . .”
“Cut it, Riley!” commanded Mac, “You’re wasting your time.”
“I’m not Riley!” cried the prisoner. “For God’s sake, I’m not Riley. My name is Phillip Johnson.”
Mac shook his head slowly.
“And you was going to be so brave,” he said.
The prisoner choked up. He looked as though he had a hundred things to say and they were all jumbled together in his throat.
“You want to see the priest again?” asked Mac.
“Again?” asked the prisoner.
Mac stepped closer and looked into the cell.
“Are you sick?” he asked.
The prisoner didn’t answer. Mac looked at the tray.
“You didn’t eat the food we brought,” he said. “You asked for it and we went to all that trouble and you didn’t eat it. Why not?”
The prisoner looked at the tray, at Mac, then at the tray again. A sob broke in his chest.
“What am I doing here?” he begged, “I’m not a criminal, I’m . . .”
“Shut up for chrissake!” roared another prisoner.
“All right, all right, pipe down,” Mac called down the corridor.
“Whassa matter?” someone sneered, “Did big boy wet his pants?”
Laughter. The prisoner looked at Mac.
“Look, will you listen?” he said, the words trembling in his throat.
Mac looked at him and shook his head slowly.
“Never figured on this did you, Riley?” he said.
“I’m not Riley!” cried the man. “My name is Johnson.”
He pressed against the door, painful eagerness on his features. He licked his dry lips.
“Listen,” he said. “I’m a scientist.”
Mac smiled bitterly and shook his head again.
“Can’t take it like a man, can you?” he said, “You’re like all the rest for all your braggin’ and struttin’.”
The prisoner looked helpless.
“Listen,” he muttered hoarsely.
“You listen to me,” said Mac. “You have two hours, Riley.”
“I told you I’m not . . .”
“Cut it! You have two hours. See if you can be a man in those two hours instead of a whining dog.”
The prisoner’s face was blank.
“You want to see the priest again?” Mac asked.
“No, I . . .” started the prisoner. He stopped. His throat tightened.
“Yes,” he said. “I want to see the priest. Call him, will you?”
Mac nodded.
“I’ll call him,” he said. “In the meantime, keep your mouth shut.”
The prisoner turned and shuffled back to the bunk. He sank down on it and stared at the floor.
Mac looked at him for a moment and then started down the hall.
“Whassa matter?” called one of the prisoners mockingly. “Did big boy wet his pants?”
The other prisoners laughed. Their laughter broke in waves over the slumped prisoner.
He got up and started to pace. He looked at the sky through the window. He stepped up to the cell door and looked up and down the hall.
Suddenly he smiled nervously.
“All right,” he called out. “All right. It’s very funny. I appreciate it. Now let me out of this rat trap.”
Someone groaned. “Shut up, Riley!” someone else yelled.
His brow contracted.
“A joke’s a joke,” he said loudly. “But now I have to . . .”
He stopped, hearing fast footsteps on the corridor floor. Charlie’s ungainly body hurried up and stopped before the cell.
“Are you gonna shut up?” he threatened, his pudgy lips outthrust. “Or do we give you a shot?”
The prisoner tried to smile.
“All right,” he said. “All right, I’m properly subdued. Now come on,” his voice rose. “Let me out.”
“Any more crap outta you and it’s the hypo,” Charlie warned. He turned away.
“Always knew you was yellow,” he said.
“Listen to me, will you?” said the prisoner, “I’m Phillip Johnson. I’m a nuclear physicist.”
Charlie’s head snapped back and a wild laugh tore through his thick lips. His body shook.
“A nu-nucleeeee . . .” His voice died away in wheezing laughter.
“I tell you it’s true,” the prisoner shouted after him.
A mock groan rumbled in Charlie’s throat. He hit himself on the forehead with his fleshy palm.
“What won’t they think of next?” he said. His voice rang out down the corridor.
“You shut up too!” yelled another prisoner.
“Knock it off!” ordered Charlie, the smile gone, his face a chubby mask of belligerence.
