Remo held the pill on his tongue. The man was no longer smiling.

Remo glared at him. Why were all the big decisions in his life forced on him when he didn't have time to think? He tongued the pill. Poison? No point in that. Spit it out? Then what?

Nothing to lose. Lose? He wasn't winning. Remo tried to taste the pill without letting it touch his teeth. No taste. The monk hovered over him. Remo nestled the pill under his tongue and said a very fast and very sincere prayer. "Okay," he said.

"Time's up," the guard's voice boomed.

"God bless you my son," the monk said loudly, making the sign of the cross with the crucifix. Then, in a whisper, "See you later."

He padded from the cell, his head bowed, the crucifix before him and his left hand flinting steel. Steel? It was a hook.

Remo placed his right hand on the cot and got to his feet. The saliva seemed to gush into his mouth. He wanted to swallow bad. Hold down the pill. Under the tongue. Right where it is. Okay, now swallow... carefully.

"All right, Remo," the guard said. "Time to go."

The cell door was open, with one guard on each side. A large, blond man and the regular prison chaplain waited in the center of Death Row. The monk was gone. Remo swallowed once more, very carefully, clamped his tongue down over the pill and walked out to meet them.

Harold Haines didn't like it. Four executions in seven years, and all of a sudden, the state had to send in electricians to monkey with the power box.

"A routine check," they had said. "You haven't used it for three years. We just want to make sure it'll work."

And now, it just didn't sound right. Haines' pale face tilted toward the head-high gray regulator panel as he turned a rheostat. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced momentarily at the glass partition separating the control room from the chair room.