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Percy
slapped
the
dead
man
's
cheek
.
The
flat
smacking
sound
of
his
hand
made
us
all
jump
.
Percy
looked
around
at
us
with
a
cocky
smile
on
his
mouth
,
eyes
glittering
.
Then
he
looked
back
at
Bitterbuck
again
.
"
Adios
,
Chief
,
"
he
said
.
"
Hope
hell
's
hot
enough
for
you
.
"
"
Do
n't
do
that
,
"
Brutal
said
,
his
voice
hollow
and
declamatory
in
the
dripping
tunnel
.
"
He
's
paid
what
he
owed
.
He
's
square
with
the
house
again
.
You
keep
your
hands
off
him
.
"
"
Aw
,
blow
it
out
,
"
Percy
said
,
but
he
stepped
back
uneasily
when
Brutal
moved
toward
him
,
shadow
rising
behind
him
like
the
shadow
of
that
ape
in
the
story
about
the
Rue
Morgue
.
But
instead
of
grabbing
at
Percy
,
Brutal
grabbed
hold
of
the
gurney
and
began
pushing
Arlen
Bitterbuck
slowly
toward
the
far
end
of
the
tunnel
,
where
his
last
ride
was
waiting
,
parked
on
the
soft
shoulder
of
the
highway
.
The
gurney
's
hard
rubber
wheels
moaned
on
the
boards
;
its
shadow
rode
the
bulging
brick
wall
,
waxing
and
waning
;
Dean
and
Harry
grasped
the
sheet
at
the
foot
and
pulled
it
up
over
The
Chief
's
face
,
which
had
already
begun
to
take
on
the
waxy
,
characterless
cast
of
all
dead
faces
,
the
innocent
as
well
as
the
guilty
.
When
I
was
eighteen
,
my
Uncle
Paul
--
the
man
I
was
named
for
--
died
of
a
heart
attack
.
My
mother
and
dad
took
me
to
Chicago
with
them
to
attend
his
funeral
and
visit
relatives
from
my
father
's
side
of
the
family
,
many
of
whom
I
had
never
met
.
We
were
gone
almost
a
month
.
In
some
ways
that
was
a
good
trip
,
a
necessary
and
exciting
trip
,
but
in
another
way
it
was
horrible
.
I
was
deeply
in
love
,
you
see
,
with
the
young
woman
who
was
to
become
my
wife
two
weeks
after
my
nineteenth
birthday
.
One
night
when
my
longing
for
her
was
like
a
fire
burning
out
of
control
in
my
heart
and
my
head
(
oh
yes
,
all
right
,
and
in
my
balls
,
as
well
)
,
I
wrote
her
a
letter
that
just
seemed
to
go
on
and
on
--
I
poured
out
my
whole
heart
in
it
,
never
looking
back
to
see
what
I
'd
said
because
I
was
afraid
cowardice
would
make
me
stop
.
I
did
n't
stop
,
and
when
a
voice
in
my
head
clamored
that
it
would
be
madness
to
mail
such
a
letter
,
that
I
would
be
giving
her
my
naked
heart
to
hold
in
her
hand
,
I
ignored
it
with
a
child
's
breathless
disregard
of
the
consequences
.
I
often
wondered
if
Janice
kept
that
letter
,
but
never
quite
got
up
enough
courage
to
ask
.
All
I
know
for
sure
is
that
I
did
not
find
it
when
I
went
through
her
things
after
the
funeral
,
and
of
course
that
by
itself
means
nothing
.
I
suppose
I
never
asked
because
I
was
afraid
of
discovering
that
burning
epistle
meant
less
to
her
than
it
did
to
me
.
It
was
four
pages
long
,
I
thought
I
would
never
write
anything
longer
in
my
life
,
and
now
look
at
this
.
All
this
,
and
the
end
still
not
in
sight
.
If
I
'd
known
the
story
was
going
to
go
on
this
long
,
I
might
never
have
started
.
What
I
did
n't
realize
was
how
many
doors
the
act
of
writing
unlocks
,
as
if
my
Dad
's
old
fountain
pen
was
n't
really
a
pen
at
all
,
but
some
strange
variety
of
skeleton
key
.
The
mouse
is
probably
the
best
example
of
what
I
'm
talking
about
--
Steamboat
Willy
,
Mr.
