The Sally Ride Chronicle

by K. M. Hodge

  He thus resides forever in the darkest pit of my psyche, chained to me in perpetuity. Now only two choices remain: I must cast off those chains, or yank them tight around his neck. Yes, I must obtain satisfaction. The idiotic jury seventeen years ago, and today’s flawed court system, has left little recourse. No one else seems willing to deliver him to justice.

  I am willing. After all, this is what I do. It’s who I am. Indeed, the devil himself made me into this hunter of monsters. What a sweet twist of fate this is, that I may still, finally, administer justice.

  He descends the stairs toward his waiting car with an arrogant swagger, watching the small group of protestors, the news reporters, and the police officers here to ensure a peaceful transition, as if to challenge them. His wicked grin never waivers.

  Oh, that grin. For seventeen years it has taunted me, punished me for my indecision, my incompetence. I missed my chance to kill him in 1978, to remove his damned head—simple, as if cutting a sheet of paper. It would have been a fitting end for a monster.

  Why did I let him live?

  Like whispers in a storm, those memories only tease at me now, here at this obscene and maddening event. I’m trying not to relive every moment of 1978. Every time I do, I feel as if swimming in quicksand, anchored by my constant companions—sorrow and guilt. I’m too damned tired; can’t shake the confusion, the dread. I fear surrendering to fear.

  My life teems with just such wretched ironies.

  As Norton vanishes inside a black sedan—looks like standard-issue law enforcement—I dash through the crowds to my van. Despite this call to action, my mind again zeroes-in on memories of 1978. I recall the court proceedings, particularly the devil’s own twisted testimony, as though it were yesterday. I’ve only relived it ten thousand times.

  Then twenty-six, Norton was a man-child who’d never quite grasped the nuance of adulthood. He continued to wash dishes at a restaurant, ten years into the only job he’d ever held. He found it comfortable and unchallenging—perfect. He harbored no great yearnings, nor imagined exciting possibilities, nor sought lucrative rewards.

  Then everything changed. He said that was when his new life emerged, when he became more aware, even more intelligent. He better understood the world around him. He discovered what he called “The Purpose” in the spring of 1978, and it guided his every deed. He claimed he became a man that year.

  I remember it quite clearly as the year he became the devil.

  The words I wrote in my diary at the time return to me, a personal anthem more relevant than ever: Rage flows like lava through my veins. My soul slowly roasts upon the flames. How did I ever let it come to this?

  Now mortality, as it did seventeen years ago, lingers above me like the hangman’s noose. Yet it looms more ominous than ever, as if it will drop down around my neck at any moment. After all, I know the true Mitchell Norton. And whom shall I fear if not the devil, the grim torturer who conquered my aspirations and left me without a recognizable world of my own?

  Or is it me that I fear? The man I’ve become? The man Norton made me?

  Some fancy maneuvering is required to escape the crowds and the police at the courthouse. I manage to keep Norton in sight, zigzagging between lanes and keeping several vehicles between us, hanging back far enough to avoid detection without losing him. Uncertain emotions bubble up, some indecipherable combination of dread and anticipation, fear and excitement, vengeance and sorrow. I must know where he’ll make his home, information that has been difficult to obtain, as the authorities are concerned with Norton’s security.

  Give me a break! They should express their security concerns not for the devil himself, but for his next victims.

  Oh yes, I know Norton too well. He will torture, murder and dismember again. The temptation will be too great to resist.

  I saw him up close in 1978, looked into the soul of the devil, as we waded through the blood and gore he’d spilled. I couldn’t fathom his unrepentant pleasure, the sick thrill, his gleeful anticipation.

  Now he’s out of prison, again free to call up his demons, to torture the innocent, to waltz to what he once called his “symphony of screams.”

  The devil walks the world again.

  What shall I do about it? Aye, what indeed.

