A Guardian of Innocents

by Jeff Orton

  “I thought maybe you n I could git acquainted some. Yuh daddy’s one muh bess cust-mers. Comes intuh muh store all duh time,” Willy declared, then let out a long sigh as if saying those two sentences had drained him of all his energy and strength, “Why dontcha come ovah here on the bed and sit next tuhyuh Unca Willy?”

  I sat there, pretending to ignore him, with my fingers clicking away on the control pad of the Nintendo. After a few seconds passed, Willy said “Boy, I don’t like beeyun eggnord…”

  The ominous tone in his voice was making me nervous but still I refused to avert my eyes from the TV screen.

  justignorehimjustignorehimandmaybehe’llgoaway

  In my peripheral vision I saw his knee rise upward while his body leaned back. The chair beneath me seemed to disappear and I was falling ass-first onto the floor. Something hard and semi-sharp jabbed me in the lower back, perfectly on the spine.

  My face grimaced with pain as I looked around to see what it was he had done. It seemed Uncle Willy had kicked the chair out from underneath me and my lower back had landed on one of its arms.

  Willy stood up, “Ida thought yuh daddy’d teechuh better manners den dat.”

  He looked gigantic to me just then, standing over me while I was sprawled out on the floor. My eyes met his… and then I turned my face away into the light beige carpet of my room. And I cried.

  I cried because I knew what was going to happen. And I cried because I knew there was next to nothing I could do about it.

  “Yuh oughta show more ‘preciation to a man who loaned yuh daddy some money. . .”

  In his mind I saw the images of what had previously transpired, the deal he’d made with my adoptive father. One thousand dollars. For thirty minutes alone with me. I also heard through Willy’s thoughts what Jack had said to him just before he came into my room, “Just don’t break any bones or put any bruises where somebody might see ‘em. I got enough people talkin’ shit about me behind my back as it is. . . And don’t do anything that’ll put him in the hospital.”

  Now Willy reached down and grabbed the top of my ear, then pinched it firmly and twisted. He pulled upward and I clambered to get up and move with him so my ear wouldn’t be torn off.

  My eyes were spilling tears of pain and humiliation.

  Willy sighed, “Look boy, yuh ain’t getting outta this. Yer ass is bought and sold, yuh unnerstand me? Dis dudn’t hafta be difficult. Just do some favors fer yuh Unca Willy, and Unca Willy’s wrinkled, scrawny white ass will be on its merry lil’ way. Now, duh we we have an unnerstandin?”

  I remained silent.

  He then shook my head back and forth, using my ear as a handle while he mocked my answer for me, “Yeees, sir, we do!”

  With one last excruciating pinch, he shoved me head-first onto the bed, “Unca Willy’s gonna show yuh how yuh respect yer elders.”

  He unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants, revealing the dingy off-white briefs that lay beneath.

  And you know… I really can’t explain how the hell I built up any courage to do what I did next. But then again, I really don’t believe courage had much to do with it. What I did was the direct result of being pushed into a corner of final desperation and outrage.

  But I remember it so well because it was the first time I had ever in all my life… fought back.

  After he pushed me onto the bed, I immediately rebounded off it and threw a right jab into his chin, the skin of my knuckles scraping against his unshaven stubble. I heard something pop, and at first I thought I must have thrown the punch so hard I’d broken his jaw, or maybe smashed some teeth in.

  But as Willy staggered back a few steps in amazement and surprise, I felt the tiny electric signal of pain light a spark in the base knuckles of my ring and pinky fingers. It was dull and almost unnoticeable, as if the pain was saying to me, Yes I’m here. But I can see you’re busy, so I won’t bother you right now. We’ll talk later. (I found out later I had minor fractures in those two fingers.)

  “Whoohoo—Wee!” Willy whooped like an amused cowboy. “I sure do like it when they fight!”

  He leapt at me. And we struggled. But eventually he got what he wanted. But through all the sick shit, I still had that tiny glowing ember of pride. I was proud that, this time at least, I had fought back.

