Rudolfo thought of the last Task he had performed and its aftermath. How many more Tasks did he have in him before self-selection became a desirable alternative?
He pushed the thought from his mind. There’d be time enough for that later.
Wilcott’s suicide was one of two things, he thought, madness or a sign. Rudolfo would have to figure out which of the two it was if he ever wanted to rest easy again.
Staring at the pages of Brother Wilcott’s journal, a case could be made for each possibility—madness or message. The entire journal was full of detailed analyses of every inmate under his charge. Each page contained thousands of words on each inmate with notes on every perceivable interaction of substance. Rudolfo read with a sense pride his colleague’s assessment of one inmate:
Inmate 2587 observed standing alone in corner of the rec room behaving strangely—talking to himself under his shirt. Later it was revealed to be a baby bird hiding in his clothes. The bird died later in the day, 2587 unfazed by its passing.
In the shower room, Inmate 2587 loaned his towel to another inmate who’d lost his. The towel was never returned. 2587 became irate and berated the other inmate until the towel was returned. He demanded it be cleaned first.
Inmate 2587 stole shower shoes from one of his cellmates.
Every inmate’s page mimicked the example—line after line of detailed observations.
Rudolfo wondered how often Wilcott performed the Sacred Task. He chose several random pages and scrolled to the bottom of each of the digital pages. He made a mental note every time he saw “selected for the Sacred Task”. If his calculations were correct, Wilcott’s Task frequency was no greater than his own, reserving the Task for the most heinous and irreformable of individuals.
Nearly the entire journal followed a pattern of detailed observation, thorough analysis, thoughtful conclusions, and reasonable use of the Sacred Task. There were four exceptions that broke from the norm: the last four entries.
Inmates number 7822, 3509, 7789, and 0988.
These four inmates were the last four active entries in Wilcott’s journal. Each was blank. Rudolfo flipped through the four pages over and over. Each page had an inmate number written at the top and nothing else. It was a Member’s prerogative how much or how little they recorded in their journal as much as it was their prerogative who they selected for the Sacred Task. If this had been any other Member, Rudolfo would have thought it unprofessional at best and derelict of duty at most. But having seen the rest of Wilcott’s journal, and knowing the man, even as little as he did, he found the emptiness of these pages to be significant.
Madness or message? Rudolfo shook his head at his own question. Either could explain both the way in which Wilcott chose to die and the blank pages.
He needed to know what was behind Wilcott’s suicide. He needed to investigate.
If it was madness, nothing changed and he lost only a small amount of time. If it was a message, then he’d honor the man’s unnatural death by figuring it out. Wherever it led him, he’d decide what to do next once he got there.
In the corner of the room, Francesca stirred. She’d been asleep for twelve hours. The last time she woke up, she’d drank several glasses of water and fell promptly back to sleep. Forty-eight hours before that, she’d saved his life.
“Water?” she whispered.
“Nightstand.” Rudolfo stood in case she needed assistance; she didn’t. He sat back down in the chair and watched for signs of trouble. He’d never seen anyone go through what she had; it may not be over.
Francesca propped herself up in bed and drank the entire glass without stopping. Once she was finished, she swung her legs off the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress with her head bent low, breathing deep, hands at her side.
“Sixty hours,” Rudolfo said. “Before you ask. It has been two and a half days since your foolhardy act.” He stood at the foot of her bed, letting her gather herself.
“I thought I was going to die.”
“Yes. The Solution has a way of taking you to a point from which you think there is no return. Then, it releases you.”
He folded his hands in front of him and tilted his head.
“Had you used the Oil, the effect after your first time would have lasted minutes,” he said, shrugging. “If nothing else, you should now appreciate how important it is to follow protocol. I don’t think anyone else, Apprentice or full Member, could say they’ve felt the Solution’s cruel sting the way you did. Had it been your fiftieth Task, or maybe even your tenth, it would certainly have killed you.”
She continued staring at the floor.
“I had … dreams. Or, something like dreams. More like virtual memories. They were … visceral. I could feel it all over again, the fear, the pain, the sadness. I could smell the air, feel the rain.” She looked at Rudolfo, the features of her face tightening, wincing. “Is it like that every time?”
He adjusted himself and clasped his hands in his lap.
“Not at first, no. The more times you perform the Sacred Task the more intense they will become, however. The more … visceral, as you put it.” He paused before continuing. “When you get to the stage in your tenure where I find myself at the moment, then, yes, they will be that intense every time. And at that point, you will begin having the flashbacks in your waking hours as well.”
Rudolfo picked up a plate of fruit and bread from the table beside him. He stood and walked toward her, then laid the plate on her nightstand. He refilled the empty glass from a pitcher of water next to it.
“Eat something and let me know when you’re ready to talk more. I’d like your opinion on something.”
* * *
An hour later, Francesca sat across from Rudolfo, who sat silent with his arms crossed. He had given her a book, clearly a Member’s journal, and asked her to make an assessment of what she saw within it. He did not give her any specific instructions, just to make an assessment.
