As his high school years progressed, he often reflected on his past. He’d lost his father at a young age, then his feet were taken a few years later. He’d been bullied numerous times. But all in all, he’d always come out on top. His mother constantly told him how proud she was of him. He did well in school and he planned on attending college. He wanted to give back to people with disabilities, people like himself who had to deal with amputation. Become some kind of counselor or therapist or even a psychiatrist, he just wasn’t sure yet. The mental part of losing a limb could be extremely hard to deal with. He’d met a number of people, from kids to adults, and they all had had difficulties adjusting.
One day, at the age of seventeen, Cal thought about these things as he drove home from his friend’s house. He was trying to come up with a way he could let his mother know how much he loved her. Sure, she knew, but he wanted her to have something physical, a token. It didn’t have to be anything extraordinary, but he wanted it to be something special.
Flashing lights from up ahead brought his mind back to the present. As he drew nearer to his house, a sinking sensation filled his gut. His skin grew cold. Police cars were haphazardly parked in front of his house. An ambulance sat in the driveway, its rear doors open. A police woman exited through the front door, followed by paramedics carrying someone on a stretcher. He saw the long dark hair, and then the familiar face of his mother. He feared the worst for a moment—that she was dead—but then realized she wasn’t being carried out in a body bag.
Cal swallowed, his throat feeling as if a pair of invisible hands were squeezing it. With a shaky foot, he skidded the car to a halt, and then jumped out. He bolted across the lawn, needing to see her, when a policeman wrapped his arms around him.
“That’s my mom,” Cal said, struggling to get past the officer.
“Cal,” his mother called, her voice scratchy.
“Let him through,” another officer said to the one holding Cal back.
As soon as he was free, Cal hurried to his mother's side, the stretcher at the rear doors of the ambulance.
“What happened?” he asked, afraid to touch her.
She looked horrible. Barely recognizable. One of her eyes was puffed up and swollen shut, a dark plum color. Her nose was misaligned to the left and bleeding at the bridge where the flesh was broken. Her lips busted and bloody. Crimson covered her from head to toe. If he hadn't known any better, he’d have sworn she had been run over by a semi.
"I’ll be okay,” she said.
"We have to get her the hospital, son," one of the paramedics said. The stretcher was then pushed into the back of the ambulance, the wheels collapsing beneath it. Cal's mom cried out as she was jostled into position.
“I’m coming with you,” Cal said and climbed in.
A policeman put a hand on his shoulder. “We need to speak with you.”
“I’m going with my mother.”
“No, Cal,” his mom said. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine. Go with the officer.”
“I don’t understand. Will someone please tell me what happened?”
“The police need to talk with you. I’ll be fine,” his mom said.
“Your mom will be okay, son,” the officer said. “She’s just… Let the medics tend to her. I’ll give you a ride to the hospital.”
He didn’t want to leave her. Needed to go with her in the ambulance, find out how bad her situation was. Everyone was saying she was going to be okay, but they could all be lying.”
“Mom, I want to go with you,” he said.
“Calvin Langston,” his mother said. “Listen to the police. Go with them. I’ll be all right.”
That was a lie and Cal knew it. No one looking the way his mother did was going to be okay. She would heal physically, but the emotional scars would always be there. Someone had attacked her. It was obvious. His mind raced with possibilities, but none presented themselves.
“Come on,” said the policeman. “We’ll talk on our way to the hospital. Is there someone we can call to meet us there?”
“What?” Cal said, staring at the back of the ambulance doors after they closed.
“Is there someone we can call to come to the hospital? Your father? Brother or sister?”
He thought about it. He could call his friends, or his mother’s. He could call his grandparents, but they were in Florida. Maybe his Aunt and Uncle.
He decided to wait until he found out what had happened.
“No. There’s no one," he lied.
