The Punishment Club

by D. A. Maddox

  All the authorities had ever really needed were names. The rest was just confirmation.

  ****

  “You can trust me, Sierra. We’ll call your mother if you really want. That is your right. But I’m an attorney whose only interest is in representing you—not your mother. And she’s already under investigation.”

  “But maybe she can help. She knows all these people.”

  “She can’t help, Sierra. Three doors down this hallway, you can bet Mr. Carter is giving up everything he knows. Your window to save yourself is closing fast. I want to get you out of this. Save you from real jail.”

  “What do you mean? I’m transitional. It’s not like I held up a store or knifed somebody.”

  “You heard the charges. Criminal incitement, to begin. You remember the Schulsky case. Come on, Sierra. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen it. You’ve got that charge, plus entrapment. You’ve got possession of contraband, plus distribution. They’ll dig up more—specifically because of who your mother is. You could be charged as post-transitional. You were malicious. You put a lot of calculated, mature thought into this. They’re going to get you if they can.”

  “I want to speak to my mother. Now.”

  “Fine. But your mother—my way, her taking the real fall—is your only ticket through this. You’ll get to call her when I leave, and this deal goes out the window. Special Penitent’s Clause, Sierra. You know all about it. I’ll try for three days. Honestly, you could get the full five. Or—”

  “Real jail. God. Oh, God. Jesus, I really fucked up, didn’t I?”

  [Pause in audio transcript. Sierra composes herself.]

  “Think of it objectively, Sierra. It won’t matter, judge or jury. People will hate you. This is your chance. You, me, and the truth. Your own mother did this to you. It’s not your fault.”

  [Pause in audio transcript. Sierra composes herself.]

  “But it’s time sensitive. If they bring this all together without you, you’re done. Make up your mind. You’re old enough.”

  [Two-minute pause.]

  “Try for just three days, okay? I mean, like, really, really try. I don’t know if I can handle even that.”

  “I’ll do my best, Sierra. You’ve made the right choice.”

  ****

  Cassidy was asleep nearly as soon as she lay down. There she was, without even the one blanket drawn back or with her hat off, sprawled on a cot that felt like a gym mat, zonked out cold like she was on a feather bed after taking sleeping pills.

  Emma Jo snorted. “Wish I could rest so easy,” she said. She’d been hoping for just a little more friend therapy, actually.

  At the doorway, Officer Garcia uncrossed his arms and sighed. “You can, Miss Swanson. You are safe, and it is all out of your hands anyway. Fretting over it will be of no benefit to you. In little more than a day you shall be a free woman, and school will again be your main concern. You are over the first shock. Look forward to Monday. Tomorrow will be no more than you deserve.”

  “Yes, sir. My ‘corrective needs’ and all that.”

  “Precisely,” he agreed, stepping into the cell. “It is cold outside, and these outer cells get the last of the heat, I’m afraid.”

  He knelt by Cassidy’s bunk, slipped the hat from her head, and eased the blanket down from underneath her until he could place it over her. He patted it down on both sides, quite businesslike, and returned to his post by the door. He was about to shut it.

  “I could have done that, you know,” Emma Jo said.

  “Then, tomorrow, if needs be, you do it,” he answered simply, his back to her. “You two are our responsibility, Emma Jo Swanson. We shall not fail you.”

  I believe you, she thought, even as he closed the door. Maybe for the first time.

  ****

  Buddy sat down at the desk, drew paper and pencil in front of him. Glanced over his shoulder at Peter, who—quite typically—propped himself up on his cot and shut his eyes. Alternately, he smiled and frowned.

  Nurse Reyes-Garcia, checking their room to make sure their supplies were in the right place and didn’t need replenishing, crinkled her brow in confusion.

  “Don’t mind him, Matron,” Buddy said, keeping his voice courteously low. “He’s practicing.”

  In response, she put her hands on her hips and patiently waited. There would be no baiting a “Practicing what?” from Nurse Reyes-Garcia.