  After he was finished I saw his lower lip was swollen and bleeding, and it was only then I realized that I had to the power to hurt an adult. I didn’t have to take it anymore.

  “Yer son in there’s quite a han-ful,” I heard Willy say to Jack as he left, “But he sure does have a sweet ass!”

  Willy then uttered a half-choked giggle and I heard the front door close. As Jack’s footsteps approached my bedroom door, I pulled my pants up quickly, wincing at the pain from moving too suddenly.

  Jack opened the door and just stood there… staring at me. I could feel his uneasiness; he was wondering how in the hell his wussy little son could give a grown man a fat lip. I turned my head so he could see the bright colors which I felt sure were already flourishing on my left ear.

  “You told him no bruises where people could see, Dad. You told him not to break anything,” I said softly as I raised my hand so he could see the swelling. “Aren’t you gonna do something to him, Daddy? Show him who’s boss?”

  Jack lowered his head and I could see that he actually felt ashamed of himself, but I could also feel that he was afraid of Willy. That seemed funny to me, a big middle-aged man afraid of an emaciated senior citizen.

  “No, of course not, Daddy... Because you’re a cowardly piece of shit.”

  Jack’s mouth fell open in a perfect O.

  “That’s right, Daddy. And if you ever touch me again, I’ll cut your throat while you sleep. Or I’ll just poison you. Maybe plug in Mom’s hairdryer and throw it into the bathtub while you’re jerking off one night. I know you like to do that.”

  I felt so righteously indignant I thought I might shoot fire from my eyes. I took a step towards Jack, and felt an immense surge of power from within when he took a step back to keep his distance. He was afraid only because he believed me. Through his eyes I saw myself… And as I looked at that enraged eleven-year-old boy, I believed me too.

  “Just stay in your room,” he mumbled as he closed the door behind him as he left.

  Jack never touched me again.

  Chapter 3

  A few weeks before I turned seventeen, I decided to kill Jack. But it wasn’t a decision made out of a need for vengeance. I know that might sound hard to believe, but it really wasn’t.

  Over the past five years, I had slowly forced myself to forget all that he and his buddy had done to me. But forget might not be a good word to use, because you never really forget, you just try to. Those memories always come back to remind you of the past right when you least want them to. When a girl touches you, when you see a father and his son tossing a Frisbee back and forth in a park, or when you’re in a mall walking around with your parents and you see your father staring at a pretty fourteen-year-old girl licking an ice cream cone. . .

  But what brought everything back full force was when I realized he intended to victimize another child. I could hear his twisted fantasies lurching around in his head like mutant serpents in a murky swamp. Everyday it seemed they got more perverse, more demented. And I knew they were all about one child in particular, but I didn’t know who that child was until Easter Sunday.

  We were having our Sacrament service that morning at our church. All the members of all our church’s wards were there for one service. And if you don’t know what a ward is, allow me to explain: all Mormon churches are divided into wards, first ward arrives for Sunday service at a certain time, second ward would arrive an hour later and third ward would arrive an hour after that for their service, and so on.

  But on Easter Sunday, all wards attended one service. So our small LDS church was packed with Mormons because, as everyone knows, Easter is a popular day to attend church, even for those who usually blo
w it off and sleep in.

  Anyways, they usually get the young boys to deliver the Sacrament which is distributed in clear tiny plastic cups, two to a person. One cup contained a smidgen of bread, while the other held a small sip of water.

  One of the boys approached us with a tray of those golf ball size cups and for the first time I saw in real life the face of the child in Jack’s dreams. He was about six, maybe seven, with blonde hair slicked back but parted to the left, wearing a little suit and tie.

  I immediately saw what it was about him that aroused Jack’s sick desires. It was that look of absolute innocence on the boy’s face. He seemed to glow with an inner light, like a child portrayed in a Rembrandt painting.

