Edgar Smint sat in a hard wooden chair, eyes forward, hands gripping armrests, listening. Upon a stage stood a gallows made of hewn wooden posts. It seemed ancient beyond measure and loomed before the gathered audience, commanding the attention of everyone in the small chamber.
 
“Those of you who have volunteered to witness today’s events have our deepest gratitude. You are the eyes of the public and you are here to see justice done.” The warden stood beside the gallows, his neck at the height of the noose that hung motionless in the air beside him. He spoke for several minutes, expounding on the virtue of those who had come to see the sentence of death carried out in a timely and workmanlike manner.
 
Edgar watched the man as he introduced the special guests who were in attendance: Father George Bleaner, author of “God Forgives,” and Ms. Judith McKenna, head of the Institute for Gifted Children.
 
“I’d like Mr. James Carpenter brought forward.”
 
Two uniformed guards stepped from the shadows and moved to a man who sat in the end seat of the front row. One of the guards stood with a cudgel in his hand, the other bent forward, using a large iron key to unfasten the prisoner’s leg shackles, and then the metal bands that secured his wrists.
 
When it was clear that there would be no resistance, the guards helped the man to his feet and then led him up seven creaking stairs, onto the stage. They stopped him beneath the noose and then stepped back as another man came forward from the rear of the room.
 
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” announced the warden, “this is Doctor Samuel Matecki. He is the Chief Medical Practitioner here at the penitentiary, as well as being County Coroner and the State Executioner. He will oversee the events of the day.”
 
The doctor took his time mounting the stairs, and Edgar had the impression that he was enjoying the drama and being the center of attention. In his right hand he held a piece of heavy black cloth, and in his left he carried a pair of leather belts with tarnished buckles.
 
He approached the prisoner and made a show of binding his hands behind his back with one belt, and then bending to bind his ankles with the other. When he finished, the warden took a step back, slipping silently into the shadows at the rear of the stage.
 
From the darkness he asked a question, his words a challenge. “Mr. Carpenter, have you any final words to say before your sentence is carried out?”
 
The prisoner looked upon the gathered witnesses. His lower lip quivered. Edgar could see a sheen of sweat upon his face. The man began to blink uncontrollably and he croaked, “I- I- I’m so so- sorry.” A tear squeezed past each of his flickering eyelids, running down his cheeks to mingle with sweat already pooling on his upper lip.
 
Edgar had no sympathy for the killer. He thought him weak for crying. “A man takes his medicine,” he thought. “A man doesn’t cry.“
 
The warden’s final order was a whisper, “Carry on.”
 
The doctor pulled the black fabric over the killer’s head, covering his fear-filled features and making of him an anonymous nothing. “He could be anyone of us,” thought Edgar, “dressed in that prison jumpsuit.”
 
The doctor looped the noose over the prisoner’s head and pulled the rope tight. He took a step backward and left the trembling prisoner alone in the center of the stage. The rope around his neck rose upward like a morbid lifeline, it’s end lost in the shadows near the top of the gallows.
 
The prisoner voiced a muffled, “Please,” and his knees buckled. When the rope stretched tight and pulled at his neck, he straightened his legs again and began to turn his body.
 
The doctor nodded to someone off-stage and a moment later the floor beneath the prisoner dropped open.
 
Edgar watched fascinated as the scene seemed to play out in slow motion. The body dropped and the rope snapped taught. Edgar thought he could hear a musical twang in the air. The body bounced once and fell again. The prisoner jerked at the end of the rope, bending his knees and jerking his elbows from side to side.
 
Edgar wanted to turn away, but his eyes were glued to the scene. He watched the dead man struggle for several seconds until finally, a deep stain spread from his crotch down each of his legs.
 
The body still moved, but it was not the death throes of a man fighting to stay alive, or the violent pain-filled spasms of a body in torment. It was a peaceful swaying in the darkness, somehow just below the light.
 
He hung there for several long minutes until the two guards hoisted his body upward and removed the noose. The trap door in the floor was closed and they laid his body down on the stage.
 
The doctor stepped forward again, looking out over the small gathering, as if making sure every pair of eyes was on him. He leaned over the dead man and touched a pair of fingers to his neck. He pulled a stethoscope from an inside coat pocket and made a show of checking for a heartbeat. He soon raised his left hand, shook down his sleeve, looked at his watch and announced, “Time of death, twelve-seventeen.”
 
A side door opened and Edgar was blinded for a moment by the rectangular patch of light that filled the doorway. The dead man’s body was carried out by the two guards. When they returned, they handed the doctor a another pair of leather straps and a thick black hood.
 
The doctor returned to his place at the rear of the room as the guards took up their original positions.
 
The warden once again stepped into the light and cleared his throat, “Next, I’d like Mr. Edgar Smint brought forward.”
 
________________

©2010 Adam Francis Smith
 
Adam Francis Smith was born and raised in Chicago, Illinois. He says of his Chicago Public School education that he learned more in the halls than in the classrooms. He is a watcher of people, and what he sees often ends up in his stories.

