Executioner's Lament

by Justin Rishel

  Justin Rishel

  Executioner’s Lament

  Book 2 of the Martin Aubrey Series

  First published by Rowdy Dog Press 2020

  Copyright © 2020 by Justin Rishel

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-7344133-3-5

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  For E, G, and T.

  Makers, menders, learners.

  Contents

  Prologue

  I. PART ONE

  1. The Tapper

  2. Signs

  3. The Apprentice

  4. The Mentor

  5. Martin Aubrey

  6. Malina Maddox

  7. Strangers

  8. Ryan Grant

  9. Sacrifice

  10. The Member Principal

  11. The Sacred Task

  12. Aftermath

  13. Partners

  14. Index Cases

  15. The Hunter

  II. PART TWO

  16. Rewards

  17. Liz Reynolds

  18. Trails

  19. Dead Ends

  20. Plans

  21. Convergence

  22. Descent

  23. Eruption

  24. Answers and Questions

  III. PART THREE

  25. Beginnings

  26. Old Friends

  27. Ascent

  28. Barter

  29. Reunion

  30. The Long Fall

  31. Rest for the Weary

  Epilogue

  Before you go

  About the Author

  Prologue

  MARYLAND GENERAL ASSEMBLY

  1982 Regular Session

  To: Judiciary, Division A

  By: Senator(s) Berman, Golec, Fackrell

  Senate Bill 773256

  AN ACT TO AMEND SECTION 97-3-19, MARYLAND CODE OF 1972, TO CREATE AN AGENCY OF THE JUDICIAL BRANCH THAT SHALL CARRY OUT TERMINAL SENTENCING OF PERSONS FOUND GUILTY OF A CRIME RESULTING IN THEIR IMPRISONMENT.

  BE IT ENACTED BY THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY OF THE STATE OF MARYLAND:

  SECTION 1.97-3-19, Maryland Code of 1972, is amended as follows:

  (1) An agency of the Judicial Branch shall be created to carry out death penalty sentencing upon persons imprisoned in Maryland state prisons.

  (2) The agency shall be charged with the execution of imprisoned persons judged to be unworthy of life.

  (3) A person shall be unworthy of life who has been deemed incorrigible by the agency and no form of treatment nor time shall redeem the person from committing evil acts causing death or serious injury to others.

  (4) The agency shall observe and assess imprisoned persons in an objective and unbiased manner before judging and selecting said persons for death.

  (5) The agency shall swiftly and without malice or unnecessary suffering, carry out the death penalty on imprisoned persons selected for death.

  (6) The authority granted herein to the agency shall last no less than ninety-nine (99) years from the passage of this act.

  (7) The agency hereby created shall be called Order of the Coppice.

  I

  Part One

  1

  The Tapper

  Brother Rudolfo, Member of the Order of the Coppice, watched the three inmates from a small observation room not far from where they sat. He watched and listened to the conversations and interactions taking place between them.

  The cameras looked down on the inmates wearing their normal white prison uniforms. Their black barcodes tattooed down the middle of their shaved heads, looking up at Rudolfo. They were taking advantage of regularly scheduled recreation time by enjoying a game of cards. For Rudolfo, it was an opportune moment to watch.

  The rec room was set up precisely for these observations. While it did serve to alleviate some of the inmate population’s profound boredom and its resultant bad behavior, the primary purpose of the room was for behavioral analysis—the type Rudolfo was conducting at that moment.

  At first glance, any casual passerby would see the space as a standard rec room for a prison population. Stationed around the room were shelves of books and magazines, boxes with checkers sets, board games, stacks of playing cards, and in the corner a small TV playing the national news around the clock.

  Casual observers in the Maryland Regional Corrections Center, also called the Coppice or the Keep, would not notice the half dozen cameras, sensors, and scanners hidden throughout it. Rudolfo watched on a video screen as the three men, inmates 5334, 8920, and 4557, sat in metal chairs around a plastic square table playing a game of cards he didn’t recognize.

  To the naked eye, their card game was civil and mundane, meant for the men to break up the monotony of the day and commiserate with others suffering the same plight.

  “Good throw, man,” inmate 5334 said, nodding his approval of 4557’s expert play on the last hand.

  “Yeah, where’d you learn to play, newbie?” 8920 asked.

  4557 was pulling in small stacks of cards from the other two inmates. He raked them in with wide eyes and a Cheshire grin.

  “Oh, I learnt here and thar. But I tell you whut—you boys gonna owe me somethin’ awful if you don’t find some luck. Maybe I’ll pull this rabbit foot out my ass and let you borrow it!” He slapped the table, sending cards flying.

  The three men laughed like old friends; it was difficult to see it any other way.

  Rudolfo saw it differently. His training and the tools in front of him made it so. The frequent glances between 5334 and 8920, both men’s rapid foot tapping, and the sweat forming on 8920’s upper lip in spite of the fifty-eight-degree ambient temperature were all clues. The rest of the proof was on the monitors.

  The machines made it clear that inmates 5334 and 8920 were being false—pulse spikes on the remote EKG, flushes of dark red on the biometrics sensors, blood vessel constrictions on the functional MRI.

