'Hold on a second longer, hoss,' Brutal said, and checked the crown of Del's head, where the cap would go. He nodded at me, then clapped Del on the shoulder. 'Right with Eversharp. We're on our way.'

So Eduard Delacroix took his last walk on the Green Mile with little streams of mingled sweat and tears running down his cheeks and big thunder rolling in the sky overhead. Brutal walked on the condemned man's left, I was on his right, Dean was to the rear.

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' P re, qui tes 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 d liverez-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 gr ce; le Seigneur est avec vous; vous tes b nie entre toutes les femmes, et mon cher J sus, le fruit de vos entrailles, est b ni.' He was crying again, but I don't think he knew it. 'Sainte Marie,O ma mere, M re de Dieu, priez pour moi, priez pour nous, pauv' p cheurs, maint'ant et l'heure... l'heure de n tre 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.

'Stop at the bottom, Del,' I told him in a low voice as he went through, but it was advice I needn't have given him. He stopped at the foot of the stairs, all right, stopped cold, and what did it was the sight of Percy Wetmore standing there on the platform, with the sponge-bucket by one foot and the phone that went to the governor just visible beyond his right hip.

'Non,' Del said in a low, horrified voice. 'Non, non, not him!'

'Walk on,' Brutal said. 'You just keep your eyes on me and Paul. Forget he's there at all.'

'But—'

People had turned to look at us, but by moving my body a bit, I could still grip Delacroix's left elbow without being seen. 'Steady,' I said in a voice only Del—and perhaps Brutal—could hear. 'The only thing most of these people will remember about you is how you go out, so give them something good.'

The loudest crack of thunder yet broke overhead at that moment, loud enough to make the storage room's tin roof vibrate. Percy jumped as if someone had goosed him, and Del gave a small, contemptuous snort of laughter. 'It get much louder dan dat, he gonna piddle in his pants again,' he said, and then squared his shoulders—not that he had much to square. 'Come on. Let's get it over.'

We walked to the platform. Delacroix ran a nervous eye over the witnesses—about twenty-five of them this time—as we went, but Brutal, Dean, and I kept our own eyes trained on the chair. All looked in order to me. I raised one thumb and a questioning eyebrow to Percy, who gave a little one-sided grimace, as if to say What do you mean, is everything all right? Of course it is.

I hoped he was right.

Brutal and I reached automatically for Delacroix's elbows as he stepped up onto the platform. It's only eight or so inches up from the floor, but you'd be surprised how many of them, even the toughest of tough babies, need help to make that last step up of their lives.

Del did okay, though. He stood in front of the chair for a moment (resolutely not looking at Percy), then actually spoke to it, as if introducing himself: 'C'est moi,' he said. Percy reached for him, but Delacroix turned around on his own and sat down. I knelt on what was now his left side, and Brutal knelt on his right. I guarded my crotch and my throat in the manner I have already described, then swung the clamp in so that its open jaws encircled the skinny white flesh just above the Cajun's ankle. Thunder bellowed and I jumped. Sweat ran in my eye, stinging. Mouseville, I kept thinking for some reason. Mouseville, and how it cost a dime to get in. Two cents for the kiddies, who would look at Mr. Jingles through his ivy-glass windows.

The clamp was balky, wouldn't shut. I could hear Del breathing in great dry pulls of air, lungs that would be charred bags less than four minutes from now laboring to keep up with his fear-driven heart. The fact that he had killed half a dozen people seemed at that moment the least important thing about him. I'm not trying to say anything about right and wrong here, but only to tell how it was.

Dean knelt next to me and whispered, 'What's wrong, Paul?'

'I can't—' I began, and then the clamp closed with an audible snapping sound. It must have also pinched a fold of Delacroixs skin in its jaws, because he flinched and made a little hissing noise. 'Sorry,' I said.

'It okay, boss,' Del said. 'It only gonna hurt for a minute.'