Jingles
,
the
mouse
on
the
Mile
.
Until
I
started
to
write
,
I
never
realized
how
important
he
(
yes
,
he
)
was
.
The
way
he
seemed
to
be
looking
for
Delacroix
before
Delacroix
arrived
,
for
instance
--
I
do
n't
think
that
ever
occurred
to
me
,
not
to
my
conscious
mind
,
anyway
,
until
I
began
to
write
and
remember
.
I
guess
what
I
'm
saying
is
that
I
did
n't
realize
how
far
back
I
'd
have
to
go
in
order
to
tell
you
about
John
Coffey
,
or
how
long
I
'd
have
to
leave
him
there
in
his
cell
,
a
man
so
huge
his
feet
did
n't
just
stick
off
the
end
of
his
bunk
but
hung
down
all
the
way
to
the
floor
.
I
do
n't
want
you
to
forget
him
,
all
right
?
I
want
you
to
see
him
there
,
looking
up
at
the
ceiling
of
his
cell
,
weeping
his
silent
tears
,
or
putting
his
arms
over
his
face
.
I
want
you
to
hear
him
,
his
sighs
that
trembled
like
sobs
,
his
occasional
watery
groan
.
These
were
n't
the
sounds
of
agony
and
regret
we
sometimes
heard
on
E
Block
,
sharp
cries
with
splinters
of
remorse
in
them
;
like
his
wet
eyes
,
they
were
somehow
removed
from
the
pain
we
were
used
to
dealing
with
In
a
way
--
I
know
how
crazy
this
will
sound
,
of
course
I
do
,
but
there
is
no
sense
in
writing
something
as
long
as
this
if
you
ca
n't
say
what
feels
true
to
your
heart
--
in
a
way
it
was
as
if
it
was
sorrow
for
the
whole
world
he
felt
,
something
too
big
ever
to
be
completely
eased
.
Sometimes
I
sat
and
talked
to
him
,
as
I
did
with
all
of
them
--
talking
was
our
biggest
,
most
important
job
,
as
I
believe
I
have
said
--
and
I
tried
to
comfort
him
.
I
do
n't
feel
that
I
ever
did
,
and
part
of
my
heart
was
glad
he
was
suffering
,
you
know
.
Felt
he
deserved
to
suffer
.
I
even
thought
sometimes
of
calling
the
governor
(
or
getting
Percy
to
do
it
--
hell
,
he
was
Percy
's
damn
uncle
,
not
mine
)
and
asking
for
a
stay
of
execution
.
We
should
n't
burn
him
yet
,
I
'd
say
It
's
still
hurting
him
too
much
,
biting
into
him
too
much
,
twisting
in
his
guts
like
a
nice
sharp
stick
.
Give
him
another
ninety
days
,
your
honor
,
sir
.
Let
him
go
on
doing
to
himself
what
we
ca
n't
do
to
him
.
It
's
that
John
Coffey
I
'd
have
you
keep
to
one
side
of
your
mind
while
I
finish
catching
up
to
where
I
started
--
that
John
Coffey
lying
on
his
bunk
,
that
John
Coffey
who
was
afraid
of
the
dark
perhaps
with
good
reason
,
for
in
the
dark
might
not
two
shapes
with
blonde
curls
--
no
longer
little
girls
but
avenging
harpies
--
be
waiting
for
him
?
That
John
Coffey
whose
eyes
were
always
streaming
tears
,
like
blood
from
a
wound
that
can
never
heal
.
So
The
Chief
burned
and
The
President
walked
--
as
far
as
C
Block
,
anyway
,
which
was
home
to
most
of
Cold
Mountain
's
hundred
and
fifty
lifers
.
Life
for
The
Pres
turned
out
to
be
twelve
years
.
He
was
drowned
in
the
prison
laundry
in
1944
.
Not
the
Cold
Mountain
prison
laundry
;
Cold
Mountain
closed
in
1933
.
I
do
n't
suppose
it
mattered
much
to
the
inmates
--
wars
is
walls
,
as
the
cons
say
,
and
Old
Sparky
was
every
bit
as
lethal
in
his
own
little
stone
death
chamber
,
I
reckon
,
as
he
'd
ever
been
in
the
storage
room
at
Cold
Mountain
.