  Inmate 4557, on the other hand, showed no signs of stress or anxiety other than the slightly elevated levels one would expect from a game of chance with stakes on the line. 4557 had no idea the game was a ruse and that he was in danger.

  Rudolfo decided he had seen enough. A guard was near the rec room, but the two attackers could do a great deal of harm in the two to three seconds it took the guard to intervene. Rudolfo had to stop it before it started.

  He reached toward the small blue button to call the guard but stopped short of pressing it. In the room, the three men suddenly looked toward the door. As one, they rose and bolted from the room as if running from a fire.

  Then, Rudolfo felt it. There was a vibration beneath his feet. An earthquake, he thought for a moment before realizing how ridiculous the notion was. Utilities or facilities maintenance was more likely. The men must have felt it, got frightened, and ran for safety, he decided.

  From an inside pocket of his form-fitting black cassock, he removed a stylus pen. Leaning forward, he opened a leather-bound book on the desk. He would enter his observations onto the pages dedicated to 5334 and 8920.

  Before putting pen to paper, he felt it again. The vibration in the floor was there, although when he thought about it
, it had never left. It was rhythmic, like the beating of a drum. There was a sound, unintelligible, but it was there beating in time with the thrumming in the floor.

  His ward of the prison complex was like all the others—loud outbursts were common, but the vibration in the floor accompanying it made him curious and more than a little concerned.

  Rudolfo stood and walked to the door, pulling it open.

  The crash of sound that pummeled his senses made him wonder if they weren’t in fact in the middle of an earthquake. The rhythmic crashing sound was like a slow jackhammer beating the air on all sides.

  The bright white hallway was unusually barren for this time of day. The cold, stale atmosphere continued to pulsate with the steady rhythmic pounding.

  He stood there for a moment and began to recognize the sound not as machinery or seismic activity, but as voices. Voices chanting violently as one, but he couldn’t understand what the voices were saying. It was so loud it seemed to come from everywhere, but he had a feeling he knew where to find its source.

  With a snap, he pivoted right, heels clicking as he made his way to the North corridor. He was in passageway four, the outermost of a series of concentric circular hallways. Passageway four with its many offices was lightly trafficked by inmates and at the moment it was empty, even of guards.

  He reached the North corridor, turned, and stopped cold. The chant reached him clear and crisp, coming fresh from its source.

  “TAP! TAP! TAP! TAP! TAP!”

  Fifty yards ahead, where the North Corridor terminated at the Great Atrium, he saw the backs of tightly packed inmates filling the corridor. The ones at the rear of the crowd were fighting to move forward, pushing and pulling the men in front of them. They were trying to get closer to the metal cage that lined the Great Atrium.

  He made his way toward the commotion, passing the three concentric passageways lined with cells. With every step the chant grew louder, the pounding through the floor grew stronger; it pulsed through his feet and up his bones.

  Nearing the crowd at the end of the corridor, he could not see beyond the group ahead of him. It was clear they were all staring in one direction—somewhere off to the right and above them. The throng in front of him undulated as each man jockeyed for a better view, standing on unknown objects only to be pulled down and replaced by a usurper. They climbed on backs and shoulders desperate for a better look.

  Fists shook and bare hands slapped cinder block walls, but the most jarring sound came from the cage. The metal cage that lined the Great Atrium—that massive cylinder of open air that penetrated the full height of the forty-eight-story prison.

  The inmates lining the cage slammed against it with closed fists or open palms, the whole time they chanted.

  “TAP! TAP! TAP!”

  They were using the slang term for the solemn duty that a Member of the Order performed. Most people inside and outside the prison referred to Members as Tappers, but never to their faces and never shouted with rage. To hear it shouted en masse laced with such acid was unnerving.

  “Gentlemen,” Rudolfo said. No one noticed him over the din.

  “Gentlemen, please,” he said again only slightly louder. For a moment, it appeared no one heard him. Then, the man nearest Rudolfo caught sight of him.

  “Oh shit, sorry,” he squealed, bending his head low to look at the floor while he pulled on the shoulder of the inmates in front of him. They turned and had a similar reaction.

  The process repeated man after man until the respect given to Members of the Order parted the sea of bodies in front of Rudolfo. He walked forward through the deferential inmates and onto the grated catwalk.

  Immediately, he noticed the crowding wasn’t limited to his floor. The Great Atrium’s cage was packed tight with shouting prisoners half-a-dozen floors above and below.

  Incarcerated men and women screamed in unison, “TAP! TAP! TAP! TAP!”

  From his place on the catwalk, he could see what they were all looking at. Every eye was focused on a single person standing on a shallow maintenance platform two stories up. The Member of the Order was easy to spot. He was the only black spot in a sea of white jumpsuits.

  It was clear to Rudolfo why the mob of prisoners was so fervent. Members of the Order were the incorruptible, uncompromising selectors that filled death’s coffers. Now here was one of them about to select himself to take his place among the many he himself sent into the void.

