D-Boy
By Edward Kendrick
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2017 Edward Kendrick
ISBN 9781634865685
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
All rights reserved.
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This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
Dedication: To my family.
* * * *
D-Boy
By Edward Kendrick
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 1
Colorado, 1999–2000
Derek would never forget the last time he saw his parents, even though he couldn’t remember their names—no more than he could remember his own name, the one they’d given him.
His father was driving, his mother beside him, her hands clasped over her belly, as if to protect her unborn child. Derek was in the backseat, watching the road curve through the mountains, rocky heights on one side, a steep drop on the other. A sharp turn ahead, his father taking it carefully, a loud bang as he did—swerving, tearing metal, the door springing open. Derek was flying.
Michael told him later he must have been thrown free from the wreck. He found him at the base of the cliff and thought he was dead at first “like whoever was else was in the car, though they didn’t make it out. Then I felt the flutter of a pulse. So I brought you here.”
‘Here’ was a small cabin deep in the forest. It was Michael’s home. Had been forever, Michael told him when Derek finally woke up. That was a week after he’d found him, according to Michael.
Derek was around sixteen, give or take, or so Michael figured. Derek didn’t know. He’d been battered and bruised, with a bad abrasion on the back of his head and one broken leg. Michael had set it in a splint made of roughhewn branches then took care of him until he regained consciousness
The man was old, at least in Derek’s eyes—maybe fifty, maybe more. He never said exactly. Gray-haired and scarred, with deep-set blue eyes and a kindly smile—when he smiled—which wasn’t often. A recluse, he said he had lived the last twenty plus years on his own, deep in the mountains. “Got no use for people,” he told Derek.
“What did they call you, boy?” Michael asked, soon after Derek finally awakened.
Derek frowned. He had no memories of anything except the moments before the crash. “I don’t remember,” he replied, scared and feeling terribly alone, even though Michael was right there beside the small bed.
“Humm. Then we’ll have to come up with a name for you for now. I had a friend once, only real friend I ever had. His name was Derek. That suit you, boy?”
He nodded, and so he became Derek. No last name, just Derek.
When he asked, which he finally did—although he didn’t want to know, Michael said he had heard the sound of the crash while he was out hunting.
“Loud enough to wake the dead, so I went to investigate. Wasn’t nothing left but a burned out hulk at the bottom of the cliff by the time I got there. That’s when I found you, like I said. Hoped maybe whoever was in the car got thrown free, so I looked and there you were. I’m sorry, but your folks didn’t make it.”
Derek cried then, even though he’d been sure they were dead, and Michael had held him until he stopped. After that, they never talked about it again.
A month after Michael had found him, the splint was off Derek’s leg and he could walk without the home-made crutch Michael had devised. However, he limped a bit since the break hadn’t been set quite right.
“Now what do we do with you?” Michael asked late one evening after they’d eaten a meal of venison and home-grown vegetables. “You’re moving okay now; you’re healthy again. So what do we do, send you back into the world to fend for yourself?”
Derek shook his head vehemently. “Why can’t I stay here with you? I don’t have a family now.”
“That you know of, but you might, and they might be looking for you.”
Derek thought about that and shrugged. “Not too hard or they’d have sent people searching for me.”
“Maybe they did; maybe they didn’t.”
“If they had, they would have found me.” As he said that, he had a sudden feeling that being found might not be the best thing for him, although he didn’t know why. He shuddered.
Michael put his hand on Derek’s shoulder, stating firmly, “No one would have found you if they were looking. Nobody’s ever found this place, not even hunters—too far away from anywhere.”
“Why?” Derek had asked that before, and Michael’s reply had always been the same. He didn’t like people.
This time he said, “It’s safer. No one can hurt you, kill you, kill your friends, your family.” Michael’s eyes darkened and Derek knew he was remembering something bad.
“But you want to send me away so that can happen to me.”
“Naw, not really, but you’ll want to go soon enough. This ain’t no life for a kid, even though I sort of like having you around. You’re not bad company, all told. Still, you maybe should go back and see if you can find family. The wreck must have made the news. You find the story, find out who you are, get on with your life.”
Derek thought about that. “Could, I guess. But I like it here. At least here I know I’m safe.” Again, he didn’t know why that was important. He just somehow knew it was.
Michael nodded. “‘Safe as aces’, as my friend, Derek, used to say before things went south.”
“I can help around the place. You can teach me how to use the bow and how to fish. Then you can take it easy.”
“You calling me ‘old’, Derek?” Michael asked, giving him one of his rare smiles.
“Older than me,” Derek replied, grinning a bit.
