The Light at the End of the Tunnel

by James W. Nelson

  Les Paul shook his head more violently then before! Where oh where did these stupid, stupid, stupid! memories come from? They were not his! A wolf puppy! So that’s what they had seen in his earlier memory! How could he even remember that earlier memory? And how could the memories go from good to evil so quickly? Why would he go from being nice to that woman to killing her? At his tender age of seven he barely comprehended the two words: ‘good,’ ‘evil,’ but he had seen and heard the two words used many times on TV. So he knew the difference and could see the difference in those memories that were not his! Not his! NOT HIS!!!!

  Then came a sound from the room he had never heard or even imagined, a grunting from one of the boys that lasted several seconds, and muffled groaning—but not crying—from the girl, the seven-year-old, then everything got quiet, for a few seconds.

  “Let her up,” from the twelve-year-old.

  A second or two later, moaning but still not really crying, the seven-year-old girl slammed out the door, glanced at Les Paul, and ran to the bathroom and slammed the door. Then he heard water running. There had been blood on the insides of both her legs. He wondered what had happened to cause blood. The door to the girls’ room was wide open so Les Paul looked in. The two boys, the oldest one closing up his jeans, stood looking at the other two girls cowering against the wall between the bunkbeds.

  “I wanna do the little one,” the ten-year-old said, “She’s the cutest.”

  But then they all heard the front door open and close, and the voices of the adults. The two big boys turned and ran for the girls’ bedroom door. Les Paul, who had done no wrong, just stepped aside as the two boys ran into the boys’ bedroom and closed the door. The seven-year-old girl, too, hurried from the bathroom, again looked at Les Paul, then into the girls’ bedroom. Les Paul expected somebody to tell somebody something, but nobody did.

  And what, exactly, had just happened? He really had no idea, yet a cluster of far back memories began flooding through his mind…of other girls, but not young ones like these, mostly older girls, like maybe girls he had learned were called teenagers, and still older girls, so many pretty faces, and frightened faces, and then just quiet faces and blank eyes seeing nothing…

  His mind went to a room, a small room. He was in a chair, a metal-like chair, he couldn’t move, wires seemed to be everywhere. A man stood next to an electrical box of some sort on the wall. Straight ahead of him he saw people, several seated people behind a large glass window, some were higher than others like in bleachers, some looked familiar. They all were looking at him, and looked like they were mad at him. Another man entered the room—a man in a suit! A warden! He knew that man was a warden from seeing wardens on TV, but why? And why did he think he knew that man—and another, a white-haired man in minister’s clothes! He knew that man too, but where…?

  The minister approached and opened a book, a Bible,“Les Paul—“ Why is he looking at me and saying that name? WHO THE HELL IS LES PAUL? “—whether you renounce your sins or not, I am here to ask God to take you into his arms and forgive you…”

  The man talked on. He stopped hearing him. But, sins? What is he talking about? And what is a sin? And why was he suddenly seeing in his mind girls?—he saw one under him, crying and looking at him with frightened eyes—he forced that memory to end, if it even WAS a memory.

  His eyes moved to the man he saw as the warden. He knew what a warden was. He had seen wardens on many cop shows. Just something about them made them look like a warden, but this one looked…familiar—

  The minister stopped speaking, and made a few motions with his hands, then the minister retreated to stand to the side behind the warden. The warden nodded to the man by the electrical box. The man pulled a lever down and instantly there began the humming sound of electricity, and the sound of sparks. He even saw some sparks—and smoke! Lots of smoke! He felt the current entering his body. He knew his body was jerking as the voltage did its work. He knew his body would be jumping all over the place if he wasn’t locked down—WHY AM I LOCKED DOWN? WHY ARE THEY DOING THIS TO ME?

  How did he know these things he wondered? He knew his life was leaving him, and all his life began flashing before his eyes—all his many lives began flashing—what…? Horses, swords, women, many beautiful women and girls—many, many girls…what was it about so many girls? Then the many other horrible memories he sometimes had came back to him: Things and events he didn’t really understand, mainly why was it happening to him?

