100 Malicious Little Mysteries

The Last Smile by Henry Slesar

The arrogance went first. The clanging of the death-cell door drove it out of Finlay the first day. Then he turned sullen, uncooperative, his young face taking on the protective coloration of the cement block that lined his prison. He wouldn’t eat, talk, or see the chaplain. He snarled at his own lawyer, muttered at the guards, and kept his own company. A week before the scheduled execution, he began to cry in his sleep. He was twenty-one years old, and with the aid of an accomplice, had mercilessly beaten and slain an aged storekeeper.

On the morning of the fifth day, he woke out of a nightmare in which he had been sentenced to die. Finding the dream sustained by reality, he began to scream and hurl himself against the steel bars. Two guards came into his cell and threatened him with mechanical restraints, but they failed to quiet him down. An hour later, the prison chaplain, a silver-haired, stocky man with the pained face of a colicky infant, looked in on him and said the same old things. This time, however, there was an air of pleading that made Finlay listen harder.

“Please,” the chaplain whispered. “Be a good fellow and let me come in. It’s important, really.”

“What’s important?” he said bitterly. “I don’t want you praying over me.”

“Please,” the chaplain said in a curious, begging tone. The boy in the cell wondered at it, and wearily gave his permission. Once the chaplain had been admitted, however, he regretted the decision. The silver-haired man took a small black book from his pocket.

“No!” Finlay yelled. “None of that! I don’t want no Bible reading!”

“Just look at it,” the chaplain said, his face reddening. “Here, take a look.”

Finlay took the small thick volume from the plump fingers. Outside the cell, a guard with a comfortable paunch stood profiled against the hall light. Finlay looked at the open page, marked Revelation, and then at the tiny slip of white paper that had been stuck into the binding of the book. The handwritten message read:

Finlay blinked at it rapidly, and then looked at the cherubic face of the man beside him. The round chin fitted the turnabout collar like an egg in an eggcup, and the expression on the baby features was impassive.

“Now can we talk?” the chaplain said cheerfully. “There’s so little time, my son.”

“Yes,” Finlay said vaguely. “Listen, what’s the—”

“Shush!” A chubby finger crossed the chaplain’s lips. “Let us not speak any longer, son. Let us pray.” He placed his palms together, and closed his eyes. Bewildered, Finlay mimicked him, and the chaplain droned on in a convincing monotone about salvation and redemption. When he was through, he beamed at the prisoner and took his leave.

Finlay didn’t see the chaplain again until late that evening. This time, there wasn’t any hesitation about admitting the chubby little man to his cell. As soon as he was inside, Finlay whispered hoarsely at him:

“Listen, I gotta know. Was it Willie sent you? Willie Parks?”

“Shush,” the chaplain said nervously, looking at the strolling guard. “Let us not speak of earthly matters...”

“It is Willie,” Finlay breathed. “I knew Willie wouldn’t let me down.” As the chaplain opened his little black book, he grinned and leaned back on the cot. “Go on, pal, I’m listening.”

“The Bible tells us to have courage, my son,” the chaplain said meaningfully. “The Bible tells us to keep faith in ourselves, our friends, and our Lord. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Finlay said.

That night, he slept well for the first time since his imprisonment. In the morning, he asked for the chaplain again, and the guard raised an eyebrow at the sudden conversion. When the little man arrived, Finlay smiled broadly at him and said: “What’s the Bible say this morning, chaplain?”

“It speaks of hope,” the chaplain said gravely. “Shall we read it together?”

“Sure, sure, whatever you say.”

The chaplain read a lengthy passage, and Finlay began to stir restlessly. Then, just as he was about to explode with impatience, the chaplain handed the small book over, and Finlay saw the written message in the binding:

The chaplain smiled at the prisoner, patted his shoulder, and called the guard.

On the beginning of what was officially his last day on earth, Finlay was visited by his attorney, a small man with a perennially moist upper lip. He had nothing to offer in the way of hope for commutation of the sentence, and Finlay gathered that his visit was merely to satisfy the contract. He seemed surprised by the condemned man’s congeniality, a sharp contrast to the hostility he had shown before. In the afternoon, the prison warden came by and asked Finlay again if he cared to reveal the name of his accomplice in the murder of the storekeeper, but Finlay merely smiled and wanted to know if he could see the chaplain. The warden pursed his lips and sighed. At six that evening, the chaplain returned.

“How’s it gonna work?” Finlay whispered to him. “Do I crash outa here, or—”

“Shush,” the little man warned. “We must trust a Higher Power.”

Finlay nodded, and then they read the Bible together.

At ten-thirty that night, two guards entered Finlay’s cell and performed the ugly duties of shaving his head and slitting the cuffs of his trousers. The ceremony made him nervous, and he began to doubt that his escape was ordained. He started to rave and demanded to see the chaplain; the little man appeared hurriedly and talked to him in quiet, firm tones about faith and courage. As he spoke, he placed a folded slip of paper into the boy’s hands; Finlay swiftly hid it under the blanket of his cot. When he was alone once more, he opened the note and read it. It said:

Finlay spent the rest of the time tearing the note into the tiniest possible shreds and spreading them around the floor of the cell.

At five minutes to eleven, they came for him. The two guards flanked him, and the warden took up the rear. The chaplain was permitted to walk beside him all the way to the green metal door at the end of the corridor. Just before they entered the room, with its silent audience of reporters and observers, the chaplain bent toward him and whispered:

“You’ll be meeting Willie soon.”

Finlay winked and allowed the guards to lead him to the chair. As they strapped him in, his features were calm. Before the hood was dropped over his face, he smiled.

After the execution, the warden asked to see the chaplain in his office.

“I suppose you heard about Finlay’s accomplice, Willie Parks. He was shot and killed this afternoon.”

“Yes, I did. Rest his poor soul.”

“Strange, how Finlay took it all so calmly. He was a wild man before you started working on him. What did you do to that boy, chaplain?”

The chaplain put his fingertips together, his expression benign.

“I gave him hope,” he said.