  “His sax,” Buddy explained. “In his head. He’s trying to learn ‘Born to Run’ by—”

  “Bruce Springsteen. Yes, of my grandmother’s generation. Well, I hope he gets it. And what of you, Buddy? Are you about to bless the world with the next great American novel? I shall get you more paper, if so, but I do recommend you get some sleep as well.”

  “For tomorrow,” he said, nodding, resigned. “No, I don’t know what I’m going to write, Matron. I have no idea. Usually this is reading time for me.”

  “I am pleased if this experience has inspired you,” she said, bemused. “Or perhaps it is Miss Call who inspires?”

  Buddy shook his head. “She encourages, like you do—when you’re not just making me suck it up and take it. No. Someone else inspires.”

  “She is a good person, this Iris Call,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia allowed, “if still rather consumed by the angry fantasies of youth. I hope she stays out of trouble. You may keep your inspiration to yourself if you wish, Buddy—”

  “Emma Jo,” Buddy answered matter-of-factly. “She inspires.”

  Nurse Reyes-Garcia snorted. “Well. And now we have that in the open.”

  “You knew already?”

  “Certainly,” she replied. “Young men are not difficult to read in these matters.”

  “Do you believe in love at first sight, Matron?”

  She smiled at him. “Lights-out at nine, Buddy. Please, do not stay up beyond that time. Tomorrow—”

  “Tomorrow will be worse,” Buddy said, turning in his seat toward the desk. “I know. Tomorrow’s always worse, isn’t it? Don’t worry about me, Matron. I’ll be fine, just like you said.”

  And—that look in her face, seen through the corner of his eye. It was as though she were remembering something (or someone) with great fondness. Strange, after a statement like that.

  A buzzing, but not the door. It was coming from Nurse Reyes-Garcia’s pocket. She drew out her phone, eyebrows furrowed. Her hands dropped to her sides as though dead. Her eyes studied the ceiling.

  At length, she returned her attention to him.

  “Perhaps it will be worse,” she said. She put the phone back in her pocket. “But I will tell you one more thing, which you might find of some comfort. Emma Jo Swanson is not so difficult to read, either.”

  She shut the door. It clicked loudly into place, the lock ratcheting shut.

  Then, her voice through the intercom:

  “She is fond of you, too, Buddy. Sleep well.”

  The story will continue in:

  THE PUNISHMENT CLUB

  PART TWO: SUNDAY SERVICE

  Other Books by D.A. Maddox:

  www.evernightpublishing.com/d-a-maddox

  If you enjoyed this book, you may also like:

  Kneel by Elyzabeth M. Valey

  Sparrow Obsessed by Winter Sloane

  Ash by Suzy Shearer

  EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  BONUS SAMPLE CHAPTER

  SAVANNAH’S CHANCE

  Consequences, Live, 2

  D.A. Maddox

  Copyright © 2020

  Sample Chapter

  Savannah Miles brought the laptop back to bed. She sat up straight, yawning her daily apology to Alisha, who grumbled incoherently in response. With the buzz of the alarm clock still echoing in her mind, she opened her computer and powered it on.

  She expected to find a grade report on her latest essay, “The False Lineage of First Kings”, in her student inbox. Instead, there was a red-flagged email with the word “Congratu
lations” in the subject line. Against her better judgment, she clicked it open.

  You have been chosen.

  She stared at the screen, incredulous.

  The SCS invites you to participate in the Origins Fete.

  She’d heard about this so-called “Student Council Select” before. She was in her third year at Bridgemont University, and she’d been listening to whispers about its secret society since she was a freshman. Everyone knew about them, but no one knew who they were. She’d written them off as snobs, the self-proclaimed elite, arrogant and pretentious.

  But now they were talking to her.

  Report to the Student Union this Friday at 9 PM. Go around the back. Don’t worry. No one will stop you.