It hadn’t taken long for her to discover the four blank pages at the end of the journal. She scanned the pages and swiped up with her finger to scroll, wondering if, for some reason, the owner of this journal wrote something at the bottom. There was no nothing there.
She had difficulty controlling her eyes in her weakened state. They wandered to her newly blackened appendage.
Her right index finger was black from its tip to the third knuckle. Every time she caught her eyes wandering to look at it, she chastised herself and turned another page, hoping to find something more worthy of her attention.
She knew the obsession with her new stain must be the same for every new Member. Her life was now a ticking clock, the countdown to her demise now visibly measured, every millimeter of growth a minute subtracted from her life.
“There will be plenty of time for you to examine your mark.” Rudolfo seemed to be reading her thoughts. Her behavior made her inner dialogue easy to read.
The food had been an energizer for her, simple though it was. Rudolfo’s description of the Solution taking her and then releasing her was apt. She felt no residual effects from it other than extreme thirst and hunger.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It looks so large; I wasn’t expecting it to be so after the first Task.”
“No Oil. No protection. Normally, it’s no bigger than a pea after your first Task. And the aftermath is no worse than having the flu for a few moments.” He pointed at the book in front of her. “Now, your assessment, please.”
Francesca put her right hand under the table and forced herself to pay more attention to the assignment Rudolfo set in front of her.
“These pages are blank, which is clearly out of character for this Member judging by the rest of the journal.”
She looked up to see Rudolfo nodding.
“Is the Member who owned this journal still alive?”
“No.”
“So, he or she died immediately after these inmates were assigned, but …” She flipped back to the page before the blank
ones. At the top, there was the inmate number—2019. She looked below it at the first entry. She read aloud, “entered my ward December 13, 2042.” Looking at Rudolfo, she said, “He entered their names in here the first day they arrived?”
“That or he waited and wrote the date after the fact.”
Francesca looked down again at the page with 2019’s observations. “No. He was too diligent. These notes are too thorough and thoughtful. He would have done it the day they arrived.”
“So, why no entries for the last four inmates?” Rudolfo reached forward and turned the page back to the first blank one—inmate number 7822.
“First, a few questions.”
Rudolfo’s eyebrows raised. He spread his hands. “Proceed.”
“Would four inmates enter his ward on the same day?” Francesca crossed her arms and stared at the book, willing answers from it.
“It would not be entirely unusual, but not common either.”
“Did this Member have … were his mental faculties intact?”
Rudolfo paused. She thought it possible that some level of sadness crossed his face. “I think so.”
“My final question.” Francesca uncrossed her arms and leaned forward. “A Member’s journey is their own. A Member’s decisions and their deeds are unquestioned.”
He didn’t move. He just stared back at her. “Yes.”
Francesca took a deep breath. “Why are we asking these questions about this Member and his last four inmates?”
Rudolfo’s gaze fell to the floor and he repositioned himself in the chair. He stared at the wall a moment. She thought there must have been some terrible inner struggle raging inside him. He wanted her help, he must or he wouldn’t have brought her this book. She also felt he was wise enough not to go on a fool’s errand. He must have good reason for digging into a dead Member’s past, but what was it?
Her question seemed to dislodge some last vestige of uncertainty within him.
His eyes fell on hers again. “I believe Brother Wilcott wanted me to ask these questions.”
Francesca’s face fell. She closed her eyes, unsure what to think. The Member who self-selected on the very same morning she arrived at the Coppice. The same Member who the Principal and her Mentor had discussed.
This was his journal.
“The manner in which he self-selected and these blank entries do, in my thinking, make it worth asking a few questions,” Rudolfo continued. His face now held a look a confidence. He tilted his head back. “I believe he was sending a message.”
Francesca’s eyes darted from the journal to her Mentor and back again. Without looking up, she said, “What if we answer these questions and find nothing?”
Rudolfo pursed his lips, shrugged. “Then, we find nothing. All we have lost is time.”
“And what if we find something?” She looked at him now and he did not look away.
“I do not know what happens if we find something.”
* * *
Working on the assumption that Wilcott was trying to send a message, Francesca felt the four inmates with blank pages must be connected. She concluded that even if the pages of the journal were full of the same painstaking detail as the rest, it would only inform on the lives they led while at the Coppice. A Member’s journal only observed the present day, not past deeds as Rudolfo had so vehemently taught her after her arrival.
“The only way to know how these inmates were linked is to know who they were before. If we find nothing, then there is nothing.”
Rudolfo nodded. “Why do you think these four are linked in some way other than being in Wilcott’s ward?”
“It’s like breadcrumbs. If it’s all part of a message, then he would link them in here first. This would be the first breadcrumb.” She pointed at the journal. “If I were trying to send a message, I put it somewhere I knew someone would look.”
Rudolfo’s eyebrows knitted and he nodded again. “Okay. What next?”