“Is the priest coming?” he heard the prisoner call.
“Is the priest coming? Is the priest coming?” he mimicked. He pounded on his desk elatedly. He sank back in the revolving chair. It squeaked loudly as he leaned back. He groaned.
“Wake me up once more and you’ll get the hypo!” he yelled down the corridor.
“Shut up!” yelled one of the other prisoners.
“Knock it off!” retorted Charlie.
The prisoner stood on the stool. He was looking out through the window. He watched the rain falling.
“Where am I?” he said.
—
Mac and the priest stopped in front of the cell. Mac motioned to Charlie and Charlie pushed a button on the control board. The door slid open.
“Okay, Father,” said Mac.
The priest went into the cell. He was short and stout. His face was red. It had a kind smile on it.
“Say, wantta hand me that tray, Father?” Mac asked.
The priest nodded silently. He picked up the tray and handed it to Mac.
“Thank you kindly, Father.”
“Certainly.”
The door shut behind the guard. He paused.
“Call out if he gets tough,” he said.
“I’m sure he won’t,” said Father Shane, smiling at the prisoner who was standing by the wall, waiting for Mac to go.
Mac stood there a moment.
“Watch your step, Riley,” he warned.
He moved out of sight. His footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Father Shane flinched as the prisoner hurried to his side.
“Now, my son . . .” he started.
“I’m not going to hit you, for God’s sake,” the prisoner said. “Listen to me, Father . . .”
“Suppose we sit down and relax,” said the priest.
“What? Oh, all right. All right.”
The prisoner sat down on the bunk. The priest went over and picked up the stool. Slowly he carried it to the side of the bunk. He placed it down softly in front of the prisoner.
“Listen to me,” started the prisoner.
Father Shane lifted a restraining finger. He took out his broad white handkerchief and studiously polished the stool surface. The prisoner’s hands twitched impatiently.
“For God’s sake,” he entreated.
“Yes,” smiled the priest. “For His sake.”
He settled his portly form on the stool. The periphery of his frame ran over the edges.
“Now,” he said comfortingly.
The prisoner bit his lower lip.
“Listen to me,” he said.
“Yes, John.”
“My name isn’t John,” snapped the prisoner.
The priest looked confused.
“Not . . .” he started.
“My name is Phillip Johnson.”
The priest looked blank a moment. Then he smiled sadly.
“Why do you struggle, my son? Why can’t you . . .”
“I tell you my name is Phillip Johnson. Will you listen?”
“But my son . . .”
“Will you!”
Father Shane drew back in alarm.
“Will you shut that bastard up!” a voice said slowly and loudly in another cell.
Footsteps.
“Please don’t go,” begged the prisoner. “Please stay.”
“If you promise to speak quietly and not disturb these other poor souls.”
Mac appeared at the door.
“I promise, I promise,” whispered the prisoner.
“What’s the matter now?” Mac asked. He looked inquisitively at the priest.
“You wanna leave, Father?” he asked.
“No, no,” said Father Shane. “We’ll be all right. Riley has promised to . . .”
“I told you I’m not . . .”
The prisoner’s voice broke off.
“What’s that?” asked the priest.
“Nothing, nothing,” muttered the prisoner, “Will you ask the guard to go away?”
The priest looked toward Mac. He nodded once, a smile shooting dimples into his red cheeks.
Mac left. The prisoner raised his head.
“Now, my son,” said Father Shane. “Why is your soul troubled? Is it penitence you seek?”
The prisoner twisted his shoulders impatiently.
“Listen,” he said. “Will you listen to me. Without speaking? Just listen and don’t say anything.”
“Of course, my son,” the priest said. “That’s why I’m here. However . . .”
“All right,” said the prisoner. He shifted on the bunk. He leaned forward, his face drawn tight.
“Listen to me,” he said, “My name isn’t John Riley. My name is Phillip Johnson.”
The priest looked pained.
“My son,” he started.
