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Square-shouldered guards clogged the doorway. “It’s time,” one of the men said. ” Jeffreys’ lips curled over gritted teeth. The blue eyes were sharp and clear, but vacant. Jeffreys turned to the three uniformed men and offered his wrists. Father Francis winced as the shackles snapped. Then he listened to the boot heels clicking, accompanied by the pathetic shuffle-clank, shuffle-clank all the way down the long hall. A stale breeze seeped in through the open door. It cooled his wet, clammy skin and sent a shiver down his back.

Rescue vehicles, two TV vans, five sheriff cruisers and a slew of other unmarked vehicles were scattered at haphazard angles in the mud. Three sheriff deputies guarded the scene, which was cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape. Crime-scene tape—this was serious. Definitely not some drunk teenagers. Then she remembered the kidnapping—the paperboy whose face had been plastered over every newscast and newspaper since the beginning of the week. Had a ransom drop been made? There were rescue units.

The old priest imagined those same fingers twisting and choking the life out of little Bobby Wilson. ” Jeffreys’ voice startled the priest. “That’s fine,” he answered quickly. His sweaty palms stuck to the leather Bible. His collar was suddenly too tight. The prison’s deathwatch chamber didn’t have enough air for both men. The gray concrete walls boxed them in with only one tiny window, black with night. The pungent smell of green pepper and onion nauseated the old priest. He glanced at the remnants of Jeffreys’ last supper, scattered bits of pizza crust and puddles of sticky soda.

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