Chapter Twelve
A few days after his mother was taken away by ambulance, Cal learned the horrid details of her attack. He’d seen the house, first. Blood drenched parts of the carpet where his mother had lain. Small pools and droplets of crimson decorated the dining room wood floor and the tan tile in the kitchen. Most of it had been smeared by feet—his mother’s and her attacker’s. Bloody hand prints and smudges decorated the walls throughout the house. His mother had obviously put up a fight, but her attacker looked to have played with her. Had allowed her to think she was getting away, only to be attacked again.
Vases had been smashed, lamps turned over, the shades crumpled and broken. Glass lay about the living room from the smashed coffee table. Drawers where the silverware and other cooking items had been kept were open, the floor littered with forks, spoons and knives. There were holes in the walls where her attacker had shoved her head through the sheetrock. Pictures that had hung on walls were askew or on the floor, the glass shattered, frames broken.
He learned that his mother had flatlined on the way to the hospital and had been touch and go for awhile, but by morning, she had stabilized. She had been victim to a home invasion, his mother telling the police that it was only one person. She had been beaten, sliced up, stabbed and raped. She spent two weeks in the hospital recovering while Cal stayed in a hotel with his grandparents who had come up from Florida. For a few days after the assault, his house was a crime scene, scoured for evidence. And a few days after, when the police finished up, a cleanup crew was hired to return the house to its former unbroken status. A few items, like one of the living room lamps and the coffee table frame, had to be thrown away. One positive piece of news had been that his mom had actually tripped her attacker and gotten him to fall through the glass.
After the cleanup was complete, Cal returned home. The place appeared almost normal, as if nothing terrible had ever happened there. His grandparents had purchased a new lamp and coffee table, along with new carpet, keeping it the same style and color, wanting the place to appear as normal as possible. But Cal knew the house would never be the same again. It had been tainted. There would always be horrible memories there for his mom.
Cal lay on his bed, trying to imagine how she would be when she returned home. She was putting up a strong front at the hospital, and knew it was for him. But when she came home, she might break down. He’d have to be there for her. Maybe she’d want to sell the house.
He was so angry. If he’d been home that night, he might’ve been able to do something.
He looked up at the shelf where Blue Demon had once stood watch over his room. His heart felt like it wanted to leap out of his chest. His eyes opened wide with excitement as the idea hit him hard. Blue Demon. He could use the action figure to find his mom’s attacker. The police, the last he’d heard, had no leads.
He went to leave his room and paused at the door. He felt silly for doing what he was about to do. Grab a toy and ask it to get revenge? But there was no doubting Blue Demon—his Blue Demon—was special. However, since he’d learned of what it could do, he’d been afraid of it. He hadn’t touched it, let alone looked at it, since the day he’d found it back in the box after the kids at his school had been killed.
But this was different. The individual who had attacked his mom, beat and raped her, wasn’t a person. He was a monster. Evil. An adult who knew right from wrong. Someone like that didn’t deserve to live. By getting rid of him, Cal would be saving another family
heartache, for certainly someone so vicious would strike again.
Angered, needing justice, Cal grabbed his pocket knife from his junk drawer and headed up to the attic. He wouldn’t know if he would be able to touch Blue Demon and ask for vengeance until he stared at his old friend.
His heart was pounding—and not from running up the attic stairs—by the time he stood in front of the box labeled Cal’s Stuff. His legs felt weak. He was trembling. He inhaled a dust-filled gulp of air, then released it. He repeated this, hoping to calm his nerves. He realized he wasn’t afraid of Blue Demon. The toy had never hurt him. Never would. Somehow, he knew this. Cal feared the power he held, for the action figure would kill if he asked it to. There was no using it to frighten people or to turn someone over to the police. If he awakened it, it would kill.
With a shaking hand, he sliced open the box top. He put the knife down and opened the flaps. For a second, he was worried the thing wouldn’t be there, that it had left to wherever it had come from, no longer feeling needed. But it was there where he’d found it four years ago. His breath caught in his chest and his stomach churned.