“You said you’d listen,” said the prisoner.
The priest lowered his eyelids. A martyred print stamped itself on his face.
“Speak then,” he said.
“I’m a nuclear physicist. I . . .”
He stopped.
“What year is this?” he asked suddenly.
The priest looked at him. He smiled thinly.
“But surely you . . .”
“Please. Please. Tell me.”
The priest looked mildly upset. He shrugged his sloping shoulders.
“1954,” he said.
“What?” asked the prisoner. “Are you sure?” He stared at the priest. “Are you sure?” he repeated.
“My son, this is of no purpose.”
“1954?”
The priest held back his irritation. He nodded.
“Yes, my son,” he said.
“Then it’s true,” said the man.
“What, my son.”
“Listen,” said the prisoner. “Try to believe me. I’m a nuclear physicist. At least, I was in 1944.”
“I don’t understand,” said the priest.
“I worked in a secret fission plant deep in the Rocky Mountains.”
“In the Rocky Mountains?”
“No one ever heard of it,” said the prisoner. “It was never publicized. It was built in 1943 for experiments on nuclear fission.”
“But Oak Ridge . . .”
“That was another one. It was strictly a limited venture. Mostly guesswork. Only a few people outside of the plant knew anything about it.”
“But . . .”
“Listen. We were working with U-238.”
The priest started to speak.
“That’s an isotope of uranium. Constitutes the bulk of it; more than 99 percent. But there was no way to make it undergo fission. We were trying to make it do that. Do you understand . . .”
The priest’s face reflected his confusion.
“Never mind,” said the prisoner hurriedly. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that there was an explosion.”
“An . . .”
“An explosion, an explosion.”
“Oh. But . . .” faltered the priest.
“This was in 1944,” said the prisoner. “That’s . . . ten years ago. Now I wake up and I’m here in . . . where are we?”
“State Penitentiary,” prompted the priest without thinking.
“Colorado?”
The priest shook his head.
“This is New York,” he said.
The prisoner’s left hand rose to his forehead. He ran nervous fingers through his hair.
“Two thousand miles,” he muttered. “Ten years.”
“My son . . .”
He looked at the priest.
“Don’t you believe me?”
The priest smiled sadly. The prisoner gestured helplessly with his hands.
“What can I do to prove it? I know it sounds fantastic. Blown through time and space.”
He knitted his brow.
“Maybe I didn’t get blown through space and time. Maybe I was blown out of my mind. Maybe I became someone else. Maybe . . .”
“Listen to me, Riley.”
The prisoner’s face contorted angrily.
“I told you. I’m not Riley.”
The priest lowered his head.
“Must you do this thing?” he asked, “Must you try so hard to escape justice?”
“Justice?” cried the prisoner. “For God’s sake is this justice? I’m no criminal. I’m not even the man you say I am.”
“Maybe we’d better pray together,” said the priest.
The prisoner looked around desperately. He leaned forward and grasped the priest’s shoulders.
“Don’t . . .” started Father Shane.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” said the prisoner impatiently. “Just tell me about this Riley. Who is he? All right, all right,” he went on as the priest gave him an imploring look. “Who am I supposed to be? What’s my background?”
“My son, why must you . . .”
“Will you tell me. For God’s sake I’m to be execu—that’s it isn’t it? Isn’t it?”
The priest nodded involuntarily.
“In less than two hours. Won’t you do what I ask?”
The priest sighed.
“What’s my education?” asked the prisoner.
“I don’t know,” said Father Shane. “I don’t know your education, your background, your family, or . . .”
“But it’s not likely that John Riley would know nuclear physics is it?” inquired the prisoner anxiously. “Not likely is it?”
The priest shrugged slightly.
“I suppose not,” he said.
“What did he . . . what did I do?”
The priest closed his eyes.
“Please,” he said.
“What did I do?”
The priest clenched his teeth.
“You stole,” he said. “You murdered.”
