45. #3
But she was. She could feel the soil under her, feel the coolness on her bloody head as she was dragged into the forest. There
was the sour taste of fear in her mouth. For the first time she could remember, she felt afraid, because now she had a sliver
of hope that her mom was still alive, someplace out there, and if Ruby died, she would not be able to save her.
Charise?
Yes. I’m here. It’s not easy for us to talk so directly. I won’t be able to do this for very long. Please listen.
What do I do?
In a minute, he’s going to pull you over a rock. It will be right next to your hand. Can you feel your hand?
Yes.
Grab that rock.
Ruby did. She felt its rough surface in her limp fingers.
In about ten more paces, he will stop. That is where he will dig the hole.
I want my—
This is your only chance. When he drops you, lie there like you are still out. Hide that rock in your hand. Don’t let him see it.
He stopped, dropping her feet. She could feel him turn around to look at her. His gaze felt hot, scornful. Then he went to
work. The rock was hidden in her hand, buried under the cicada shells.
She could hear the sound of a shovel parting the earth. He must keep it out here, she thought. The soil, clumped with clay,
crawling with worms and smelling of death, was deposited near her head. She was lying above a mass grave. Under her, she knew,
lay Betty Dubois. Betty called to her now. All of them called, clacking at her from under the earth.
A drop of foul dirt hit her face. She heard him grunting with effort. The shovel moved faster.
Ruby?
Yes.
You’re going to swing when I say swing. He’ll be done digging in a few minutes.
I’m . . . hurt. He hit me hard.
Stay awake.
There was silence. She felt dirt trickle near her face. There was a sound: He was setting the shovel aside. She could feel
his foul breath as he knelt over her, ready to push her into the rotting grave.
Now, Ruby.
Her eyes popped open, and she was looking right up at her father, who was reaching for her with long, dirty fingers.
Their eyes met, and his widened in surprise. All the power and rage of all the missing women was in her fist, and she swung
the rock, hard, right where she knew it would count the most: his soft, fragile temple.
The crack was shockingly loud and echoed through the woods.
She could see the pain radiate in his eyes.
Good job! Keep going.
She was on her knees now, scrambling after him as he tried to retreat, tried to wipe the blood now spurting down his face
and reach for the knife at his belt. She knew that if he got to it, it would be all over. She wanted to beg him, plead with
him to tell her where her mother was, but she didn’t have time. He would kill her instead. She had to save herself.
She swung the rock again and again as the blood ran in crazy directions over his face. There was zero hesitation in her.
He fell to his knees on the forest floor, among the dead, silent cicadas, and put his hands instinctively, helplessly, over
his eyes, and she knew that the last image she would have of her father would be this one, as she killed him for taking her
mother away.
The rock, slippery and useless with his blood, fell from her hand. She dropped to her knees, breathing hard. She felt dizzy
and disoriented. She felt the back of her head, and winced at the bloody wound.
“I have to save him now,” Ruby mumbled.
She felt the blood drip on the forest floor.
Yes. Save your brother.
The bone sang all the way to the prison. It sang name after name, woman after woman—all the women he had taken from Georgia
and Oregon. Were any still alive, like he had said? The exonerator would have to find out.
Frances McCabe.
Kelly Ruth Carroll.
Elizabeth Cochrane.
Lynn Andrews-Banks.
Natalie Gray.
Desirée Spencer.
Anna Bender.
Charise Brown.
Rosanna Higginbottom.
Lashonda Grimes.
Malorie Gilbert.
The bone sang, more and more names. There would be dozens by the end.
Gratitude Barnett.
Lisa Sharp.
Meadow Coolidge.
On and on, a litany of names.
Betty Dubois.
Avery Porter.
The names became a song, and every flag on that map stood at attention. Then the voice slowly faded, and the flags laid down,
and Ruby knew she would not hear from Charise again.
Ruby ran into the death house. Behind her, Jerrod Tinsley, stepping from his car and straightening his tie, barely had time
to think of trying to stop her before she was through the doors. The reporters blinked at the bloody woman running into the
prison.
In the viewing room, Ruby could see Mitchell through the glass. He was on the gurney. They were all watching the final seconds
drain away on the clock. She knew she looked a mess, with a bloody scalp and dirt and mud and leaves all over her clothes.
Her arms were coated with blood.
Everyone turned. Terrence half rose.
The corrections officers who had let her in followed her, out of concern.
Mitchell met her eyes, and the warden raised his hand, reluctantly. He did not want to postpone this execution.
She said the one thing she knew would get their attention.
“Call the governor. Tell him there’s something he wants to know.”