by BT Urruela
Copyright © 2016 BT URRUELA
ISBN-10:0-9975393-0-5
ISBN-13:978-0-9975393-0-1
All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Photographer: CJC Photography
Cover Model: Gideon Connelly
Cover Designer: Cover Me Darling
Editor: SG Thomas
Formatting: Champagne Formats
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue One
Epilogue Two
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other Books
To Major David Taylor and all those heroes who lost their lives defending our freedom.
I am forever indebted to you. And to the families of the fallen who must go on without them. God Bless you all.
Present
Inmate #0102258… That’s who I am now. Xander Evans doesn’t exist anymore. The man I was three years ago is now just a collection of memories quickly deteriorating. With each day spent in this hell, these four concrete walls relentlessly close in on me, inch by fucking inch.
I watched the TV shows. I was a Lockup addict. Hell, I had seen the very episode featuring the Missouri Correctional Facility, the same shithole I now call home. And in a sad twist of fate, I saw it long before entering this nothing. The violence. The rage. The misery. I judged it all from the front of a TV screen. Now, I’m just another animal locked up in this cage—for a crime I didn’t even commit. And my entire fucking world has crumbled because of it.
Okay. I get it. That’s what they all say, right? Fuck, I wouldn’t believe me either. I know how I come across to people. In this mostly shitty life I’ve lived thus far, I know what I’ve done. And I know I’ve brought most of this shit on myself. But I can say this with certainty…I’ve been a lot of things in my life—a liar, a thief, a cheat—but a murderer? I’m no fucking murderer.
I loved the Watsons. And Paige… don’t even get me started on her. Her face is etched in my memory. The pain still consumes me as if it happened just yesterday.
The DA told me the case against me was the tightest he’d ever seen. He said I’d get an immediate guilty verdict and due to the heinous nature of the crime, I’d likely be put to death. Admitting to a crime I didn’t commit was my only salvation. But I don’t give a shit about my life. I’d do anything to keep Paige from seeing what I saw that night…from seeing what haunts my dreams.
And let me tell you, I’ve had too many hours to process the fact that I was set up for a brutal murder and subsequently coerced into a confession.
My midday lull is disrupted by the notorious click-clack of Warden Jimmy Naranjo’s alligator boots. I hear him loudly whistling whatever country song he just heard. The slow of his step lets me know I’m his likely target, which is no surprise as he’s spent months now pestering me for information—information I refuse to give.
The Warden’s a great guy, and I respect that he comes from a similar background, but I won’t get involved in prison life politics. I just want to serve my time as peacefully as possible. It’s hard enough playing this game on your own in here, with no one to watch your back. But to be a rat too? No, thanks.
As expected, Warden Naranjo stops just before my cell door and leans against its frame. He tips his Stetson cowboy hat back, exposing the thick lines in his forehead and the salt and pepper gray of his Chicano hair. A matching mustache straddles his lip, and it twitches as he raps two knuckles against the door.
I analyze his attire, amused. Not at how he’s dressed—hell, I’d be lying if I said the man wasn’t fashionable. But his ever-changing pastel dress shirts, starched vests and designer jeans stick out like a goddamn sore thumb in this place.
“Mornin’, Evans,” he grunts and tips his head my way.
“Warden.” I lift myself to a seated position on the top bunk.
He takes a few steps into the cell and leans against the stainless steel sink.
“We got word this mornin’ that your new cellmate will be in sometime this afternoon.”
I let out a light laugh. “And?”
He cracks a smile. “Well, he’s not like the last one. I promise you that.” He raises his weathered hands and shrugs. “He shouldn’t give you any problems. And he hasn’t fucked with any kids.”
He scans outside the cell a bit before coming in closer. “I need you to come down to my office a little later. We have to talk about the incident with your last cellmate.”
I try my best not to roll my eyes. My face must say it all though, because he quickly continues—with some authority this time. “We know you played no part. That’s obvious. We have an idea of who did do it, and we think you’ve got an idea too.”
I actually do roll my eyes this time and exhale loudly. The warden doesn’t like it much. He straightens, then grabs his vest with both hands, something he always does when he gets annoyed. It’s about the time his knuckles turn white I realize he’d probably rather be wringing my neck right about now.
“You can’t tell me the guy didn’t have it coming. What he did… I would’ve killed him myself if I cared enough to.” I lie back on the pillow with both hands behind my head.
“Yeah, but murder is murder, Evans. I often look the other way when you try to get one over on us.” He puts a thick finger up as if trying to keep me from interrupting—I wasn’t planning on it. “And don’t treat me like an dumbass and tell me you haven’t… because we both know you have.”
No argument from me there.
“I hope you’ll occasionally pay me the same respect.” He pauses for a moment, leaning back on his heels.
“Occasionally, Evans. That’s all I’m asking for. We’ll see you in a few hours.” He heads toward the door, but before heading out, he looks over his shoulder at me. “CO Towson will be down to grab you in a bit. You help me, I help you. Roger?” I nod, and with that he’s gone.