  PART 2 – REBIRTH

  ~~~

  Chapter 3 – April 20, 1978: Mitchell Norton

  ~~~

  Where is this strange place? Am I flyin’ over it? What’s he gonna do to that woman? Who is he? Maybe the better question is; what is he? I ain’t no kid anymore, don’t believe in monsters under the bed or demons in the closet, but.... The way he’s lookin’ at me gives me the fuckin’ shivers. I think he... I ain’t sure, but... does he want me to watch?

  The woman is lyin’ on a table—naked. I like that, sure enough, but I don’t think I like the rest of it. Her wide eyes never blink, and her body bounces up and down like she’s havin’ some kinda convulsions. Sweat pours down her face and her ratty hair looks like she ain’t washed it in a month. Somethin’ horrible is goin’ on, but fuck if I know what it is.

  The demon, if that’s what he is, wheels a cart over next to the table. The cart holds a bunch of weapons and tools—knives, saws, drills, scalpels, hammers and clamps.

  Is he gonna perform surgery on her? He ain’t no fuckin’ doctor. His leathery face, his black grin, his eyes like coals from a furnace, all point to.... Fuck! I don’t know, but whatever he’s gonna do, I’m pretty sure he ain’t plannin’ to use anesthesia. He’s droolin’ and lickin’ his chops.

  He grabs a knife the size of my foot, looks up at me, and laughs. The woman screams in a high-pitched wail that pierces my ears like someone stuck a goddamn ice pick in my fuckin’ brain. He moves alongside her and raises the knife like he’s—

  “Wait! What are you doin’?” I yell as loud as I can, but he ignores me.

  He grabs her wrist and lashes down with the knife, and she screams again as blood spurts onto the floor. He turns to me, holdin’ something up in his hands. It’s hard to see, but I think it could be a—

  “My God, why did you do that?”

  He roars with laughter and tosses her finger off to the side like so much trash, and walks around to the other side of the table. His eyes blaze and he smiles, exposin’ long teeth that end in a point like icicles.

  My head feels like someone is crushin’ it in a vice. I can’t believe this is happenin’. What is this place? Why can’t I get out? I gotta get help. I don’t wanna watch this, but I can’t seem to turn away.

  Holy shit, he’s feelin’ up her tits! How can he do that after he—

  Wait, what in hell is he doin’? He’s squeezin’ and pullin’ up with his right hand, and raisin’ the knife with his left hand, like—

  “Hey, what are you doin’? Stop! Stop, damn it! You can’t—”

  This fuckin’ house of horror ruptures in an endless, stabbing scream. Blood flies everywhere like a crimson swarm from hell. The demon’s gaze bores through me again, and drool drips from his dagger-like teeth as he raises his new trophy above his head.

  He points his twisted finger at me. “Soon, you’ll do this, Mitchell.”

  My blood freezes in my veins. I can’t move. I can’t speak.

  “If you refuse, I’ll put you on this table next.”

  God help me.

  He reaches back with his right arm, like he’s on a baseball mound and windin’ up for his next pitch, but that ain’t no fuckin’ baseball in his hand. It’s his new trophy, the bloody remains of what was once so appealing and—

  “Here, Mitchell, catch!”

  I bolted up and looked around the dark room—my room, my bed—and could almost breathe again. The cold, soaked sheets turned my body into a shivering, chattering heap.

  Why did the nightmares continue to assault me? Who was that demon, and why wouldn’t he leave me alone? I didn’t know but—

  Fuck a rubber duck! What did he mean when he said I’d be doin’ that soo
n?