  And I’ve noticed that in almost all the pictures I’ve seen of children abducted by sex offenders, they all have that look. That bright-eyed, happy, nothing-in-this-world-will-ever-hurt-me look. They all seem to have it. I think the evil that infects child molesters craves the destruction of that innocence, to tear it apart in the most horrifying way possible. And that’s what makes a child like him such a target.

  As the boy leaned over and handed the Sacrament to each of us, I began to get pictures from Jack’s mind, but not much sound.

  Jack was sitting in his idling Nova trying to talk the boy into getting in his car, although Jack wasn’t sure how he would do it yet, “Your parents asked me to come get you. Why you remember me from church, don’t you? Something’s happened! There’s been a (some kind of emergency, car wreck, heart attack, something). Just get in my car, and I’ll take you to your mom and dad.”

  Then there were images of them driving out to the country, images of the boy trying to open the door to get out, and jack grabbing a handful of his straight blonde hair and bashing his head into the dashboard a couple of times to knock him unconscious.

  And images of Jack burying his remains in a heavily wooded area out in east Texas where no one would ever find him.

  At that moment there was no doubt in my mind that Jack fully intended to rape and kill the boy that was now handing me little plastic cups of bread and water.

  I felt sick, like I could vomit any second now if I let myself. I knew then I had two options to choose from: I could let Jack murder that innocent child, or I could murder Jack to save that child’s life. But I really had no choice in the matter. . . something powerful dictated to me that I could not let Jack harm that boy.

  Iwon’tletyouIswearto GOD I won’t let you!!!

  It was then. In a church. On Easter Sunday. That I decided to commit murder for the first time.

  * * *

  I knew I had very little time to decide how I was going to kill my adoptive father. Jack was building up more nerve everyday to initiate his plan; he was even beginning not to care if he got caught anymore. I estimated there were only a few days left before he tried something.

  I thought about nothing except how I could possibly kill him and get away with it. I did not want to spend the rest of my life in prison. I am a five-foot-ten, blonde-haired, fair-skinned, little pretty boy, and I knew that what would happen to me in a state penitentiary would make my life with Jack and Doris look like a trip to Disneyworld.

  There were a couple of times I thought about killing Jack and then myself immediately afterwards. But I wanted to live, despite all the shit I’d been through I knew I still wanted to live. I wanted to know what it really felt like to be free. Free of him forever.

  And so. . . I thought about poison, I thought about buying a gun from a guy at school I knew, well, knew of anyway. I thought about several different methods, but in each method, I always ended up thinking of a way the police could name me as a suspect, and I did not want to even be remotely suspected, not even in a passing, perfunctory way.

  Finally, I decided on a plan. The first step: acquire a gun.

  * * *

  I knew Mark only on an acquaintance basis. He sat next to me in English class, and every once in a while we’d talk, but not very often. I’d overheard a few jumbled bits of conversation while trolling through the halls of Pierce High School over the past few months with people saying that if you wanted a gun, Mark was the guy that could ‘hook you up.’

  So after English, I followed Mark to his locker and in a lowered voice asked him, “Say, man, uhhh. . . You wouldn’t know where I could buy a. . . a gun, would you?”

  I was nervous as hell. My inner boy-scout was crying out in disbelief. I never did any drugs, never smoked, never even once touched alcohol, and here I am trying to buy a gun off the black market.

  “Now what the hell would you need a gun for?” Mark asked back without even looking up at me, his eyes staring straight ahead into his open locker while he sorted through his books.

  I didn’t know how to answer him. Should I make up some story about some guys threatening to jump me after school, or should I. . .

  “Do you really care?” I asked suddenly. I didn’t even know I was going to say that until the words fell out of my mouth. I stood amazed at myself. My God, I actually said something that sounded halfway cool.

  He laughed, “No. . . No, I really don’t. What kind are you looking for?”

  “Something small and inexpensive,” I answered.

  “Got plenty of those,” he whispered, shaking his head in subtle disbelief, “I never would have pegged you as a potential customer. My car’s parked in the west lot, in front of the auditorium. Meet me there after school. Just pull up in your car and follow me.”

