"Fine, Governor, fine."

The Governor hung up. Johnson looked at the phone in his hand. "Go to hell," he snarled and slammed it onto the cradle.

His profanity startled his secretary who had just slithered quietly into the office with the walk she usually reserved for walking past groups of prisoners.

"There's a priest and another man here," she said. "Should I bring them in?"

"No," Johnson said. "Have the priest taken down to see the prisoner, Williams. Have the other man escorted to the death house. I don't want to see them."

"What about our chaplain, warden? Isn't it strange to...?"

Johnson interrupted. "This whole damn business of being the state's executioner is strange, Miss Scanlon. Just do what I say."

He spun around in his chair to look at the air conditioner pumping cool, fresh, clean air into his office.

Remo Williams lay on his back, his eyes shut, his fingers drumming silently on his stomach. What was death anyway? Like sleep? He liked to sleep. Most people liked to sleep. Why fear death?

If he opened his eyes, he would see the cell. But in his personal darkness, he was free for a moment, free from the jail and the men who would kill him, free from the gray bars and the harsh overhead light. Darkness was peaceful.

He heard the soft rhythm of feet padding along the corridor, louder, louder, louder. Then they stopped. Voices mumbled, clothes rustled, keys tingled and then with a clack, the cell door opened. Remo blinked in the yellow light. A brown-robed monk clutching a black cross with a silver Christ stood inside the cell door waiting. The dark cowl shaded the monk's eyes. He held the crucifix in his right hand, the left apparently tucked beneath the folds of his robe.

The guard, stepping back from the cell door, said to Remo: "The priest."

Remo sat up on the cot, bringing his legs in front of him. His back was to the wall. The monk stood motionless.