Our talks aren’t usually so brief, but I assume he’ll have plenty more to say at our get-together later. Warden Naranjo loves to pry, I love to fight, and we both love to win. In a way, we’re serving life together.
We have a lifetime to do this dance.
TRUMAN VALLEY SHERIFF’S OFFICE
OFFENSE/INCIDENT REPORT
CASE REPORT # 08931
REPORT NARRATIVE
DATE: 05/09/2013
OFFICER: Deputy Jacoby Virgil
INVESTIGATION: On 05/09/2013 at approx. 0030 hrs, I received a call from disp
atch to respond to 1 Watson Wineries Drive in Truman Valley in reference to a homicide.
I arrived on the scene and met with the caller, Xander Evans (DOB 02/13/1985), who first encountered the victim, Teresa Watson (DOB 06/19/1968), before calling 911. Mr. Evans was distraught, but calm enough to communicate. He informed me he heard glass shattering and a loud yell from the main house while he was in a detached living quarters, located a few hundred feet behind the main residence. Both are situated on a winery of several dozen acres on the outside of town, which is owned by the Watson family. Mr. Evans stated he had been staying in the living quarters and working as an assistant to Watson Wineries for a little under two months. He is not of any relation to the victim. Evans also informed me that the husband of the deceased, Jack Watson (DOB currently unknown), and daughter, Paige Watson (DOB currently unknown), were on a hunting trip near Twain Lake. Teenage son, Caleb Watson, was at a friend’s house for the weekend.
Mr. Evans stated that, upon hearing the commotion, he dressed and headed to the main residence. He entered an unlocked back door and almost immediately came upon the body of Mrs. Watson, facedown on the kitchen floor. He checked for a pulse, concluding that Mrs. Watson still had one but it was faint. He removed the suspected murder weapon—a Bowie hunting knife found in the sink—before calling police and conducting a search of the home.
The victim had multiple stab wounds to the back, head and neck. An autopsy is currently being conducted.
Mr. Evans consented to a search of the guesthouse without issue, which turned up several items belonging to the Watsons, including credit cards and checkbooks. Several pieces of jewelry were found that we have reason to believe were owned by the Watsons. All items were located inside Mr. Evans’ luggage. Marijuana and paraphernalia were also discovered.
Mr. Evans has been taken in for further questioning. A more detailed search of the residence and land is necessary. Immediate family has been notified and are en route to the Sheriff’s office.
Case open pending homicide investigation.
End of Report
March 2013
This bar is not unlike the many I’ve stopped at along the way in my nine-year journey. I’ve stayed in hundreds of backroad towns and gotten wasted at just as many hole-in-the-wall bars.
Don’t get me wrong, there’s an unmatched charm to this place. Sure, it’s got your typical deer heads, rusted garage signs and the jukebox playing Alabama in the background. But it also has the faint, comforting smell of cedar and a collection of people you’d expect to find in hippie Oregon, not the middle-of-nowhere Missouri. With two empty bar stools on either side of me, a chilled pale ale before me, and twelve hours of driving behind me, I’m in my happy place right now.
Six beers down and I’m still better than the hick across the bar from me. Slouched in all his inebriated glory, his massive arms cradle a Bud and two shots. Before I can analyze him further, a stunningly beautiful woman, early twenties with a confident stride, makes her way toward a nearby takeout counter. A middle-aged man with the same dirty blond hair, probably her father, hands her a twenty and heads for the restrooms on the other side of the bar.
I watch her as she leans against the counter, a cotton tee and small jean shorts doing little to hide her magnificent curves. It’s incredibly difficult to break my stare, but it’s been a long time since I’ve seen someone so damn beautiful. A pair of piercing blue eyes catch mine before I’m smart enough to avert my gaze.
She’s not offended though. Her smile is playful and innocent, yet with a hint of mischief. It’s the kind of smile Hollywood starlets would envy, and I can’t help but smile back. No one like her has walked in here all night, and no one like her will walk in after. I’d put money on that.
Before I know it, my drunk friend to the left has stumbled off his stool and toward the girl I’ve been ogling. He reaches her, his hands groping for anything and everything. When he captures a handful of tits and ass, her eyes widen and her mouth curls in disgust.
None of the dozen or so other people in the bar seem to notice or care much. Just another drunk asshole in another rinky-dink fucking town. Before I can even think, I’m off my stool and on him like a starving lion on a freshly killed carcass. I’m driven solely by instinct.
And a drunken desire to impress this woman.
It’s not unlike the dogs in this town to get grabby whenever the opportunity presents itself. So I’m not the least bit surprised when I see it’s Benji Mathis who’s pawing at me in his usual drunken stupor. The guy is a tumor in Truman Valley, and the exact reason we have the reputation that we do. This town is not the town I once knew—not by a long shot. And it’s because of guys like him.
