Terminal

I saw on the news that Sheila was going to sue the police department over it, but before that ever happened, she was dead. She committed suicide one month after the robbery. Witnesses said she walked in front of a bus during rush hour. Just stepped right off the curb. The bus driver couldn’t stop in time. According to the papers, she’d been distraught over the death of her son. Distraught? Yeah, I fucking damn well guess she was. When I think back to what Benjy had looked like . . . His chest was— it was open, and . . .

I don’t want to talk about that anymore.

Maybe Martha was right all along. Crazy old Bible-thumping “Oh my . . .” Martha. Maybe a blood sacrifice was the only thing that could wash away the sins we committed, the innocent blood of a lamb. Maybe Benjy was the expiation that she said the Lord required. I was a sinner and I asked to be saved. The Lord granted my wish but took Benjy’s life in return. That’s the only way I see it. I’ve tried and tried to wrap my brain around it. Why was he given such a unique gift, only to have it taken away— to have his life taken away? Expiation makes sense to me—

and at first, I hated Him even more for it. Hated Him, and feared Him too. They tried John and me separately. We both had public defenders. Neither knew what the fuck they were doing, or didn’t care, or both. John got ten to fifteen years and is eligible for parole in eight. I was sentenced to a term of not less than fifty years and not to exceed my natural life. Natural life— what the fuck is that? I’m up for parole in fifty years, maybe. John and I both testified that Sherm masterminded the whole thing in response to my cancer, and that we were just a couple of duped accomplices, and the bank security cameras documented much of it, but all that defense did was save me from getting a death sentence.

A death sentence . . . I think about that a lot, especially at night. Of being strapped into the electric chair and what it would feel like as all that electricity surged through my body. Of being tied to a gurney and feeling the cool wetness of an alcoholic swab on my arm (to prevent infection), followed by that final sting as the needle delivered a lethal injection. I think a lot about death.

Michelle. Well, she hung in there during the trial. She showed up every day, looking as pretty and beautiful as the day I’d met her. Sometimes she brought T. J. and other times she came alone, while her mom babysat. The trial was hard on her, but it was harder on him. She sat behind me and she held my hand when the verdict was read, and she didn’t cry. She stayed strong. Roy, Oscar, Kim, and Sharon testified at the trial. None of them brought up Benjy’s abilities. Oscar tried to, just the once, but the prosecutor objected and his statement was stricken from the record. I don’t know what happened to any of them after that. Except for Roy. Here’s a weird thing. The bank security cameras captured the heist, but when it came to Benjy’s healing acts, all the footage became snow. An electronic glitch I was told. My lawyer tried to use that in our defense, but it didn’t work.

During the trial, I was a guest of the York County prison. After sentencing, they moved me to the D block of the Cresson State Prison Facility. It’s not so bad here. Definitely better than county jail. Nobody has tried to rape me or make me his bitch. We’ve got cable TV in the cells, and monitored Internet access once a week. I watch a lot of Howard Stern and Comedy Central, and anything with girls in bikinis. They’ve got me working in the library, which beats the hell out of slaving in the kitchen. I lift weights in the gym, something I never had time to do before on the outside, and I read a lot. Elmore Leonard. Richard Laymon. Western novels by Ed Gorman. The Bible. Like I said earlier, I guess you could say that John’s vision and Benjy’s powers made me a believer. In fact, I’m scared not to believe. I asked God for some proof and He sent me some, Old Testament style.

In addition to the books, I read the newspaper too. I get the Hanover Evening Sun, though I have to wait an extra day for it to be delivered. It’s weird to read about my old hometown, and to know that it continues to go on, that the people I knew survive and get on with their lives, even though I’m not there anymore.

I only have one cellmate, a guy named Edgar, who’s in here for killing his girlfriend while driving drunk. She went through the windshield, flew about fifty feet, and smashed her head open on a retaining wall. Died on impact. Edgar was charged with vehicular manslaughter, except that Edgar insists he wasn’t driving. He just can’t prove it.

Same situation as me, if you think about it. I didn’t kill anybody in that bank. I just can’t prove it. Inside this place, we’re all innocent. Except for in our hearts. Our hearts convict us, and in my heart, I’m guilty as sin. I killed those people. Their blood is on my hands. Innocent blood. Blood of the lamb. Expiation.