  “Alright, cool.”

  * * *

  Mark’s trailer was on the outskirts of town, right on the border of city and country. We pulled into the gravel driveway, and Mark walked me into the house to introduce me to his dad.

  When we had approached this decrepit trailer park earlier, I couldn’t help but think, So this is what they mean by “trailer-trash.” I mentally reprimanded myself for thinking something so mean, but the thought was still there, This is where the poor whites live.

  I walked into the mobile home and stood aghast at how disheveled and trashed out the place looked. There were cigarette butts on the floor along with scattered remnants of fast-food wrappings and other assorted junk. I think I spotted four or five large roaches scavenging among the dirty dishes piled along the kitchen sink and counters. There were empty beer and soda cans sitting on the various coffee tables and nightstands, some of them overturned on their sides. And the walls had a sickly yellow hue that told of twenty years worth of cigarette smoke absorption.

  Mark’s dad sat on the couch with his elbows resting on his knees, a lit cigarette dangling limply from one hand above an overflowing ashtray. An old re-run of AirWolf was playing on the TV.

  “You got a customer, Dad,” Mark announced as he walked to his room at the other end of the single-wide and closed the door behind him.

  His dad looked up at me. He was wearing only a pair of cut-off denim shorts. His bare chest and shoulders looked strong enough, but that sagging gut made you want to cry out, Put a damn shirt on for the love of God! With dirty brown hair and a thick moustache, he had the look of a guy who appreciated classic rock and motorcycles.

  He looked me in the eye and said, “Strip.”

  “What?” I asked, going from nervous to scared.

  “Need to make sure you ain’t got nuthin’ on you. Strip.”

  I scanned his mind and quickly learned he was just trying to make sure I wasn’t wearing a wire. He didn’t really believe I had one, but he was practicing caution nonetheless.

  So I did as I was told. Fortunately, it didn’t take very long. As I took off each article of clothing he would look through the pockets and turn the clothes inside out, and then back again. He did this with a disinterested look on his face, like this was just routine for him.

  I was fully dressed and lacing my tennis shoes when the father called his son in, “Alright, Mark, bring ‘em out!”

  Mark then dragged a heavy-looking suitcase out of his room and set it down in front of me.
He unzipped it and revealed somewhere between fifty to seventy small handguns.

  “Look through ‘em,” his dad said as he lit up another cigarette from the one he just finished, “And then tell me which one you like, there’s no set price. We can haggle. Don’t worry, none of ‘em are loaded.”

  Some of them looked high-tech, sleek and shiny. Others looked ancient and tarnished. As I picked up each gun and looked it over, I got a sense of the price range Mark’s father was willing to go down to: Ruger .22 -- $250, Smith & Wesson .38 -- $325, etc.

  “What about this one?” I inquired as I held up what was probably going to be the only gun I could afford.

  The dad chuckled, “Son, that gun’s more of a toy than a weapon. Are you sure that’s the one you want?” His chiding tone, more than his thoughts, showed he was just trying to upsell me into something more expensive.

  “Yeah, this’ll do. I’ll give you a hundred and fifty for it. . . and I’ll toss in another twenty if you’ll give me some bullets and if someone cleans it for me, or at least shows me how to do it myself.”

  The dad thought it over for a few seconds, pondering if he could squeeze another fifty or so out of me, then said, “Deal.”

  And so, that was how I purchased my first firearm, a little six-shooter revolver. Older than Grandpappy Methuselah, but powerful enough to do what I needed it to do.

  Mark gave me a small, orange plastic box filled with fifty bullets and showed me how all that was needed to clean it was a bristle rod, some oil and a rag.

  * * *

  Next step: buy some clothes from the Salvation Army, cheap clothes, something a homeless kid would wear.

  I drove to the one in Dallas, deliberately going thirty minutes out of my way in case the cops asked around at any of the locations in the mid-cities or Fort Worth area after Jack’s body was found. I didn’t know exactly where I was going to kill him, but I knew it would be somewhere in that area of the metroplex.