  The Student Union building was at the southernmost end of campus. As far as Savannah knew, there was nothing behind it but a patch of grass before the forest and the downward slope of Crestwood Summit. There was a wide balcony on the back of the second floor. From there, a person could almost see the entire length of the two-mile descent to the city. On a good night, one could make out the skyline through the trees.

  Why did they want her to go around back?

  Do not come early. Do not be late.

  Incredulity melted to a creeping unease. To hear it from some, the Origins Fete was a party. Others called it an initiation.

  Ask no questions. Do not reply to this email. Do not report this email.

  The sent-by line read only, “SCS Social Chair”.

  If you fail to show, you will never be asked again. Not everyone gets to go, Savannah. You have been deemed worthy. You should be grateful.

  Savannah supposed she should be, at that. She was an archaeology major with a perfect GPA. She was a bookworm, and a health nut besides. She hadn’t been to many parties.

  But there are conditions.

  She had expected something special today, but not this. Savannah was not especially popular. She had good friends, just not many of them.

  You and your fellow pledges will submit your names to a lottery. At midnight, two names will be drawn. One of them could be you.

  “What on Earth?” she muttered to herself, hardly aware she was speaking aloud. She’d already been a pledge back when she’d first gotten here—had allowed herself to be tarred and feathered with honey and crackers in her damned underwear. She’d been eighteen, then, and scared out of her mind. Alisha, of course, had laughed all the way through it. Alisha was braver than Savannah.

  If you are deemed sufficiently cool at this first little soiree of ours, no participation in future lotteries will be required. You will be one of us.

  “Alisha,” she called over her shoulder. “Alisha, get up. I have to show you something.”

  A friend will contact you. She’ll tell you what to do.

  Across from her, on the opposite bed, Alisha stirred. Slurred a curse. Rolled over.

  You’re a good listener, aren’t you, Savannah? Are you good at following instructions?

  It was still dark out. The window between them looked out over a moonlit parking lot. In a few hours, it would be packed with the cars of commuter students. At this hour, it was practically empty.

  “Alisha—oh, my God, come on.”

  This is a Bridgemont tradition that goes back generations. We were here before the Behavior Reformation Laws, before there was an age of transition. We are the torchbearers, the keepers of light in the dark.

  Okay, now that was hokey.

  Your presence is expected.

  Alisha propped herself up on an elbow, palming sleep from her eyes. She blinked big brown eyes at Savannah, brushed frazzled ringlets of dark hair out of her face. Then she picked up the alarm clock from their shared nightstand and dropped it with another groan. “It’s … four in the morning, Sis.”

  Alisha and Savannah were sorority sisters, not real sisters. Alisha was full-figured, rather on the heavy side, outgoing, insufferably chatty—basically everything Savannah wasn’t. And they were inseparable. They didn’t keep secrets from each other.

  Savannah’s eyes lingered over the final two lines of the email.

  Tell no one.

  “What is it?” Alisha asked.

  And get ready for the time of your life.

  “Nothing,” Savannah said, closing the laptop. “Sorry. Spam email, something stupid. Go back to sleep.”

  Alisha flopped herself back down and was instantly unconscious.

  Well, happy birthday to me, Savannah thought. If this is how being twenty-one starts, it’s going to be one hell of a strange year.

  ****

  Every day, she arrived at the same time, just ten or fifteen minutes after the gym opened. It was hard not to notice her, even as she shouldered through the doors in a loose set of modest blue sweats, the duffel bag of her school clothes slung over her shoulder. Scott couldn’t have said what it was about her, her wavy blonde hair done up in a short ponytail—he’d never seen her wear it down—the soft blue of her eyes…

  There were lots of women who fit that description around campus.

  She went directly for the locker room. Scott checked his watch: 5:14.

  He eased the pulley weights back down to the stacks and stretched his arms, rolled his shoulders, and worked out some of the tension.