The prisoner looked at him in astonishment. His throat contracted. Without realizing it, he clasped his hands together until the blood drained from them.
“Well,” he mumbled, “If I . . . if he did these things, it’s not likely he’s an educated nuclear physicist is it?”
“Riley, I . . .”
“Is it!”
“No, no, I suppose not. What’s the purpose of asking?”
“I told you. I can give you facts about nuclear physics. I can tell you things that you admit this Riley could never tell you.”
The priest took a troubled breath.
“Look,” the prisoner hurriedly explained. “Our trouble stemmed from the disparity between theory and fact. In theory the U-238 would capture a neutron and form a new isotope U-239 since the neutron would merely add to the mass of . . .”
“My son, this is useless.”
“Useless!” cried the prisoner. “Why? Why? You tell me Riley couldn’t know these things. Well, I know them. Can’t you see that it means I’m not Riley. And if I became Riley, it was because of loss of memory. It was due to an explosion ten years ago that I had no control over.”
Father Shane looked grim. He shook his head.
“That’s right isn’t it?” pleaded the prisoner.
“You may have read these things somewhere,” said the priest. “You may have just remembered them in this time of stress. Believe me I’m not accusing you of . . .”
“I’ve told the truth!”
“You must struggle against this unmanly cowardice,” said Father Shane. “Do you think I can’t understand your fear of death? It is universal. It is . . .”
“Oh God, is it possible,” moaned the prisoner. “Is it possible?”
The priest lowered his head.
“They can’t execute me!” the prisoner said, clutching at the priest’s dark coat. “I tell you I’m not Riley. I’m Phillip Johnson.”
The priest said nothing. He made no resistance. His body jerked in the prisoner’s grip. He prayed.
The prisoner let go and fell back against the wall with a thud.
“My God,” he muttered. “Oh, my God, is there no one?”
The priest looked up at him.
“There is God,” he said. “Let Him take you to His bosom. Pray for forgiveness.”
The prisoner stared blankly at him.
“You don’t understand,” he said in a flat voice. “You just don’t understand. I’m going to be executed.”
His lips began to tremble.
“You don’t believe me,” he said. “You think I’m lying. Everyone thinks I’m lying.”
Suddenly he looked up. He sat up.
“Mary!” he cried. “My wife. What about my wife?”
“You have no wife, Riley.”
“No wife? Are you telling me I have no wife?”
“There’s no point in continuing this, my son.”
The prisoner reached up despairing hands and drove them against his temples.
“My God, isn’t there anyone to listen?”
“Yes,” murmured the priest.
Footsteps again. There was loud grumbling from the other prisoners.
Charlie appeared.
“You better go, Father,” he said. “It’s no use. He don’t want your help.”
“I hate to leave the poor soul in this condition.”
The prisoner jumped up and ran to the barred door. Charlie stepped back.
“Watch out,” he threatened.
“Listen, will you call my wife?” begged the prisoner. “Will you? Our home is in Missouri, in St. Louis. The number is . . .”
“Knock it off.”
“You don’t understand. My wife can explain everything. She can tell you who I really am.”
Charlie grinned.
“By God, this is the best I ever seen,” he said appreciatively.
“Will you call her?” said the prisoner.
“Go on. Get back in your cell.”
The prisoner backed away. Charlie signaled and the door slid open. Father Shane went out, head lowered.
“I’ll come back,” he said.
“Won’t you call my wife?” begged the prisoner.
The priest hesitated. Then, with a sigh, he stopped and took out a pad and pencil.
“What’s the number?” he asked wearily.
The prisoner scuttled to the door.
“Don’t waste your good time, Father,” Charlie said.
The prisoner hurriedly told Father Shane the number.
“Are you sure you have it right?” he asked the priest, “Are you positive?” He repeated the number. The priest nodded.
“Tell her I . . . tell her I’m all right. Tell her I’m well and I’ll be home as soon as . . . hurry! There isn’t time. Get word to the governor or somebody.”
The priest put his hand on the man’s shaking shoulder.