  The memory seemed to be taking such a long, long, time.

  He held his breath, held his eyes closed tight, doubled his fists, but would not cry out his fear, if he even was feeling fear.

  He stopped hearing, mostly stopped seeing, but still he saw the people behind the large glass window moving farther away, like the end of a TV show, like a curtain closing, gone, blackness….

  ****

  “He reaped me!” screamed the seven-year-old.

  Unrealized by Les Paul, the woman of the house had arrived and saw him standing and gawking into the bedroom of the three girls.

  Reaped? What is that?

  Unfortunately, the young girl, still likely upset by her ordeal, had pronounced the word with a long ‘e’ sound. To the seven-year-old boy it had sounded like ‘reaped,’ rather than ‘raped,’ but, regardless, the sounds he had heard from both the boy and the girl made him think that what had happened behind the closed door would be something he would like. As soon as he learned to read he would learn that word, and do that thing.

  Also, unfortunately, due to the short amount of time he spent with each family, he had bonded with no other male, not a father, not a brother, and for certain no cousin, uncle, or family friend. Everything still was trial and error, and yet…and yet he had these strange memories of things he liked but didn’t yet quite understand, but as he continued to grow he would come to realize that to learn anything he would have to bond with another male, and then he would begin to learn more and more.

  Most importantly, to him, he really wanted to learn what that new word ‘reaped’ meant.

  The woman of the house grabbed his arm and pulled him to the kitchen where the man was. Then she lied just as unapologetically as the young girl had, “This kid just raped our seven-year-old girl.”

  ‘Raped?’ He felt really confused. He was sure the girl had said ‘reaped.’ No matter. He would learn both words!

  “We’ll have to take this one back,” the woman of the house continued, “But we’ll probably lose the girl too, and it’s still two more days till the middle of the month.”

  Yeah! They’ll lose money!

  Chapter 26 A few Foster Homes Behind

  The navy blue house with beige-colored trim was a mansion: Two stories were capped with walnut-colored shingles. It appeared to have a finished attic, as well as a basement. Towers rose from two corners of the house, each floor with a bay window, and other large windows everywhere. A wrap-around porch appeared to go all the way around the house, with columns about every eight feet.

  The chaplain rang the doorbell.

  “I think this is about the nicest house we’ve ever been too,” Nicole offered.

  “I was thinking the same thing,” he agreed, “Raising foster children must be paying well.”

  Two more years had passed before the chaplain and Nicole—along with working for Riley Stokes—were able to track Les Paul to this foster family. Nine long years had now passed and they didn’t feel any closer to their goal—their unqualified goal. And what, exactly, was their goal? Neither knew for sure and they rarely discussed it, but both knew something had to come to pass eventually. Also, they still had no unequivocal proof that their quarry was actually Les Paul. The trail of evil, however, left little doubt. But even the idea of evil, at times, was hard to stomach, as most acts by Baby Boy-doe9, were usually rather minor, yet acts not likely performed by 99.9% of normal children. But then, of course, there were the two unproven murders, and no law enforcement office in the
world would believe a two-year-old had flawlessly pulled off two murders.

  They originally had thought that having the name ‘Baby Boy-Doe9’ would make him easier to track. What they hadn’t counted on was the number of different family services centers they would have to deal with, plus attitudes and outlooks, and plain stubbornness from the different personnel, especially the ordeal of getting past each receptionist to even get to talk to someone who knew what was going on. Between every different foster home it had been one hoop after another.

  The charge of rape, though, as this family was putting forward, seemed a bit much for a seven-year-old to commit on another seven-year-old—today as a nine-year-old, maybe—but the chaplain definitely wondered if it could be true. Strangely enough they both truly believed the two-year-old had murdered, but rape…? Come on! He punched the doorbell a second time. He could hear the chimes ringing inside the exquisite house. Ten in the morning, but still. They should be up by then.