The Marradith Ryder Series: The Art of Shadows, Part 17

When Marradith wouldn’t answer his phone calls the next morning, Justin sent her a text:

You’re mad and I understand why. I didn’t get to tell you last night that I am leaving for Los Angeles today. On assignment. Should be a day, 2 @ most.

She wrote back:

Fine, whatever.

His reply popped up on her phone:

Ryder I love you.

She sighed and then quickly typed her message, pressing send before she had a chance to censor her thoughts:

Love u Granthem. Still pissed. Later.

***

“Hello Lysette, this is Natasha from Attorney Ramshead’s office. We need you to come in.  There is a new property that has been available for several days.  Attorney Stuckey will brief  you on the details.”

“Stuckey,” Lysette said in distaste.

A new property meant there was a new Wolf on the loose.

Lysette hated tracking down the young ones. They were volatile, hostile, and dangerous.

Their capture also brought in the largest bounty. With the rates that Ramshead paid, she could take a vacation, buy a house in Las Cruces, and kick back for a few years before she had to think about working again.

It had been a while since she’d done any work for Ramshead. She hadn’t done any tracking since her ex-boyfriend died.  He’d been in her life for so long, and to have him gone was a shock. Even though he’d been sick, he believed that he would get better. Because he held out that hope, and had always rebounded before, she believed it as well.

Lysette was not with him when he died. She regretted every day since that she let him push her away, that she wasn’t there in the end.

She sighed. Perhaps it would be a good exercise to hunt. Take out her aggression. New Wolves always put up a good fight, and Lysette felt like having one.

***

Jenny Winslow woke in a stranger’s house.

She walked outside and jumped into the pool. City lights twinkled against the dark, starless sky.

Jenny learned that she could get anything she wanted. She walked into a beauty salon just before sundown.

“Can you do my hair?” she asked, pulling at her long blond ponytail. She stood in the doorway, blocking it.

“We do everyone’s hair, Miss, but we’re closed,” the manager said, taking a pad from his apron. “If you give me your name we can make an appointment for tomorrow.”

She looked at him, in a certain way, directed her energy towards him. The muscles in his face began to relax, and he smiled at her.

“Come on, sit down here,” he patted a chair. “Let me lock the door, that way we can get you done quickly.”

“Which is good,” she said in a commanding tone, “because I don’t have much time.”

He smiled again, the blank expression of a puppet.

“What would you like Miss? Cut, color?”

“Both,” she said.

An hour later her hair was dyed black and cut like a pixie. She smiled at her reflection. No one from her old life would recognize her. She didn’t.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” the man said.

Jenny smiled. “Oh yes. There is.”

***

The next night, Jenny went to a nightclub.

She wore a little black dress that she’d taken from the house of  one of her victims. The dress was short, plain cotton with spaghetti straps, a little tight on her athletic frame. But it produced the effect that she wanted.

Jenny danced. She drank, but not much, because her first drink went straight to her head. Faces began to blur. The music pulsed and the crush of bodies around her brought another form of intoxication.

Jenny sat down for a while, nursing her second drink, a fruity, spicy concoction laced with a liquor she couldn’t name. She sipped it through a straw, blinking as a man sat down next to her. He put his hand on her knee and grinned. His face was inches from hers before she realized that this was one of the men she’d danced with over the last hour.

He had beautiful eyes. Dark brown, with long lashes and faint smile lines around the edges.

He leaned in and kissed her mouth. His hand, warm where it rested against her knee began to travel up her thigh.

“Can I take you home?” he asked.

She leaned back, uncrossing her legs.

“Ask me again,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Please come home with me.”

***

The man’s house was not far from the club. He lived in the Hollywood Hills. He didn’t ask her name, and Jenny didn’t ask his.

His home was beautiful, from what she saw of it.  An infinity pool was visible from the sliding doors of the living room. Jenny reminded herself that she would have plenty of time to explore later, once things were taken care of. People with that kind of money always had cash and jewelry laying around. She knew from experience.

Jenny thought of Syd. His face flashed across her mind like lightening, and was gone. The anger that he left behind rumbled through her flesh, making her shiver.

The man didn’t seem to notice. He held her by the hand as he lead her up the stairs into his bedroom.

His eyes were wide. He was still under her spell.

“Sit,” she said.

He sat on the edge of the bed.

Jenny grinned. She took off her heels and walked slowly towards him. Wrapping her arms around him, she enjoyed his warmth. The scent of his colongne was familiar, sweet.

He kissed her neck, and it sent shivers down her spine. She saw her husband’s face in her mind’s eye, remembered how he would press his lips to that spot.

She pulled herself away.

“Is…is something wrong?” the man said.

She pulled off her dress.

“Baby…” he whispered, his eyes heavy with lust. He put his fingers on her stomach, his thumb stroking her belly button.

Kneeling before him, she put her hands on his thighs. She kissed his mouth.

“Everyone deserves one, last kiss,” she whispered.

He never had time to question what she meant.

_______________________

©2010 Lori Titus