RICHMOND, Indiana — "McVeigh is going to hell. Period. Point blank. If that doesn't buy you a ticket straight to hell than nothing does."

We are driving west on route 70, leaving Columbus for more of Ohio's green farmland, and it is a special Sunday morning call-in show on talk radio AM610. The radio listeners are debating the fate of Timothy McVeigh's soul. The question: Will he go to heaven?

The host, Carla, is a firm believer in the power of repentance. At any point before his death, she says, McVeigh has a chance to save himself by asking for God's forgiveness.

"If he's lying on his deathbed and says that he accepts that Jesus died for his sins, he goes right on up. Does not pass Go," she says. A surprising number of callers agree with her. They are willing to accept his redemption, want to accept it. They seem to have a lot invested in God's power to forgive us anything.

"God will look into his heart and know if he is truly repentant," a man says, though like most, he doubts this will happen.

But one woman, Lori, is outraged at the prospect of McVeigh getting a free, last-minute ride to heaven. "That is so wrong," she says. "Whatever you did to somebody — rape, murder, stabbing — that's what should happen to you."

This prompts a flurry of calls from people who want to set Lori straight about the Bible's teachings. Many have elaborate, deeply rational notions about the logistics of redemption. Others are matter-of-fact, definitive, perplexed that there are even questions on this issue.

"It doesn't matter if it isn't fair. Jesus' blood paid for it. This is 'merica. People should know this," one man says in a heavy rural drawl.

It is Sunday, less than 24 hours before McVeigh is scheduled to die. We still have 200 miles to drive to Terre Haute, and it is another perfect day. Sunny, clear, 70 degrees. The hills have vanished, and the highway is a straight shot. A long line of tractor trailers stretch to the horizon.

We scurried to get out of the campground this morning. There are tasks to tend to regarding the RV's electricity, the water. I left Andy to finish the preparations and headed to the showers. When I returned he looked rather sour.

"What?" I asked.

He shook his head soberly, "If anybody in New York gives me any problems," he said, climbing in the driver's seat, "all I have to say is 'I ... pumped ... the sewage.'"

Feeling a little more like survivalists, we hit the road. My editor had asked us to go to church this morning. To hear what people were saying in their houses of worship about McVeigh, if anything. But after a side trip to the airport to send the video we'd shot back to New York, most of the churches we passed were empty. People had already retired to their backyard barbecues or perhaps to the nearest house of retail.

We cross the border into Indiana and immediately feel a serious desire to buy some fireworks. Perhaps because in all directions, and on every manmade surface, there are signs advertising them. Andy pulls off and we traipse into a red warehouse, proclaiming itself as Shelton Fireworks, which has easily the largest collection of recreational explosives I have ever seen. Stacks and stacks of many-colored boxes line the walls, filling the aisles. Big Boys, Hula Dancers, Mortar Kits.

We strike up a conversation with three kids hanging out at a cash register. One, Dave Auman, tells me he has been working there for four years and is pretty much at the top of the chain, though he declines to elaborate on what exactly that involves. He is on summer break from Indiana University where he will be a junior next year. I ask him what he thinks about McVeigh's execution.

"It's perfectly fine," he says. "He killed all those people. Why not?"

When asked about his views on the death penalty, he responds similarly, "It's fine," but adds, "If this would have happened in another country, like in the Middle East or something, he wouldn't have got a trial, all these appeals. He would have just got killed. Dead. See ya later." He seems to approve of this result.

I ask him about the people of Indiana, how glad they will be to have this whole mess over with. Pretty glad, he guesses, especially in Terre Haute.

"That's a crappy town anyway," he says. "It kind of smells."

We roam around the store, talking to one of the managers, who gives us a brief tour of the firepower. We are awed and full of questions. He responds proudly, telling us he has been in the business for 12 or 15 years, though he looks to be in his late 20s.

Then it's back on the road, across the billboard-littered state of Indiana. At some point, Andy's phone rings. "Hello," he answers. "I pumped the sewage."

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