  Another moment passed. The door opened. A woman in a forest-green robe with bright red hair, about forty, appeared, “Yes, may I help you?”

  “How are you, ma’am? My name is Radford Ohare, and this is Nicole Waters. We’ve been hired by Baby Boy-Doe9’s birth parents to find him, and bring him home.”

  “‘Baby Boy,’ huh? That’s a while back, and I say good luck to those parents.” The woman did not smile, “That’s probably the orneriest kid we’ve ever had.”

  “What did he do?” Nicole asked.

  “Well…he—how come he never got a name anyway?” The woman glanced away, and looked like she wanted to maybe hide something, “’Baby Boy-Doe9’—what the hell is that, anyway? That’s a stupid name!”

  “So you didn’t give him a name either…” the chaplain offered, “How long was he here?”

  “About two months…maybe three.”

  “You aren’t sure?”

  “Yes! It was two months—Three!” The woman obviously was getting impatient.

  The chaplain chided himself for asking that last question, but on sight he had not liked the woman, and for just a few seconds Baby Boy-Doe9 slash Les Paul seemed like just another foster child getting kicked around in—sometimes questionable—foster homes.

  “What do you people want, anyway?” the woman asked, “It’s at least two years since we returned that kid to Family Services.”

  “Actually, Ma’am,” Nicole cut in, “Family Services says one of your children was raped by Baby Boy. Is that true?”

  “Yeah, when I got home that night and checked on the kids, there he stood, gawking into the girls’ bedroom, and then little Cassandra just screamed it out, ‘He raped me!’ Actually she pronounced it as ‘reap’ but I’m sure she meant ‘rape.’”

  “The girl actually said the seven-year-old did it?” the chaplain asked.

  “Well, yes, he was the only one there.”

  “But…Cassandra, didn’t actually name him,” Nicole suggested

  “No,” the woman finally admitted, “She only pointed—it’s possible she just pointed toward the boys’ room—but I grabbed that boy and took him into the kitchen where my husband was, and we took him right back to Family Services that night. Unfortunately, we soon lost the girl too.”

  Not ‘Cassandra,’ just ‘the girl.’

  “So it is possible that one of the other boys did the rape.” He said it as a statement.

  “Yes! I suppose!” But a look crossed her face.

  “Thank you,” Nicole said, and took the chaplain’s arm and turned him.

  “There was something different about that kid,” the woman said as she began closing the door, “Even if he didn’t perform the rape he did other stuff, and that night I looked into his eyes. Like I said, even if he didn’t do it I think he wanted to.”

  “His eyes, Ma’am,” the chaplain said, stopping and turning back, “Can you be more specific…about what you saw in them?”

  “I have never experienced true evil. I’ve never seen it that I know of, before that kid arrived, but I often saw something in his eyes that gave me the chills.” The woman stepped back, “That kid is evil.”

  The door closed. It didn’t slam but was close to a slam.

  As they walked away, the chaplain said, “You saw her face change, Nicole. She now knows for sure that they probably got rid of the wrong boy.”

  “Yes, probably, Radford, but you almost sounded like you were supporting Les Paul.”

  “I suppose in a way I was. If he didn’t do the rape—“

  “But you heard the woman,” Nicole interrupted, “Even if he didn’t, well, it was probably just a matter of time, and maybe all he needs is another older boy to show him the ropes.”

  “You’re probably right, but I think, right now, the number one thing on our agenda is finding that girl.”

  “I agree,” Nicole said, “I feel Cassandra can tell us much more than that woman did. I also have to wonder how much love and supervision those two give to any of their kids. Strange about her pronunciation of ‘rape’ too.”

  Chapter 27 Meeting With Cassandra

  As it turned out, the file that Family Services had of the girl, Cassandra, put her far into the neighboring state. Just one more detour the chaplain figured, but two hundred miles, or so, at the price of gasoline, was nothing to take lightly. He hoped Family Services in Kansas would be as helpful as Nebraska.