“Now that’s a given. Tell you what. I’ll think about it.”
Michael did and two days later he told Derek, “You can stay.” Just that, short and sweet.
Derek almost cheered. “So now you have to teach me things so I’m useful. Like, like—” he looked around the small cabin “—like we need another bed so I don’t have to keep sleeping on the sofa.” He’d moved to the sofa the week after Michael had found him and he’d finally awakened, insisting it wasn’t fair for him to have the only bed.
“I can do that. And show you how to hunt, if you have a good eye and a steady hand.”
Derek pumped a fist in the air. “When?”
; “Today. We need fresh meat. You think you can shoot a cute, little bunny rabbit?”
Derek rolled his eyes. “As long as it’s not Thumper.”
“You remember that story?” Michael asked, watching him.
Thinking about it, Derek nodded. “I guess I do. Sort of. I remember Mom reading it to me when I was little.” His face lit up. “Hey, I just remembered a bit of my past. Not much, just that. Probably because of what you said, but maybe it’s a start?”
“Yeah, maybe.” Michael got up suddenly, going to get the bow and the quiver he kept the arrows in. “Let’s see how you do.”
Derek cocked his head in question at the sudden change of subject. “It’s good, isn’t it, that I might be starting to remember?”
Michael just shrugged as he headed out of the cabin. Derek was right behind him, uncertain what was going on with him. It wasn’t until they were deep into the woods, well away from the cabin, that he figured it out.
“Hey, just because I remember doesn’t mean I want to go back there—wherever there is. I like it here.”
“You might change your mind. Get bored. Want some excitement. Want friends.”
“You’re my friend.”
“I’m an old man, Derek. But now’s not the time to talk if we want to catch supper.”
They returned to the cabin around noon with a brace of rabbits and a squirrel. Derek wasn’t certain he could actually eat squirrel until Michael pointed out to him that he already had. “What do you think was in the stew we had a week ago? Chicken?”
As it turned out, Derek was very good with a bow and arrows once he got the hang of it, so it became his job to hunt while Michael did the fishing in a small stream several hundred yards behind the cabin. They both tended the garden and soon were taking turns cooking.
The new bed got made, with rope crisscrossed to make a base for the straw mattress, over which they laid the sleeping bag Derek had been using as a blanket on the sofa. When he asked, Michael told him he sometimes, very rarely, hiked to a small town fifty miles away to get basic necessities like the sleeping bag and the few clothes he owned that he hadn’t made himself. Clothes he now shared with Derek.
* * * *
Within a month, Derek was well settled in to his new life. Occasionally he would get a fleeting memory of his old life but nothing that told him who he was or where he came from.
In the evenings after supper, they would sit on the floor by the small fireplace. At first they just talked about their day but slowly Michael opened up enough to talk about his childhood, nothing more. He refused to reveal what his life had been like once he left home or why he had become a recluse.
Michael had an old, well used chess board as well as both chess and checker sets, so they usually ended their evenings playing one game or another. Soon Derek became quite proficient at chess, beating Michael as often as he lost to him.
It all ended suddenly.
Derek was out hunting, this time hoping to find a deer. Michael said if he did, they would save the skin to make new boots and jackets to replace the ones they had already, eat what they could of the meat while it was fresh, and dry the rest for later consumption.
He had no luck with the deer but did shoot two rabbits. As he headed back to the cabin, he thought he heard something. A loud bang, followed quickly by a shout, and then two more bangs. Frowning, he stepped up his pace, wondering if there were hunters in the area. If they had found the cabin…
He raced the last quarter mile to the clearing. Everything looked the way it always did—no hunters, no dead animal, nothing to say who had shouted. Not until he opened the cabin door.
Michael lay sprawled on his back in the middle of the floor, two gaping wounds in his chest, a third lower down in his gut. Blood covered the floor around Michael’s body.
Derek dropped the bow and the rabbits on the narrow stoop, hastening to kneel by Michael. He knew the man was dead. No one could survive such wounds. But he still cradled his friend in his arms, rocking back and forth as he cried, begging Michael to say something.
Later—he didn’t know how much later other than that the sun was pouring in through the west window as it went down over a mountain top—Derek finally laid Michael’s body down. Staggering to his feet, he looked around the cabin, searching for any clue to who had killed his friend.
He realized there were bloody footprints leading toward the door—boot prints, he thought. Michael’s killer had checked to see if he was dead—like there could be any doubt.
The small cupboard beside the fireplace stood open, the contents strewn on the floor. Derek bent to pick up the red king from the chess set, gripping it tightly in his hand. What was he looking for? Michael had nothing personal—nothing from his past. But maybe the killer didn’t know that.