Francesca explained that the next logical steps were to examine their prison files then move on to police and court files. Finally, they’d look into their lives before being arrested.
Reluctantly, Rudolfo conceded that it might be the only way to determine what Wilcott was trying to communicate, if anything.
In the observation room, Francesca pulled up the prison file for each inmate and displayed them on the screen side by side. Instantly, she realized something was wrong.
“Are prisoner files generally accurate?” she asked.
“Yes, always.” He answered from behind her at the table where he read from Wilcott’s journal. “Those are legal records, not to mention most are medical in nature when someone dies.”
Francesca checked and rechecked what she saw on the screens, comparing each file to verify the dates were correct. “And in the case that someone dies, their actual death date is recorded? Not when the record was created?”
“Yes. The actual date of death,” he confirmed. “We may be takers of lives, but we respect them enough to ensure accuracy. The guards who take the bodies away record everything and they are exceedingly professional and diligent.”
Once again, she rechecked the records. Each death date was accompanied by a guard’s name as witness. They were all different. Nothing obviously nefarious going on unless all four of them were corrupt.
In the case of inmates selected for the Sacred Task, as these four were, the name of the Member responsible was listed as well.
“There must be some mistake,” she whispered to herself.
“What is it?”
“The four inmates are … dead. All of them selected.”
Rudolfo sat silent for a moment. “Not terribly concerning. Selected for the Task by Wilcott, I assume?”
“Yes.”
“Again, not terribly …”
“On the same day.” She turned to look at Rudolfo. Disbelief crossed his slackened face, his mouth opened and closed.
“Impossible,” he muttered. “He would have … he couldn’t have …”
She waved a hand at the screen. “If these are correct, then he did. He selected all four of them on the same day.”
Rudolfo sat like a statue. Only his eyes and mouth moved, the former darting back and forth as if hearing opinions from different sides of his mind and the latter flapped like a fish taking its last breaths.
“There is something else,” she said looking back at the screen. “One of the inmates was female.”
* * *
In keeping with the unquestioned nature of a Member’s selections, it was permissible for a Member to enter another’s ward and perform the Sacred Task on an inmate there. It was, as Rudolfo explained, not uncommon for this to occur.
In times of high demand in a particular ward, or if a Member was ill, they would often call on another to perform the Task on their behalf. In rare instances, a Member would witness a heinous act by an inmate and take it upon themselves to select them for the Task.
Much like self-selection, it was in no way forbidden, but highly frowned upon without permission or invitation. Wards were more or less seen as territories not to be encroached upon.
As Francesca and Rudolfo rode the elevator up to level thirty, they hoped to discover whether it was permission, invitation, or neither that brought Brother Wilcott into an all-female ward.
When the elevator reached level thirty, the two of them stepped into a passageway identical to the one in their ward. The exception was a large number thirty painted on the wall directly ahead of them.
Turning down the curved passageway, Francesca decided to ask a question she couldn’t shake.
“How could he have performed all four Tasks on the same day?”
Rudolfo continued his long strides, not looking at her. She wasn’t sure if he heard her.
His silence didn’t deter her curiosity. “Judging by Brother Wilcott’s age and the records in his logbook, I would assume the Tai … the aftermath of a Task would be quite debilitating. In that condition,
how could he have performed a second one after the first? And then go on to perform a third and a fourth in the same day?”
Rudolfo walked in silence. As before, he gave her no indication that he heard a word she said.
She continued undaunted, “I see no way he could have completed all four without some type of protection …”
She stopped cold. Rudolfo walked along for several paces before he stopped and turned toward her. His eyes were deathly cold, almost menacing.
“He used protection,” she said. “He must have used a glove.”
Rudolfo sighed audibly and nodded. “That is my theory as well,” he said.
“But that’s taboo. It goes against the essence of the Order’s purpose. The sacrifice. The penance.” She was flabbergasted. She held Members of the Order in such high regard that she could never have imagined one would so callously disregard the most fundamental tenant of the Order—that each Member willingly took on their responsibility and its inevitable end. They gave up their lives and their existence in the name of serving. “That’s sacrilege. It’s … it’s tantamount to heresy.”
It was like learning one of her parents had committed cold-blooded murder.
Rudolfo stared at her. His eyes softened and he approached her. “Like all things in life, the Order gets less pristine as you dig further down into its depths. Many Members, I would say almost all, serve honorably.” He paused. “Some do not.”
“What do we do about it?”
His eyes searched the air then settled back on her face.
“We serve honorably. So much so that our contribution will outweigh other transgressions.” He paused, which allowed Francesca’s mind to settle a bit. “There will be plenty of time to discuss all of this. But first, we need answers to the questions on hand.” He turned on his heel and walked further down the passageway.
* * *
Everything she’d seen on the east ward of level thirty mirrored their own on level twenty-four, including the Member’s quarters where they now sat. Francesca planted herself in the corner as the two Members sat opposite each other at a round table.
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