  “What if they won’t tell us?” Nicole asked as they pulled into Earnestburg, Kansas.

  “You have a point, my dear. Nebraska presently is overwhelmed with foster children, so any help we could give them was appreciated, even though they sometimes were difficult with us. We’ll hope for the best here.”

  “‘Difficult,’ Radford? Most of the time it’s been like pulling teeth, the old way, with pliers!”

  He laughed, “It sounds like you have experience.”

  “I do. I lost a back molar once, on the bottom, and I went to my parents’ dentist. Some old guy from the really old school. He came at me with a big pair of pliers—I don’t know what else to call them—he told me to ‘relax’—which just made me stiffen up more, and then he practically climbed onto the chair with me, and then I just got petrified—I was only seventeen! He said ‘Open wide,’ and I don’t know how wide open I got and he went right in there with that huge pair of pliers, clamped on and started to pull! He even braced himself against me, but out that tooth came. Then he climbed down, showed me my tooth, grinned, and said, ‘Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’”

  She laughed and reached over and touched his arm, “It really wasn’t, Rad, it’s just that he scared me.” She withdrew her hand, and wondered about her sudden, reoccurring, familiarity with her partner. After nine years she felt they should at least be able to touch each other, and they did, but never—or rarely—in a really familiar way, and that was sad, because after nine years, off and on, she was—without much warning—beginning to accept her true feelings: I like you, Rad. But how to tell you? Totally spontaneously she again reached across the chasm and laid her hand fully on his arm, and left it there for several seconds before withdrawing, which did bring a response.

  He did glance at her and send a smile. She smiled back, then looked at the address for the local family services, just as a small, one story building appeared. The chaplain looked at his notes, too, then looked at the entrance, “I guess this maybe is it.”

  “Yep,” Nicole confirmed it.

  They parked and walked to the building. At the receptionist’s desk sat a very large and unfriendly-looking woman with black hair. No smile appeared, “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” the chaplain answered, “We’re both private detectives…” He gave her the rundown they told all official people, and ended with, “Were looking for Cassandra.” He handed over a paper that had a minimal amount of her Nebraska record.

  The woman looked it over and handed it back, and continued not smiling, “Why do you want to see her?”

  “We want to ask her som
e questions about what happened at another foster home with another foster child.

  “She was raped.” The woman placed her elbows on her desk and rested her mouth against her thumbs. It appeared this receptionist was also the person with the information. She continued not smiling, “Normally I wouldn’t share even that much information, but you people evidently must know—that is why you’re here, correct?”

  “Yes,” Nicole answered.

  “And that rape damaged that little girl. In the last two years she’s been with four foster families. She simply will not trust or bond with anyone!—“ For one second the woman’s face changed. She still didn’t smile, but obviously she cared about her foster children, especially the damaged ones, like Cassandra. “And now you want to go and bother her with questions about the very thing that has upset her so!”

  The chaplain didn’t know what to say. He almost wished the woman would have remained totally unfriendly…not that she had changed much, but on sight he had expected her to not feel any real emotion toward any of their foster children. How wrong he was.

  “We of course do not want to upset her, ma’am,” Nicole offered, “We’re searching for the boy who hurt her, and we think she might know something—“

  “Of his whereabouts?” The woman dropped her hands. Papers flew as her arms hit the desk, “You don’t even know that?”

  “That’s correct,” Nicole came back, “According to the woman of the house where the rape occurred, the two appeared to be friendly with each other, and spent a lot of time playing together. The boy could very easily have shared something with her that could help us find him.”

  “But, unfortunately, the boy had to rape her!” the woman said, not pleasantly, “That’s where Cassandra’s friendliness got her.”

  “Yes,” Nicole said, “That was very unfortunate. I have worked with rape victims, especially little girls, and, just maybe, talking about it, might help her. I doubt she has had much counseling.”