  Suicide was not encouraged at the Coppice, but it certainly wasn’t discouraged. If an inmate decided that the world would be better off without him, the powers that be allowed him to take that step. The maintenance platforms were the only access to the inside of the atrium’s cage, and they were secured with nothing but a simple gate that was never locked. Inmates jumped so often that most of the others wouldn’t leave their bunks to watch. Those who happened to be on the catwalk when someone jumped would break their conversation as the poor man or woman fluttered past, but they paid no more mind to it than that.

  This situation was much different. Brother Wilcott had been a Member of the Order of the Coppice for thirty-eight years. He had been responsible for the executions of an untold number of inmates. Because of the mystery surrounding them, Members of the Order received unquestioned respect, if not awe, from everyone around them, especially the inmates. When a Member showed weakness and vulnerability, the inmates fed on it like starving animals.

  Hands pounded against the rusty cage in rhythm with the chant.

  “TAP! TAP! TAP! TAP!”

  It was a visceral impassioned plea for death.

  Rudolfo quickly scanned the levels within view. Corrections officers and other Members of the Order stood out here and there, inky splotches against a backdrop of white.

  He looked back at Brother Wilcott. The chant as steady as a metronome resounding from a half dozen levels above and below Rudolfo. “TAP! TAP! TAP!” Metal pounded metal, driven by angry flesh.

  Rudolfo watched Brother Wilcott who stared straight ahead. His short white hair was combed neatly to the side, his face smooth with a fresh shave. His eyes tired.

  Wilcott shot a look directly at Rudolfo. They gazed at one another for several seconds. There was something behind Wilcott’s look, as if he were waiting for Rudolfo. Then, the older Member resumed his forward stare and raised his hands to his chest.

  It looked as if he was about to pray, which would have been exceedingly odd—Members of the Order were not religious or spiritual for a very good reason.

  Wilcott was not praying. He pulled off the black glove on his left hand, held it out for a moment and let it fall. Then he started removing the right glove.

  Rudolfo held his breath; he had no idea how the inmates would react.

  Brother Wilcott removed the right glove with care; the prisoners surrounding the Great Atrium quieted. When he dropped the glove, most of the inmates looked confused. To them, it must have looked as if he was still wearing the glove. Gradually, the mob realized that it was not a glove at all; it was the man’s bare skin stained a deep purplish-black—the result of decades of serving out the Sacred Task beset upon the Members of the Order. It was the result of countless lives ended.

  Wilcott was a death dealer and the poison used for the Task had marked him, as it marked all Members. His skin bore permanent witness to his deeds.

  Seeing his polluted hand made the inmates go silent, but only for a moment. Once it sank in what the black hand meant, when it was clear the one rumor about Members of the Order was true—that a bare finger was dipped in poison to dispatch the selected—the inmates grew more ravenous than ever before. The chant and the banging resumed with heightened ferocity.

  “TAPTAPTAPTAPTAP!”

  The words melted into one another until the noise became a discordant racket.

  No inmate appeared willing to push Wilcott off the platform, even after seeing his hand. It seemed they dared not touch the Member for fear of being inadvertently executed. They simply screamed and
banged and spat and shook.

  Rudolfo watched the glove tumble like a leaf through the air, then scanned the crowd once more. When he looked back at Wilcott, it was only to find the old Member staring back at him. The same blank face. The same tired eyes. Just staring.

  Brother Rudolfo grew less calm. His breathing grew heavier and the heat around his neck became more evident.

  Wilcott looked away. He reached to his chest again and began unbuttoning the top of his cassock. He continued unfastening the large shiny buttons until the tight woolen cloak was completely undone and his pale flesh shone through.

  He pulled the cassock off his shoulders. Underneath he wore nothing but white underwear and his mark; the dark stain, stretched from the fingertips of his right hand to his chest.

  The prison fell silent. The breadth of the stain was a surprise to everyone, even Rudolfo, who knew from personal experience how the stains grew. He would never be in a position to see any stain other than his own, however.

  Wilcott’s entire arm and part of his shoulder were completely covered in inky blackness. A kind of cruel tattoo. The mark continued past his shoulder in several long tendrils which stretched like tentacles across his chest, the longest crossing directly over his heart.

  Rudolfo didn’t know if it was the size of the stain that made the throngs grow quiet, silently guessing at the number of executions required to create such a mark. Or if it was the symbolism behind it, the magnitude of his role in death and life at the Coppice.

  Wilcott held out the cassock and removed a small item from a pocket before releasing the garment, letting it flutter through space like a piece of paper on the wind. He clutched the item in his left hand and inserted his blackened right index finger into the opposite fist. As Brother Wilcott withdrew it, light glinted off his fingertip.

  “No,” Rudolfo whispered.

  From such a distance, he couldn’t see exactly what coated Wilcott’s finger, but he knew in his heart it now shimmered with the Solution. Incomprehensible mutterings drifted through the throng of onlookers around the Great Atrium. Rudolfo couldn’t hear them clearly, he only vaguely registered voices around him. His mind fixed completely on Wilcott’s right index finger. A secret, tightly held for generations, glimmered there from Wilcott’s first knuckle down to the tip of the nail for all those present to see. But did they understand it, he wondered. The inmates wouldn’t fully comprehend everything unless Wilcott did the unthinkable.