He stared at the toy and felt as if it was staring back. But there was no contempt from it, no hatred for being locked away for so long.
Cal thought about his mom, what she’d gone through. His eyes narrowed. He was pissed. He felt kinship with Blue Demon, as if they were brothers.
Without a second thought, he reached down and scooped it up, then held it out like a golden idol found in some ancient temple.
A few minutes later, he was back in his room, Blue Demon in his hands. “Please, Blue Demon, I need you. I know I kept you locked up, but I was scared. Just a kid. I need you now. Need you to find the man who hurt mom. I don’t know how she'll be able to come home and be herself. She’ll be frightened every time she hears a noise or is alone in the house. I beg you, Blue Demon, help us. Do what you must, just stop him from hurting anyone else.”
Cal didn’t know what else to say. He felt silly in a way, not for just talking to it, but for asking it for help after so long a time. He wondered if it would be there for him now. If not, he would have to accept it.
He placed the toy back on the shelf where it had stood years ago. He stared at it for a while, then turned and laid on his bed, anxiously awaiting for tomorrow to come.
Chapter Thirteen
Derek Whitmore remained at his father’s friend’s cabin in Upstate New York. The rustic abode was small, only having a living room, kitchen and bedroom. There was running water from a well and electricity. The owner, Fred Manning, was currently on a two-week cruise in the Bahamas. Derek had overheard his father speaking to the man about his trip, making the cabin the perfect place for him to lay low for a bit.
He’d brought a radio and purchased a prepaid cell phone so he could keep track of the news. There had been mention of the attack on the Langston woman, but no indication of who was responsible. The police had no leads and believed it had been a random occurrence. Some passerby vagrant hopped up on drugs and looking for cash. Derek had made sure to take any money he found, along with credit cards and jewelry, making sure to dump the latter two items in a river. There was no way he was getting caught with the woman’s belongings.
When he’d raped her, he made sure to wear a condom, as much as he hated doing so. Shooting his infected seed into her would have been a more satisfying way of transmitting the HIV he’d contracted, but he didn’t want to leave his DNA for the police to find. Instead, he’d brought a syringe filled with his own blood. After beating and raping her, he went to stab her with the needle, thinking she was out for the count. She was limp and moaning, looked halfway to being dead. But then when he stood over her, laughing, the tricky bitch kicked him in the balls. He went down and dropped the syringe. She then picked it up and stuck him with it, howling as if she’d accomplished something spectacular. She sat back and laughed too, and he guessed it was because she thought the syringe had been filled with poison.
But he’d gotten up and was more pissed than ever. From there, he really laid into her. He kicked a few of her teeth out. Broke her fingers by stepping on them and grinding his heel against them. The crunching sound was hard to hear over her incredible screams. He’d thought his eardrums were going to rupture. Then he grabbed a steak knife and sliced up her back, legs and face. He kicked her in the ribs and felt her bones give. He could’ve killed her, he knew, but he wanted her to suffer and to fear that one day, he might come back—because he was going to. It was going to be his life’s mission to infect her with HIV. Let her know how he felt. It was her fault he had the virus, and she was going to have it too. It killed him to wear a ski mask and not tell her who he was, but he held it in and let his fists and feet do the talking.
He was supposed to have been released when he first came up for parole. He’d served four years of a ten-year sentence. His dad had said it was a sure thing that he’d get out. The warden’s report was glowing. He’d been a well-behaved inmate. Sure, he’d gotten into some scuffles, but nothing that stuck to his record. But then, the Langston woman had gone to the press shortly before his parole hearing. She told her story, brought the past back to their town, to the public’s awareness. She campaigned for him to remain inside. Somehow despite his father’s stature, she got the governor to back her. Politics played a key role in the prison system. She’d even showed up at his parole hearing, telling her story and stating how she believed he still belonged behind bars. She ruined his early release. His father had tried to buy her off, begged her to not show up, but she refused his money.
