Schuster was in my office, with guards Ringgold and Battle standing in the corners and keeping watch.
Schuster looked up at Del, smiled, and then addressed him in French. It sounded stilted to me, but it worked wonders. Del smiled back, then went to Schuster, put his arms around him, hugged him.
Ringgold and Battle tensed, but I raised my hands to them and shook my head.
Schuster listened to Del’s flood of tear-choked French, nodded as if he understood perfectly, and patted him on the back. He looked at me over the little man’s shoulder and said, “I hardly understand a quarter of what he’s saying.”
“Don’t think it matters,” Brutal rumbled.
“Neither do I, son,” Schuster said with a grin. He was the best of them, and now I realize I have no idea what became of him. I hope he kept his faith, whatever else befell.
He urged Delacroix onto his knees, then folded his hands. Delacroix did the same.
“Not’ Pere, qui etes aux cieux,” Schuster began, and Delacroix joined him. They spoke the Lord’s Prayer together in that liquid-sounding Cajun French, all the way to “mais deliverez-nous du mal, ainsi soit-il.”
By then, Del’s tears had mostly stopped and he looked calm. Some Bible verses (in English) followed, not neglecting the old standby about the still waters. When that was done, Schuster started to get up, but Del held onto the sleeve of his shirt and said something in French. Schuster listened carefully, frowning.
He responded. Del said something else, then just looked at him hopefully.
Schuster turned to me and said: “He’s got something else, Mr. Edgecombe. A prayer I can’t help him with, because of my faith. Is it all right?”
I looked at the clock on the wall and saw it was seventeen minutes to midnight. “Yes,” I said, “but it’ll have to be quick. We’ve got a schedule to keep here, you know.”
“Yes. I do.” He turned to Delacroix and gave him a nod.
Del closed his eyes as if to pray, but for a moment said nothing. A frown creased his forehead and I had a sense of him reaching far back in his mind, as a man may search a small attic room for an object which hasn’t been used (or needed) for a long, long time. I glanced at the clock again and almost said something
– would have, if Brutal hadn’t twitched my sleeve and shaken his head.
Then Del began, speaking softly but quickly in that Cajun which was as round and soft and sensual as a young woman’s breast: “Marie! le vous salue, Marie, oui, pleine de grace; le Seigneur est avec vous; vous etes benie entre toutes les femmes, et mon cher Jesus, le fruit de vos entrailles, est beni.” He was crying again, but I don’t think he knew it. “Sainte Marie, 6 ma mere, Mere de Dieu, priez pour moi, priez pour nous, pauv’ pecheurs, maint’ant et l’heure … l’heure de notre mort. L’heure de mon mort.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Ainsi soit-il.”
Lightning spilled through the room’s one window in a brief blue-white glare as Delacroix got to his feet.
Everyone jumped and cringed except for Del himself; he still seemed lost in the old prayer. He reached out with one hand, not looking to see where it went. Brutal took it and squeezed it briefly. Delacroix looked at him and smiled a little. “Nous voyons – ” he began, then stopped. With a conscious effort, he switched back to English. “We can go now, Boss Howell, Boss Edgecombe. I’m right wit God,”
“That’s good,” I said, wondering how right with God Del was going to feel twenty minutes from now, when he stood on the other side of the electricity. I hoped his last prayer had been heard, and that Mother Mary was praying for him with all her heart and soul, because Eduard Delacroix, rapist and murderer, right then needed all the praying he could get his hands on. Outside, thunder bashed across the sky again.
“Come on, Del. Not far now.”
“Fine, boss, dat fine. Because I ain’t ascairt no more.” So he said, but I saw in his eyes that – Our Father or no Our Father, Hail Mary or no Hail Mary – he lied. By the time they cross the rest of the green carpet and duck through the little door, almost all of them are scared.