for that woman every night. Heard she was with child, too. Damn shame. I could never be the man you are, Preacher… a forgiving man, a man that don’t take revenge. I had to kill that Turk bastard for taking my son from me, but you, you’re strong. I’m twice your size, but I could never be as strong as you.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward, it’s music. As I stack the discarded plates and Tupperware back in the bins, Puff rubs his belly, grinning and burping like a sleepy child.
“Good-bye, Puff. God be with you.”
I’m not hungry after watching a man eat like that. I drive home, exhausted. Five messages are waiting for me on my answering machine, all from Peter.
“Where the hell have you been?” Peter shouts when I call him back.
“At Huntsville, had my phone off. What’s up?”
“I got your clemency, that’s what’s up! Two parts expert politicking and one part Miracle of God but the governor signed it. Your boy Judd Perkins is off Death Row. State won’t be killing that one.”
“Thank you, Peter. Can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
I go straight to bed. Funny thing about that night: I don’t recall sleeping that well in years. Slept right through dawn, right through breakfast. If the phone hadn’t rung, I might have slept all the way through lunch.
“Reverend? You coming in today?”
It was the warden at Huntsville calling.
“Thought I’d take a day off after last night,” I reply, my voice all gravel.
“Damn bizarre night, I agree. We got your dishes all cleaned up. Your fancy knife, too.”
“I’ll pick it all up next week, thanks.”
“You got a minute? Dr. Klausner needs to ask you a couple of questions.”
I heard the warden whisper, place his hand over the receiver. Dr. Klausner was the medical examiner for Huntsville. I sat up in bed.
“Morning, Reverend. This is John Klausner, the ME over here. Need to ask you a couple things, procedural stuff.”
“Fire away.”
“I’m trying to nail down the cause of death of one Judd Perkins. From what I can gather-”
“Puff is dead?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s not possible,” I interject. “The attorney general called me last night, the governor granted clemency.”
“That’s right, he did. Perkins never went to the gurney; he didn’t die from injection. He just, well, near as I can figure, he just up and died in his cell last night.”
“Died? How?”
“Not sure. I’m thinking it was the stress of the execution, that and maybe some overeating-”
“You’re not suggesting that my dinner caused him to-”
“No, not at all. The guards ate your leftovers and not one had so much as a bellyache. There was nothing wrong with your food. I heard what you did, pulling strings to try to get the governor to stay the execution.”
“So what happened?”
“Reverend, this inmate had a history of kidney problems. He was a diabetic. I’m just wondering if I should pull a full autopsy and order extra blood work.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Was Perkins complaining of any stomach pains last night?”
“No, nothing. He ate like there was no tomorrow.”
A pause. “For him, there wasn’t.”
“So you gonna run a full autopsy?”
“Not if it’s just kidney failure, which I suspect it is. It’s the warden’s call. It’s his budget.”
I clear my throat. “Doctor, for what it’s worth, Perkins was looking forward to the execution. Speaking strictly as a spiritual counselor, I knew he was prepared, even willing, to die.”
“Thank you, reverend. Can I call you if I have more questions?”
“Sure.”
I hang up the phone and roll back to bed. The sun fills my bedroom with light. I imagine Mary lying next to me, the honeyed taste of her lips, the toasty softness of her body, the smell of her sweet blond hair.
And I can’t help smiling.
Dr. Klausner would never perform a full autopsy. Would cost too much, and nobody cared about old Puff. Even if he ordered advanced blood work, he wouldn’t dream of testing for alpha-amatoxin, not for someone with a preexisting kidney condition.
So he would never conclude that Puff died from mycetism.
That’s what Amanita bisporigera did to you. The destroying angel mushroom was such a gorgeous fungus: plump, round volva for a base, pure white gills, a smooth porcelain cap… truly angelic, sent down from heaven.
Just one bite and within hours came the cramps, then the nausea and delirium, and then death by kidney failure. Not even a bite was required: the destroying angel could easily kill as an emulsified blend in Kombucha mushroom tea.
The empty plastic shot glass is still in my black jacket pocket. I need to dispose of that.
I can picture Mary inventing her quirky phrases… a cleric who kills… a monk who murders. Now I have one, too.
An angel that assassinates.
Doesn’t have the same alliteration, but I know she’ll love it. Funny how angel mushrooms look just like meadows, just like buttons.
I could never tell those damn things apart.
RIP GERBER’S first thriller,
After Dark by Alex Kava and Deb Carlin
Madeline Kramer slammed on the brakes inches from the Lexus bumper in front of her.
“Calm down, Maty,” she scolded herself and watched the Lexus driver give her the finger from out his window. She balled up her fist, disappointed that she wasn’t able to return the gesture. She could have avoided rush hour traffic if she hadn’t stopped by the office. Her first day of vacation was wasted, and for what? Gilstadt wouldn’t even look at her marketing proposal the entire time she was gone. And now she’d never make it to the cabin before dark.
She glanced in the rearview mirror. Why did she let the job take so much out of her? The lines under her eyes were becoming permanent. She raked her fingers through her hair, trying to remember the last time she had it