Derek wasn’t an animal, at least he hadn’t been, until the horrors of prison molded him into the man he was today.
After he’d gone into solitary for hitting one of the guards with a dinner tray, breaking the man’s nose and front teeth, word had gotten out that he was the son of a judge. It was never supposed to be found out. His father had made arrangements to ensure it, the warden agreeing for Derek’s safety.
After his stint in solitary, he was in the shower room when three men—not from his cell block—entered. The place cleared out in a hurry. He’d tried to leave, but they stopped him.
“Hey, guys,” he said, trying to act cool. “Did I do something wrong?”
They looked at each other and laughed. They were all twice his size, muscles on top of muscles. One had a nasty scar that ran across his forehead and split his eyebrow, leaving him with a dead eye, the pupil glazed.
“Not you, particularly,” Dead Eye said, “but let’s just say you shouldn’t have hit that guard. He’s well connected. Knows stuff. You really pissed him off.”
“I swear,” Derek said. “I didn’t mean it. I’m real sorry. I’ll make it up to him. I’ll get him money, I’ve got lots.”
“You see, he owes me money,” Dead Eye said. “He cleared his slate with me though with what he told me about you. It was worth every penny too.”
Derek wanted to scream for help, but knew it would make him look like a pussy, and in prison, no one wanted to be a pussy. So he kept his mouth shut, hoping he would be able to get himself out of the situation he was in.
“What do you want, money too?” Derek asked.
Dead Eye shook his head. “Nah. I want your ass.”
“But I didn’t do anything to any of you guys,” Derek said, his voice sounding like a kid going through puberty.
“No, you didn’t, but your father did.”
The room’s temperature seemed to drop thirty degrees. Derek couldn’t breathe. He was shaking now, petrified. “What are you talking about?”
“Your father’s a judge,” Dead Eye said. “Put me and many of my friends away.”
“No. He’s not. That guard gave you bad information.”
“I don’t think so.”
Derek screamed and dove forward, hoping to go under the men’s grasp, but they caught him and covered his mouth with a towel. They held him face-down as steam billowed around them from one of the showe
rs having been left on.
He felt Dead Eye climb on top of him, the man weighing a ton. The man wasn’t wearing his towel anymore. Skin on skin. He begged to be let go, but the men only pressed him harder to the tile floor. And then his world was shattered as pain filled his tender inside. All three men had a go with him, the wet floor running red with his blood.
After the attack, Derek remained in the hospital for a few days. He had been badly beaten and raped by all three men, each one known to have HIV. With all the blood and semen that had been exchanged, and even though he was given a cocktail to thwart the virus, he contracted it anyway.
From that point on, he was bullied by a lot of inmates, and was eventually moved permanently to solitary where he almost went out of his mind. He’d learned that being alone, with no one to converse with or listen to, could be just as terrible, if not worse, than being bullied.
And it was all because of that Langston woman. He never would’ve been in that position if he’d gotten out when he was supposed to, if the Langston bitch hadn’t ruined everything.
Now, Derek sat in the lounge chair in the cabin, waiting for time to pass so he could get back to his life. He couldn't wait to plan his next attack on the bitch. Being in the woods was boring as hell and lonely. He was constantly pacing back and forth and falling asleep when he sat.
His time in solitary hadn’t gotten him used to being alone. In fact, it had only made it worse. Sounds became amplified—the ticking of a clock, the chirping of insects, the bark of a dog, even the rain pelting the roof. And when there was no noise, the silence was deafening, suffocating. His solution was to always have the radio on, especially at night when he could hear the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears. Silence was maddening.
He drank constantly, the alcohol making it easier to deal with being alone, but he was running out of beer midway through his third week. He might have to go to town and buy more, or he might just go back home earlier than planned. If the cops weren’t after him by now, then they probably wouldn’t be. It appeared he wasn't a suspect. They had nothing on him.
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