Just as I’m about to put a Converse in Benji’s balls, I see the sexy guy from the bar has leapt from his stool, a look of anger etched on his face. I freeze. I can do nothing as all three hundred plus pounds of Benji Mathis crumples to the floor. The stallion of a man who rushed from his barstool faster than I could process a thought has Benji pleading for release, his arm bent in a way I’d more likely see in a UFC fight than at Whittaker’s on a Thursday night. That’s something I never thought I’d see in my lifetime. Besides my ex, Cody, no one is more feared in Truman Valley than Benji. And yet here he is at the mercy of a man who, not five seconds ago, I was eye-fucking the shit out of.
God, I wonder if he noticed.
I’m trying not to act desperate, but it’s been six months since I ended things with Cody, and let’s just say he was no pro in the sex department. I’ve had pints of Ben and Jerry’s during my period last longer.
I spot Dad just outside the bathroom in the same incapacitated state I’m still in, locked in observation of this stranger taking matters into his own hands. The man grinds up harder on Benji’s arm, inducing a pathetic whimper.
“I don’t know who you are, or who raised you, but where I come from, we’re taught a little thing called respect,” the sexy stranger says, his biceps bulging with the strain of keeping Benji down. His eyes are locked onto Benji as everyone else in Whittaker’s now watches, some with their cell phones aimed at the action. For the first time ever, Whittaker’s is dead silent.
“Let… Me… Gahhh… Go…” Benji manages to say between gasps.
“I’ll cover your bar tab, but you’re going to get the hell out of here. Understood?” Benji wails in pain when the stranger once again cinches his arm, which looks to be near its breaking point.
“Yes. Yes. God, yes! Just please…” The pain snuffs out his words. With that, the stranger releases his grip and Benji stands and stumbles awkwardly toward the door. He turns and grunts. “This ain’t the end, motherfucker.” As he makes his way out, the man just shrugs and nods at me.
Dad approaches and extends his hand. “Well shit, son, I think you just saved me some dirty work.” The stranger immediately shakes it, while the onlookers pocket their cellphones, go back to their beers and continue their loud conversations.
“This is my daughter right here… my baby. And I don’t like that kind of shit one bit.” He motions to me and then throws an arm around my neck, ruffling my hair with his other hand. He’s been doing it since I was a kid, and it’s probably the most comforting feeling I know. Also one of the most annoying when there’s a guy like this in the room.
“It’s no problem at all, sir. I don’t like that kind of stuff either.” The stranger quickly turns and heads in the direction of his stool, but my father follows.
“Hey, you know what? We’re getting this pizza here and got plenty of beer at the house. How about you come back and have dinner with us? As a ‘thank you.’ It’s the least we can do.” The stranger turns and smiles, and it’s then that his mossy hazel eyes absolutely captivate me.
Correction, they make me go completely stupid. They’re the kind of eyes that make you forget everything.
“Oh wow, I appreciate the offer, sir, but I just got in from a brutal road trip. I’m about ready to get some sleep.” He looks at me
and smiles, and instinctually, I look away. I curse myself for my sudden and complete lack of confidence.
“Tomorrow then,” my father says. “The missus will cook us up something nice.”
The stranger pauses for a moment. “Tomorrow? Yeah, I think I can swing that.” He extends a hand. “My name is Xander. Xander Evans.” My dad’s hand meets his again.
“I’m Jack. This is my daughter, Paige.” I wave. “We live just outside of town at Watson Wineries. You must’ve seen it coming in off the interstate?”
“Well, I didn’t know what it was, but I certainly saw it. Quite the place you have there.”
My father laughs it off and follows the stranger—or Xander, I guess it is—to the bar. I follow close behind having grabbed our pizza from the takeout counter.
“Alright, well, come on by at seven tomorrow and we’ll set you up right.”
“I’ll be there.” Xander smiles and returns to his stool.
We make our way toward the door, and it’s then that I realize I haven’t said a word to this man. Not one. As my father and I depart Whittaker’s, I can’t help but dread tomorrow and hope to hell that Xander doesn’t show up.
But at the same time, I hope he does.
The wait is excruciating. I’m seated in a recliner in the living room as my garlic bread finishes in the oven. Mom puts the final touches on her famous spaghetti in the kitchen and Dad is out in the vineyard working late as usual. My younger brother, Caleb, is likely in his room playing video games where he can so often be found. The clock reads 6:58 p.m., and I have to fight the urge to bite my freshly manicured nails—a battle I find myself losing.
It’s not that I’m nervous to talk to the guy. Not trying to sound conceited, but I was the prom queen, for Christ’s sake. Boys do not intimidate me. Hell, who am I trying to convince? This is no Missouri boy. I could tell that the first time I laid eyes on him. The people here—most of them, at least—walk around with a chip on their shoulder, like they’ve got something to prove. But Xander…he seems different. So sure of himself. So confident.