He wiped one hand over his face to dry the last of his tears.
“What do I do now?” he said softly. “Bury him? There’s no one I know of to tell what happened. The police? How would I find them? In the town he talked about—somewhere out there?”
He looked down at Michael’s body again, shuddering. All I can do is give him a decent burial. And then what?
He decided he’d wait to figure that out until later. Getting the shovel they used for the garden, he went outside. The ground was soft in the center of the garden, between the last of the tomato plants and the vines of squash. Slowly he dug a grave, stopping often to wipe away more tears. When it was ready, he went back inside.
Taking the worn blanket from Michael’s bed, he gently wrapped it around him, but not before he took the Saint Christopher medal Michael always wore and fastened it around his neck. At least I’ll have something to remember him by. When he finished wrapping the body, the blanket was blood soaked, leaving a trail behind Derek as he half-carried, half-dragged Michael out the cabin’s back door.
Very carefully, he laid Michael to rest. The only prayers he knew were the ones Michael had taught him on Sunday mornings when they’d given their thanks to God for making it through another week. He said them, kneeling beside the grave, then covered the body with dirt. By then it was dark, except for the light from the full moon shining between the treetops.
Gathering up his waning courage, Derek returned to the cabin, lit the lanterns, and got the bucket they used for water. He filled it at the stream then went back and began to clean the blood from the floor as best he could. By the time he was finished, he was relieved to see most of it was gone.
Next, too wired to even think of trying to sleep, he began his own search of the small cabin. If someone thought Michael had something here, maybe he did and he just didn’t tell me about it, or where it was.
The tiny storage area off to one side of the room only had shelves, no cupboards, and there was nothing on any of them except the few dishes they used and some jars of canned vegetables and fruits. He lifted the pillows on the old sofa, feeling each one as he did, doing the same for the thin mattress on Michael’s bed. There was nothing.
Picking up one of the lanterns, he went outside again to the side of the cabin, lifting the small door that opened onto the root cellar beneath the cabin. Going down, he began a systematic search of the small room. The lantern cast eerie shadows over the bottles of canned produce and the packages of dried meat as he moved around, leaving the areas behind them darkness. So he almost missed a square tin box tucked away in the corner of one full shelf.
Taking it out, he found it was locked. If there was a key—and there had to be—he had the feeling it was probably in Michael’s pants pocket. No way am I digging him up to find it. The thought made him shudder as he went back up the steps. Closing the door behind him, he returned to the cabin, setting the box down on the table at one side of the room.
He studied the lock and the lid then got a screwdriver from the box of tools on a shelf in the storage area. Prying it under the seam by the lock between the lid and the box, he twisted and turned it until the lid popped up with a dull screech of the hinges.
> The first thing he saw was money, several thick wads of bills, one of hundreds, the rest of twenties.
“Holy smoke,” he whispered.
Taking them out, he looked at what was underneath them and frowned. It was a gun. Not that he knew anything about guns, but to his unpracticed eye, it looked very lethal. He took it out as well, and a small box of ammo, setting them by the cash. The last thing in the box was a sheaf of papers. He lifted them out and went over to the sofa. He tried to read the top one and realized he was so tired his sight was blurring when he tried to make out the small print.
Tomorrow, first thing in the morning. Now I need to sleep. If I can.
He put everything back in the box in reverse order, closed it, and hid it underneath his bed. Then he crawled into the sleeping bag and despite his fear he wouldn’t sleep, he did.
* * * *
Derek woke the next morning when the sun hit his bed through the east window. For a moment he wondered why it was so late and why Michael hadn’t rousted him. Then he remembered.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it,” he swore, slamming his hand against the side of the bed. He ignored the pain as he sat up. Glancing at the floor where he had found Michael’s body, he saw a pinkish stain, even though he had been certain the night before that he’d washed away all the blood. He shivered, remembering walking into the cabin and the horror of what he’d found.
Then he remembered something else. The box. He leaned over the edge of the bed, feeling for it, surprised at how relieved he was that it was still there. He pulled it out and got up, setting it on the table.
Next he went through his morning routine, going out back to what Michael had called the composting latrine to take care of the most pressing business, then washing up as best as possible in the stream, and bringing back fresh water in the bucket he brought with him. He lit a fire in the fireplace and hung a pot of water on the hook to boil for tea.
With that accomplished, and after changing into another pair of pants and a soft, deer-skin shirt that had belonged to Michael, he sat down at the table. Opening the box, he took out the sheaf of papers and began to read.
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