HE FELT HIMSELF BEING WRENCHED AND FLUNG—
AS IF ACROSS SOME IMAGINABLE DISTANCE OF TIME OR SPACE…
The aged face of the man who called himself James Rater Bailey had worn a snarl when they left him alone in the cell with Doug. His gnarled fingers clutched at the tattered charms he always wore about his throat and he muttered something, as if praying to the devils it had been said he worshipped.
Doug has never sought help, knowing he could expect none. It had been a fair fight after he was attacked, and the hoodlum’s death had been an accident. Doug could have escaped if he had not called for an ambulance. But he had not asked for mercy even after he had learned the drunk was the son of the state’s Governor. He had faced their gas chamber without pleading.
“Doug.” The old man’s voice had been urgent. “I came to help you—for your grandfather’s sake.”
Doug snorted. “Miracles don’t work against cyanide.”
“Doug, listen. You won’t believe me—nobody ever did. But take this!” A tiny capsule had fallen from his crooked hand.
Now, fighting the spasms from the deadly gas, Doug seemed to be dreaming . . of another time and place…