  Chapter 4 – April 22, 1978: Tony Hooper

  ~~~

  “Man is the only animal that laughs and weeps, for he is the only animal that is struck by the difference between what things are and what they might have been.” – William Hazlitt

  Sunlight glistened off the surface of the lake, still as a mirror, as the cloudless sky stood sentry. The spring morning harkened me back to childhood, when the blustery weather broke and we couldn’t wait to get outside to play tag, catch-one/catch-all, or Batman and Robin. I thought differently now, but those memories were no less vivid, no less uplifting.

  A sheer, seventy-foot wall occupied the south end of the quarry, which had officially closed three decades ago. A narrow ledge wound down to a level spot less than two feet above the waterline, where Diana and I sat. The remarkably clear, spring-fed lake wafted a faint metallic aroma that reminded me of... I couldn’t place it—something that made my stomach clench.

  The water swirled in ever-broadening circles around my feet, which were submerged in the reflection of my cheeks. I leaned farther over the ledge, came almost face-to-face with myself, as if the reflected me would provide some of the answers I so desperately sought.

  Diana pulled me back to the moment. “Be careful,” she said. “You’re liable to fall into the lake.” The cool temperatures and bright sun had joined forces to paint her cheeks a rosy shade of unbearably cute.

  I leaned back and let the sun work its springtime magic. The season was supposed to inspire rebirth, renewal, grand dreams and revived hopes—at least according to much of the poetry I read. I aspired to such promises, yet couldn’t escape the relentless melancholy. Nothing new there.

  It had built throughout the winter, as if I’d been buried in an avalanche. Each time I’d dug away three inches of snow, four new inches sealed my frozen tomb.

  Shit! Don’t be so melodramatic all the time, Tony. Focus on Diana.

  The extraordinary Miss Gregario, perhaps the future Mrs. Hooper, dominated my thoughts. We’d met at our dads’ company picnic the previous Fourth of July; they were accountants with the same firm. I’d seen her around school before then, but we hadn’t actually met prior to the picnic. I’d surprised myself when I mustered the courage to ask her out, as I tended to be shy about such matters. I’d bumbled my way through it with a tongue twisted into nervous paralysis, made a complete fool of myself, and she accepted!

  Whenever I contemplated the prospect of life without her, I wanted to vomit. We fit together. I told her I was the night and she was the stars, and that she brought an unimaginable light to my life. That made me a walking, talking cliché straight out of the classical novels I read but, what the hell, a little corny never killed anybody.

  She was my first and only love, and when I departed for college in a few months, I’d leave her behind. Every time I pondered my future, platoons of emotions waged war within me. Even at that moment, the battle thundered in my chest and a wrenching lump bounced like a cannonball in my throat.

  How will I—

  “Happy birthday, Baby,” she said. “I still can’t believe you wanted to spend it here, although it is pretty.”

  I smiled, unsure how to broach the subject weighing me down.

  “The big eighteen. Wow. So how does it feel to be a man? Well, in the eyes of the law, at any rate.”

  I snorted. “Oh sure, and where have they been for the last three years?”

  I didn’t mean to take out my frustration on her. She knew that, and took it in stride. Hell, she knew me better than I knew myself.

  In one of my customary fits of introspection, I’d wanted to go there to take measure of the moment, to examine my new manhood. I thought I might enjoy some time alone on my birthday. Perhaps enjoy was not the right word. No matter, for Diana would hear none of it. She’d insisted that I spend the day with, as she put it, “the most magnificent girlfriend the world has ever known.”

  I couldn’t argue with the “magnificent” part, and it was apparently some kind of unwritten law that she must share the “big day” with me. I didn’t know which was funnier: her words, her goofy smile and Groucho Marx eyebrow shuffle, or the ridiculous way she’d curtsied.

  She squeezed my hand until I looked at her again. “You’re having another one of your moments, aren’t you? Pondering the changes coming up, contemplating the meaning of life, the expanse of the universe, the—”

  “I love this place, especially in summer. We weren’t dating long enough last summer to come out here, but I think you’ll like it. This is the hotspot.”

  “What does everybody do here? Besides swim, of course.”

  “You name it, somebody does it here. We bring food and pop, maybe a few beers—make a day of it.”

  “That sounds like fun.”

  “Some of the kids smoke like chimneys out here, or do drugs.”

  “Yuck!”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll stay away from that stuff.” I loved that we shared those values. “Then, of course, there’s the skinny-dipping and the sex.”