“If there’s no answer when I call,” he said. “If no one is there, then will you stop this talk?”
“There will be. She’ll be there. I know she’ll be there.”
“If she isn’t.”
“She will be.”
The priest drew back his hand and walked down the corridor slowly, nodding at the other prisoners as he passed them. The prisoner watched him as long as he could.
Then he turned back. Charlie was grinning at him.
“You’re the best one yet, all right,” said Charlie.
The prisoner looked at him.
“Once there was a guy,” recalled Charlie. “Said he ate a bomb. Said he’d blow the place sky high if we electrocuted him.”
He chuckled at the recollection.
“We X-rayed him. He didn’t swallow nothing. Except electricity later.”
The prisoner turned away and went back to his bunk. He sank down on it.
“There was another one,” said Charlie, raising his voice so the others could hear him. “Said he was Christ. Said he couldn’t be killed. Said he’d get up in three days and come walkin’ through the wall.”
He rubbed his nose with a bunched fist.
“Ain’t heard from him since,” he snickered. “But I always keep an eye on the wall just in case.”
His chest throbbed with rumbling laughter.
“Now there was another one,” he started. The prisoner looked at him with hate burning in his eyes. Charlie shrugged his shoulders and started back up the corridor. Then he turned and went back.
“We’ll be giving you a haircut soon,” he called in. “Any special way you’d like it?”
“Go away.”
“Sideburns, maybe?” Charlie said, his fat face wrinkling in amusement. The prisoner turned his head and looked at the window.
“How about bangs?” asked Charlie. He laughed and turned back down the wall.
“Hey Mac, how about we give big boy some bangs?”
The prisoner bent over and pressed shaking palms over his eyes.
—
The door was opening.
The prisoner shuddered and his head snapped up from the bunk. He stared dumbly at Mac and Charlie and the third man. The third man was carrying something in his hand.
“What do you want?” he asked thickly.
Charlie snickered.
“Man, this is rich,” he said, “What do we want?”
His face shifted into a cruel leer. “We come to give you a haircut big boy.”
“Where’s the priest?”
“Out priesting,” said Charlie.
“Shut up,” Mac said irritably.
“I hope you’re going to take this easy son,” said the third man.
The skin tightened on the prisoner’s skull. He backed against the wall.
“Wait a minute,” he said fearfully. “You have the wrong man.”
Charlie sputtered with laughter and reached down to grab him. The prisoner pulled back.
“No!” he cried, “Where’s the priest?”
“Come on,” snapped Charlie angrily.
The prisoner’s eyes flew from Mac to the third man.
“You don’t understand,” he said hysterically. “The priest is calling my wife in St. Louis. She’ll tell you all who I am. I’m not Riley. I’m Phillip Johnson.”
“Come on, Riley,” said Mac.
“Johnson, Johnson!”
“Johnson, Johnson come and get your hair cut Johnson, Johnson,” chanted Charlie, grabbing the prisoner’s arm.
“Let go of me!”
Charlie jerked him to his feet and twisted his arm around. His face was taut with vicious anger.
“Grab him,” he snapped to Mac. Mac took hold of the prisoner’s other arm.
“For God’s sake, what do I have to do!” screamed the prisoner, writhing in their grip. “I’m not Johnson. I mean I’m not Riley.”
“We heard you the first time,” panted Charlie. “Come on. Shave him!”
They slammed the prisoner down on the bunk and twisted his arms behind him. He screamed until Charlie backhanded him across the mouth.
“Shut up!”
The prisoner sat trembling while his hair fluttered to the floor in dark heaps. Tufts of hair stuck to his eyebrows. A trickle of blood ran from the edge of his mouth. His eyes were stricken with horror.
When the third man had finished on the prisoner’s head, he bent down and slashed open his pants.
“Mmmm,” he grunted. “Burned legs.”
The prisoner jerked down his head and looked. His mouth formed soundless words. The he cried out.
