Death Row Apocalypse (19 page)

The door to the executioner’s room opened, and from inside stepped my executioner. It was my mother! I could not believe it. Had I just stepped into an episode of
The Twilight Zone
? My life was becoming progressively stranger and stranger by the moment, and now—the crowning jewel, the pièce de résistance, the icing on the cake—here was the woman who had created me and by all accounts would be the one to remove me from this world. Well, if that don’t take the biscuit!

“Hello, Mother,” I said. The puzzled look on my face probably spelt out everything going on in my mind at that very moment.

She stood in the doorway with not a single emotion displayed on her poker face. She was cold as ice, and you would be forgiven for assuming that my mother and I were strangers. With her hands relaxed in her jacket pockets, she first scanned the room, probably to check that she had not only my attention but also that of the other occupants. Finally turning her scrutiny back to me, she managed to break a smile in her stony countenance.

“Hello, my boy. You’re looking well. How have you been?” she said.

“Fine, though I feel something coming on. Maybe terminal, I think,” I said. “And yourself?”

“Good, actually very good now that I see you here. Things are looking really positive.”

“Mother, can we please dispense with the pleasantries? We both know where we stand with one another, and this witless banter serves no purpose at all.”

Ignoring my words completely, my mother moved on to say what was on her mind.

“I see you’ve been busy lately. Up to your old tricks again, huh?” she said. “This time I guess you’ve pissed off a lot of important people.”

The warden had run out of steam as soon as he saw my mother stalk into the chamber. He was now leaning on the gallery window and apparently watching our interaction and listening to our dialog intently.

“Yeah, I guess so. Do you mind if I ask you one thing?” I paused. “Are you here for the show, or are you here to partake? I’m pretty sure you’re not here to aid my escape, are you? Or are you really so hard up that you need the money?” I added finally.

My mother then walked toward me slowly and with purpose. She approached the nearest guard and gently pushed him aside with the tip of one finger against his shoulder. He immediately stopped securing my right wrist and backed away without any fight. For a split second before moving, he looked more confused than I had felt only moments ago. The situation obviously embarrassed him, as he turned a healthy shade of red. Picking up from where he had stopped, my mother continued his work, pulling tight on the strap that now held my wrist in place.

“Oh, who’s a clever boy? Just like your poor late father, you’ve always been smart. Though I think sometimes you’re a little too clever for your own good.” She looked at me. Her smile was
With
d by a frown as she continued: “How long has it been now—five, ten, fifteen years?”

“About twenty, I think. Why do you ask?” I said. Before she could reply, I continued: “It’s not as if you really needed the contact, is it?”

She latched the strap at my wrist, locking it in place, then moved toward my feet. She’d always been a cool customer, and now she was especially so. The fact was that very little could truly ruffle her feathers. And even now I’d bet her heart rate was barely above fifty, if indeed she had a heart.

My mother very rarely responded to anyone directly in conversation. In fact, she normally only responded to specific questions, and only if it was beneficial to her.

“That’s hardly the point,” she continued. “It’s a mother’s prerogative to have her children dote over her.”

She moved to the feet restraints next, again pushing a guard gently aside with one finger, and to add injury to insult, with a flick of her wrist she shooed him away, like some unwanted five-year-old kid. She then continued strapping down my right foot.

“I’ll take that as a yes to the partake question then, Mother. I really can’t see how strapping me down is going to help me get out of here,” I said to her while I strained to keep my head up so I could watch her work.

She pulled on the final foot restraint and, latching it in place, she continued: “You know, I was so proud of you. You have always been so . . . so special.” Finished with my feet restraints, her hands came to rest on my bare feet. “Like you, I have no compunction in taking human life. However, unlike you I will walk out of here alive and well. Your life value is now estimated at a hundred fifty dollars, and I will give that money to the first beggar I see.”

She was referring now to the official prison payment that is the executioner’s fee. Her message was meant to be a brutal one, but she had forgotten just how thick my skin was and how little her words meant to me. Along with that smug smile of hers, she kept eye contact with me as she took the last couple of steps to reach my remaining free wrist. With the final step, the guard backed away before she had the chance to push him away. Her eyes narrowed menacingly as she stared at him. She had obviously enjoyed being center stage, and pushing the guards away with a finger was part of a performance that had now been unwittingly interrupted.

“I’ve been waiting for such a long time to do this. You know, at one point I actually thought you’d never get caught. I’ve been watching and waiting for so very long, I even collected all your newspaper clippings and made a very nice scrapbook. It’s a shame you’ll never get to see it. You really have been so industrious, Blaine.”

I sensed that she was actually displaying a level of pride, something that I’d never noticed before and certainly nothing that I would have ever expected. It was then that she looked up to the warden, whereupon he leered back at her and adjusted himself. Seemingly disgusted, she returned her attention back to me.

“And you’d never guess just how much I’ve had to bribe the kind warden up there.” She pointed to the warden, who now wore a filthy smile that stretched from ear to ear. “He’s been so . . . accommodating, shall we say.”

“No doubt he has, and I suspect not one dollar bill was exchanged,” I said, and then continued as my mother pulled even harder on the remaining strap. “I hope he got his money’s worth?”

“Never you mind. The cost was worth it. I’d have given far more for this opportunity.”

“Mother,” I said. “About that, I’d love to ask you why you want to kill me, but first, would you mind loosening that strap just a touch? I can’t feel my hand.”

She responded by not responding. Instead, she carefully loosened off the strap by a single notch.

“Do you mind if we cut the chitchat?” I said. “I have a date tonight, and to be frank I’ve grown tired of your delightfully dull comments. I really would prefer to leave now.”