  She was a creature of routine, just as he was. She wasn’t as fervent about getting here right when the doors opened, but she clearly liked having the gym to herself as much as possible, enough so that she dragged herself out of bed ass-early to do it. But on the odd occasion someone she knew showed up during her workout, she was always smiling, always welcoming, her laughter half-stifled and a little self-conscious.

  And that was it, probably. She was genuine, sincere. She was nice.

  Scott mopped sweat from his brow with a hand towel. You don’t know shit about her, he thought. You don’t even know her name.

  He moved the pins lower on the stacks, adding twenty pounds to each side. That was officially twenty pounds more than he wanted on either side, but—

  It’s okay, he said to himself. You’re “of an age” now, dude. You’re supposed to take notice. You should introduce yourself. There’s nothing wrong with that. You’ll be less of a creep, waiting for her to come through the door every day like you do, if she knows who you are.

  For five years, it had been perfectly legal for him to have a girlfriend. In little more than another year, all of the age-based behavioral restrictions would be behind him. Nothing wrong with laying a little groundwork ahead of that time, especially with a friendly young woman like the one who would emerge from the locker room any second now.

  Most of his frat brothers had girlfriends. Some had even ignored the law, taken the chance…

  Had sex.

  Zeke and Rusty. And they had talked about it. Bragged about it.

  Scott would never do that, not even to his high school buddies back home. Even if he was that much of a jerk—he didn’t think that he was—he wasn’t that stupid. Word from the home front was that the senator’s son, Robbie McNeal, got caught trying to spy on some girls in the shower at ECU last semester and had gone down hard for it. Scott and Robbie hadn’t been close in high school—Scott had graduated two years ahead of him—but they knew each other. Robbie was a bit of a pushover. If Scott really felt like it, he could probably wheedle the full dirt out of him over Spring Break. Scott just had no desire to find out what “transitional punishment” was until he wasn’t a transitional anymore.

  “Let’s just say the law set him good and straight,” his father had said, “with no permanent harm done. All you have to worry about is pulling that average the rest of the way up to an ‘A’ before you graduate.”

  That and making crew captain next year, Scott thought, forcing another lift. Got plenty going on without thinking about all of this other crap.

  But goddamn, it didn’t take much to get him worked up these days.

  And there she was, in a short-sleeved exercise shirt and knee length shorts
, her hand towel slung over her shoulder, a water bottle in a belt sleeve at her waist. Briefly, before he could look away, she caught his eye. Oh, well, he thought. That’s me, busted.

  He waved, and she waved back. Was that a blush rising in her cheeks?

  There was no time to confirm. She turned from the women’s locker room door and jogged over to the stationary bikes before he could be sure. He decided he wouldn’t approach her while she was on the bike. She wouldn’t want to talk while doing cardio.

  She didn’t bring her earbuds today, he observed. Neither had he.

  He got back to his reps, and instantly regretted putting the extra weights on the pulley.

  But not too much. The extra work—plus the hopeful prospect of learning this girl’s name, maybe even having a conversation—took his mind off the email he’d woken up to this morning.

  ****

  Five minutes into her cycling, Savannah was already thinking about stopping. She didn’t want to be a big, sweaty mess if the boy in the muscle shirt—with the short black hair and the dark, puppy dog eyes, she thought without looking at him—decided to come over and talk to her. What would she say to him if he did? What would she do?

  He better, she thought. I’ll never have the guts, that’s for sure.

  Seven minutes now. Beads of sweat, nothing disgusting. Anyway, people came here to sweat, didn’t they?

  Behind her, she heard the main doors swish open again, admitting more people. It was legs-and-abs day for Savannah. She hoped her favorite machines wouldn’t be taken when she was done on the stationary bike. She hoped—

  But as the morning crowd started to trickle in, she began to imagine them as shadows, not just anonymous but sinister. She let the fantasy take hold, didn’t fight it. Any one of these people could be one of them.