At the sound of bone cracking, the other inmates backed off and guards attacked Denger. I ran over to the limp figure of Percy, blood slowly pooling out from his head.
"What in the hell are you doing?" I heard Bill Dodge yell over the quieting clamor.
Brutal was soon holding my shoulders as I attempted to squat next to Percy's body.
"Oh my God," I cried. "I couldn't save him."
"He may still be alive," Brutal answered. "But who cares anyway."
"How can you say that? He redeemed himself by resisting—and I let another one slip through my hands…."
"He killed Dean, Paul."
I looked incredulously at Brutal. My head was throbbing, and I hoped that I'd be able to hear Brutal over the ringing in my ears.
"While you were out of it, Percy admitted that he had falsely accused Denger. It was he that took advantage of Dean's arguing with Denger to slit Dean's throat. Dean fell onto Denger after he was shanked, so Denger threw his body over the fencing before the blood could get all over him and he'd look like the guilty one. He actually had no idea who had actually killed Dean until around the same time we got the 'confession' from Percy."
Suddenly, I felt dizzy, and almost stumbled to the floor. Brutal caught me, and continued to explain as I sank down slowly onto my haunches.
"After we talked to Percy earlier, I left C Block but told the guards what had happened, and to get Denger, but to wait until he was back in his cell. Not only did they bring Percy to dinner where Denger was, but then they approached Denger at the same time. They made it obvious as all hell."
I stared at Percy's motionless body on the floor, watching his chest intently for any sign of breathing. He was still breathing, but very shallowly. So I was wrong about the man again. He was no fearful, innocent child or untrusting dog having been beaten through the years. Percy Wetmore was an evil man, and he was still alive.
"You're in bad shape, Paul," I heard Brutal say. "We need to get you to the infirmary."
I watched the guards restraining the inmates, taking them out of the shower room, all ignoring the body in front of me. I couldn't help but stare at the motionless body of Percy. The eyes that had watched Eduard Delacroix fry in Old Sparky, the foot that had smashed Mr. Jingles to the tiles of the green mile, the hand that had held the gun that killed Wild Bill six times over. The blood that spilled out each second, distancing the soul—wherever it was hiding in Percy—from life.
"Make sure Percy gets to the infirmary first," I told Brutal. "He's gonna be dead soon if we don't hurry."
He flashed me a look of confusion. The thought of saving Percy's life was apparently not a priority—or even an option—to anyone.
"Please, Brutal," I managed to murmur, flecks of light beginning to appear in my vision again, "Good or bad, he shouldn't die here today."
I visited Percy several times after the incident. I waited 'til my arm finally healed up, and I can only assume that John Coffey was responsible for allowing me to live the day that Percy re-entered the world of catatonia. I suffered four broken ribs, a fractured skull, a major slice in my arm that required fifteen stitches, a shattered forearm that had once been a fractured forearm, and I lost almost a third of my blood, I'm told. And yet I lived—a miracle, just like poor old John Coffey.
I was told that Percy was physically harmed less than me that day. Of course, he had a few slices in his neck and a fractured skull himself, but even so, with fewer injuries, he ended up much worse off than me. I'll always wonder if John Coffey had anything to do with how he ended up.
He was only moved up the road a few miles, at Briar Ridge, a former home of his, and ironically, where he was originally intending on working. They kept him in a padded room where the nurses slid rubber trays through a slit in the door and he was kept away from any kind of sharp object. Apparently Briar Ridge knew what Percy was capable of. They only allowed me to enter the room because I was a prison guard and I 'knew' how to handle him, if he'd by some chance snap out of it. They said he was bound to snap out of it again at any minute, but I surely doubted that, even at the time. And I was correct; he never did snap out of it again.
Of all the bad judgments I've made in the past, I'm certain in knowing Percy hadn't—and never did—learn a damn thing from all that happened to him. Though he withered away over the years in Briar Ridge as his body and mind decayed, his experiences taught me some hard-earned lessons. That being, some people just don't change. Sometimes there isn't a lesson to be learned; there isn't a greater purpose for the violence and suffering in this world. Though he's no better off now than before John Coffey rode the lightning, the lessons Percy Wetmore taught me will remain with me until the day I die—whenever that may be. And God help me, I only wish I knew when.