What’s happening to her is an offense, goddammit, an offense. To the eyes and the ears and the heart.”
“Very noble, but I doubt like hell if that’s what put this bee in your bonnet,” Brutal said. “I think it’s what happened to Del. You want to balance it off somehow.”
And he was right. Of course he was. I knew Melinda Moores better than the others did, but maybe not, in the end, well enough to ask them to risk their jobs for her – and possibly their freedom, as well. Or my own job and freedom, for that matter. I had two children, and the last thing on God’s earth that I wanted my wife to have to do was to write them the news that their father was going on trial for… well, what would it be? I didn’t know for sure. Aiding and abetting an escape attempt seemed the most likely.
But the death of Eduard Delacroix had been the ugliest, foulest thing I had ever seen in my life – not just my working life but my whole, entire life – and I had been a party to it. We had all been a party to it, because we had allowed Percy Wetmore to stay even after we knew he was horribly unfit to work in a place like E Block. We had played the game. Even Warden Moores had been a party to it. “His nuts are going to cook whether Wetmore’s on the team or not,” he had said, and maybe that was well enough, considering what the little Frenchman had done, but in the end Percy had done a lot more than cook Del’s nuts; he had blown the little man’s eyeballs right out of their sockets and set his damned face on fire. And why? Because Del was a murderer half a dozen times over? No. Because Percy had wet his pants and the little Cajun had had the temerity to laugh at him. We’d been part of a monstrous act, and Percy was going to get away with it. Off to Briar Ridge he would go, happy as a clam at high tide, and there he would have a whole asylum filled with lunatics to practice his cruelties upon. There was nothing we could do about that, but perhaps it was not too late to wash some of the muck off our own hands.
“In my church they call it atonement instead of balancing,” I said, “but I guess it comes to the same thing.”
“Do you really think Coffey could save her?” Dean asked in a soft, awed voice. ‘”Just … what? … suck that brain tumor out of her head? Like it was a … a peach-pit?”
“I think he could. It’s not for sure, of course, but after what he did to me … and to Mr. Jingles . . .”
“That mouse was seriously busted up, all right,” Brutal said.
“But would he do it?” Harry mused. “Would he?”
“If he can, he will,” I said.
“Why? Coffey doesn’t even know her!”
“Because it’s what he does. It’s what God made him for.”
Brutal made a show of looking around, reminding us all that someone was missing. “What about Percy?
You think he’s just gonna let this go down?” he asked, and so I told them what I had in mind for Percy By the time I finished, Harry and Dean were looking at me in amazement, and a reluctant grin of admiration had dawned on Brutal’s face.
“Pretty audacious, Brother Paul!” he said. “Fair takes my breath away!”
“But wouldn’t it be the bee’s knees!” Dean almost whispered, then laughed aloud and clapped his hands like a child. “I mean, voh-doh-dee-oh-doh and twenty-three-skidoo!” You want to remember that Dean had a special interest in the part of my plan that involved Percy – Percy – Percy could have gotten Dean killed, after all, freezing up the way he had.
“Yeah, but what about after?” Harry said. He sounded gloomy, but his eyes gave him away; they were sparkling, the eyes of a man who wants to be convinced. “What then?”
“They say dead men tell no tales,” Brutal rumbled, and I took a quick look at him to make sure he was joking.