She got my meaning. Her face flickered briefly with an anger I recognized from my childhood.

Most kids grow up with a healthy fear of the unknown, like having a fear of the monster beneath the bed. My monster and my mother were one and the same. When her anger peaked, her expression would falter for only the briefest of moments. It was then that the monster suddenly appeared, then disappeared.

Her smile left her face immediately, and she pulled so hard on the remaining strap that again I could feel my hand throb in time with my pulse.

Looking down at me, she said, “If you really want to know how and why you are here, you should look to your CIA friends. From what I understand, they could not justify your imaginative techniques any more and decided to terminate the arrangement. Such a pity.” This time she smiled like a Cheshire cat. “
C’est la vie
,” she said.

My mother bent toward me then kissed my forehead. “Good-bye, Blaine.”

This had to have been an act, but for whom I had no idea. She then turned and headed back toward to executioner’s room.

At the door she turned one final time and locked eyes with me. “They contacted me!” she said. “And I contacted the warden—oh, and I’m also responsible for letting my new friend the sheriff know where to pick you up. Say hi to your father from me.”

She then raised one hand and waved good-bye. I responded in kind, except for the hand gesture, though I did manage to raise a single finger. I finally relaxed, letting my head now drop back on to the gurney pillow. I expected the door to the executioner’s room to close, but it stayed open. I guess my mother wanted a front-row seat for the upcoming attraction. She really was wacko, truly certifiable! And I should know!

I had no clue as to why she wanted me dead, absolutely no idea at all. My father had passed away some years ago, and if I had to take a wild guess why she was nuts, I’d say that she in some way blames me for his passing. One fact I did know was that I’d never know the truth. Well, at least not now.

My mother was right about one thing, though: I did want to know how and why I ended up in this little pickle of a problem. Her final explanation filled the gap in my knowledge. I guess it all made sense now. I lay there on the gurney while the last preparations were in progress, and I wished that I would somehow have the chance to follow up with my old friends in the CIA, and I’d love to visit my mother’s new friends, the warden and sheriff, if only for a few minutes.

I watched the guards in riot gear leave. “Freddie,” the last guard, closed the heavy door behind him as he exited. The two guards, the doctor, and my mother would be the last people I’d ever see—at least, that was what I thought. I didn’t count the warden in the group, mainly because I didn’t count him as human; the man was a cockroach.

My thoughts were interrupted when the guards came forward and began checking my mother’s handiwork.

“I think you guys are wasting your time. My mother has no intention of leaving here without ending my life first. I’m sure as shit that those straps are more secure than nun’s underwear.”

The guards didn’t respond. They checked the restraints and stepped back. I looked toward the gallery and saw that the warden had taken a front-row seat and was making himself comfortable for the show.

“Warden,” I called. “You should be down here. I’m sure you’d enjoy the view much more.” Then I added, “Fucking ass-bandit!” to goad him further.

The microphones in this room were really very good. It was that or he was able to read my lips, which I seriously doubted. The warden, of course, was back on his feet now, shouting at me through the glass like a lunatic. It was comical. I really had no idea what he was saying, so I signaled him with my middle finger, the universal salute indicating I didn’t give a shit. He was slamming his fists on the glass now, obviously very annoyed. I silently hoped that he’d have a stroke.

The doctor had already begun to prepare my arm for the IV. He then inserted the needle with practiced ease, causing very little discomfort, and finally attached the clear plastic tubing, which disappeared somewhere behind me. I knew where it led, and I knew my mother was at this moment preparing the first of the injections with care. My time was running out, and there was no escape for me.

Looking back, I suspect that the prison staff were waiting for me to have an emotional outbreak or something equally unlikely. They’d have a long wait if that was the case, as I was not prone to having emotional outbreaks like some hormonal teenager. I certainly wasn’t going down that road today.

The warden had calmed down and was seated once more as the doctor looked up to him and nodded grimly. The warden smiled and nodded back, like some nodding dashboard-mounted plastic Elvis in a cab. They’d obviously practiced this communication or, more likely, had agreed on this process earlier today. It was that or they were close, if you get my meaning.

Looking to the warden, I tried to get his attention. “Hey, how about a last request? Don’t I get to make a last statement?”

I toyed with screwing with him one last time. It was hilarious to see him flip. It was just too easy.

The warden sat back in his chair, and with a smile that stretched from ear to ear, he shook his head. What an ass.

The doctor turned to the open doorway of the executioner’s room and spoke to my mother in an even and unemotional tone.

“Mrs. Wilken, please begin,” he said.

From inside the executioner’s room I heard her speak for the last time. Though she whispered, I heard her clearly say, “Fucking die, you little shit.”

If I hadn’t already been lying down, I’m sure I would have been knocked down by her venomous tones. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I never heard her speak out loud like that ever. Swearing was not part of her usual repertoire.

She hadn’t wasted even a moment, as half a second later I watched the fluorescent-red fluid race down the tubing and drain into my forearm.
Damn. Where was that ace of spades?
was my singular thought as the first of the lethal drugs hit my brain. There was a brief but intense burst of white light as my conscious mind was annihilated.

Mrs. Wilken was ecstatic. She heard the doctor address her and instruct her to begin with the series of injections. The syringes stood neatly on the table. They had been removed from the protective case and now waited side by side to perform their singular duty. There were nine in total, and each one looked more lethal than the previous. Each syringe had contents that seemed to glow with a fluorescent hue, from green to yellow—all except one, which was black as coal. On the narrow surface lay a set of instructions detailing every step the executioner must perform unerringly. It also described in detail how the specific injection affected the human body.