“Flash burns! Can you see them? They’re from an atomic explosion. Now will you believe me?”
Charlie grinned. They let go of the prisoner and he fell down on the bunk. He pushed up quickly and clutched at Mac’s arm.
“You’re intelligent,” he said. “Look at my legs. Can’t you see that they’re flash burns?”
Mac picked the prisoner’s fingers off his arm.
“Take it easy,” he said.
The prisoner moved toward the third man.
“You saw them,” he pleaded. “Don’t you know a flash burn? Look. L-look. Take my word for it. It’s a flash burn. No other kind of heat could make such scars. Look at it!”
“Sure, sure, sure,” said Charlie moving into the corridor. “We’ll take your word for it. We’ll get your clothes and you can go right home to your wife in Saint Louis.”
“I’m telling you they’re flash burns!”
The three men were out of the cell. They slid the door shut. The prisoner reached through the bars and tried to stop them. Charlie punched his arm and shoved him back. The prisoner sprawled onto the bunk.
“For God’s sake,” he sobbed, his face twisted with childish frenzy. “What’s the matter with you? Why don’t you listen to me?”
He heard the men talking as they went down the corridor. He wept in the silence of his cell.
—
After a while the priest came back. The prisoner looked up and saw him standing at the door. He stood up and ran to the door. He clutched at the priest’s arm.
“You reached her? You reached her?”
The priest didn’t say anything.
“You did, didn’t you?”
“There was no one there by that name.”
“What?”
“There was no wife of Phillip Johnson there. Now will you listen to me?”
“Then she moved. Of course! She left the city after I . . . after the explosion. You have to find her.”
“There’s no such person.”
The prisoner stared at him in disbelief.
“But I told you . . .”
“I’m speaking truth. You’re making it all up in a vain hope to cheat . . .”
“I’m not making it up! For God’s sake listen to me. Can’t you . . . wait, wait.”
He held his right leg up.
“Look,” he said eagerly. “These are flash burns. From an atomic explosion. Don’t you see what that means?”
“Listen to me, my son.”
“Don’t you understand?”
“Will you listen to me?”
“Yes but . . .”
“Even if what you say is true . . .”
“It is true.”
“Even if it is. You still committed the crimes you’re here to pay for.”
“But it wasn’t me!”
“Can you prove it?” asked the priest.
“I . . . I . . .” faltered the prisoner. “These legs . . .”
“They’re no proof.”
“My wife . . .”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know. But you can find her. She’ll tell you. She can save me.”
“I’m afraid there’s nothing that can be done.”
“But there has to be! Can’t you look for my wife? Can’t you get a stay of execution while you look for her? Look, I have friends, a lot of them. I’ll give you all their addresses. I’ll give you names of people who work for the government who . . .”
“What would I say, Riley?” interrupted the priest sharply.
“Johnson!”
“Whatever you wish to be called. What would I say to these people? I’m calling about a man who was in an explosion ten years ago? But he didn’t die? He was blown into . . .”
He stopped.
“Can’t you see?” he entreated. “You must face this. You’re only making it more difficult for yourself.”
“But . . .”
“Shall I come in and pray for you?”
The prisoner stared at him. Then the tautness sapped from his face and stance. He slumped visibly. He turned and staggered back to his bunk and fell down on it. He leaned against the wall and clutched his shirtfront with dead curled fingers.
“No hope,” he said. “There’s no hope. No one will believe me. No one.”
—
He was lying down on his bunk when the other two guards came. He was staring, glassy-eyed, at the wall. The priest was sitting on the stool and praying.
The prisoner didn’t speak as they led him down the corridor, only once he raised his head and looked around as though all the world was a strange incomprehensible cruelty.
Then he lowered his head and shuffled mutely between the guards. The priest followed, hands folded, head lowered, his lips moving in silent prayer.
Later, when Mac and Charlie were playing cards the lights went out. They sat there waiting. They heard the other prisoners in death row stirring restlessly.
Then the lights went on.
“You deal,” said Charlie.