  “Oh my! I’ll have you know that I’m a lady, sir. I’m no exhibitionist.” She leaned in and kissed me. “Except with you.”

  She skipped her usual seductive playfulness and leaned back. She knew I wasn’t in that place, that frame of mind.

  She laid her head on my shoulder. “Don’t you guys ever worry about your parents catching you?”

  “Nah, they don’t come here.”

  I didn’t know if this place was such a big secret, or if the older folks just didn’t want to deal with the half-mile hike through the brush and trees to get there from the nearest street. At any rate, they didn’t bother us, which made it a popular escape spot for teenagers.

  This figured to be my last summer here, and I could hardly look at Diana for fear my emotions would get away from me. She wisely refrained from dangling her feet in the lake, but I couldn’t resist. The early spring water chilled my toes into dead stumps, even as the noon sun baked my face. I loved the contrast: perfect metaphors for the forces pushing and pulling at me those days.

  She sighed and placed her hand on my chest. “Summer will be here before we know it.”

  It’s time.

  I maintained a light tone. “Yeah, feels like I’ve been waiting forever to graduate. Then I get to have one last carefree summer before....”

  She squeezed my hand again. She was a year behind me, a junior.

  Her voice thickened. “You’re supposed to be happy, you know. It’s a big event, a fun time.”

  “I know.”

  “But....”

  “I know I’m supposed to feel excited about college, about my freedom, about a whole new world full of potential and adventure. Part of me... hell, I can’t wait to see it. I’ve earned it!”

  “But....”

  “I hardly know where to begin.” I pulled my hand from hers and laid my arm around her shoulders. “For one thing, I’ve been taking care of Alex for three years. He’s my Shadow, and he doesn’t have anyone else.”

  “What about your dad?”

  I huffed and almost laughed.

  Alex was a bright kid, enthusiastic and determined—my little man. I often told him he was a grown-up trapped in a kid’s body. He loved that. I liked it too, although I knew better. He may have acted older, but he was just ten years old. The way he followed me around, I often worried that people would think I had him on a leash. It irritated the hell out of me.

  Well, it did. Until Mom died.

  Somewhere along the way, I’d become more than his big brother; I was his best buddy, hero and idol. I’d never meant for such a thing to happen, but no sense in denying it.

  I stared down at the water. “I don’t know what to do about Alex. Dad wants to be a good father, but since Mom died, he’s been way out of his element. He escapes in his work. He’s more comfortable there than at home, dealing with two kids by himself. Not exactly father of the year.”

  She admonished me with a stunned e
xpression.

  “I know, I know. I hate to say such a thing about my own father, but I can’t help it. You haven’t seen the real Hank Hooper over the last three years. Trust me, if I walk away from Alex, I’ll be leaving him largely to his own devices.”

  I longed for the simpler, carefree days unencumbered by the baggage of adulthood: the expectations, the worries, the pressures. I wanted to ride my bike on sunny days, play baseball all day long at the park, or teach Alex the finer points of basketball. I yearned for the simple distraction of my baseball card collection, or to crank up the stereo and sing along, pretending to the throne of stardom. I rarely did those things anymore—too old for that stuff, anyway.

  “Shit! It’s not fair.” I hated whining, especially when it was my own voice.

  My mother, in dying; my father, in retreating; my brother, in needing: each had conspired to take from me a sizable chunk of that which I could never regain: my childhood.

  Bluch! I gazed once more into the water, and my own reflection mocked me. What right did I have to wax in self-pity and selfish examination of events over which I had so little control, yet over which I was willing to assign so much blame?

  The look on Diana’s face drove a stake in my heart.

  I squeezed her tighter, and almost lost my words in the depths of her scent. “And what shall I do about you? How in the world am I supposed to live without you?”

  “It’s only for a year, and you’ll be able to come home for the holidays.” Her unsteady voice belied her optimistic reassurances.

  “A year is a long time.”

  She kissed me on the ear. “We’ll make it.”

  The frigid water numbed my feet. The endless questions without answers numbed my mind.

  I’d always viewed the world through what my mom had called my “looking glass.” Why must it be so cloudy, so fragile? Why must I wallow in that melancholy introspection all the time? Perhaps Mom had been right: I read too much; I thought too much; I too often lost myself in deep contemplation. She’d once claimed that when Rodin created his famous sculpture, Le Penseur, he must have had me in mind.