The Killing of Miguel

by Christopher Mcafee

  “I’m sorry, Steven. So many times, I wanted to. I just didn’t have the courage.”

  I got up from my chair and began pacing. “So, Jake, Miguel gave you the power to be a world-class attorney. Why do you want him killed?”

  Jake responded, “After only a few days, I knew my soul was being held hostage. None of my thoughts were my own. I did deplorable things to get ahead. I now have a hugely successful law practice. But the gnawing in my stomach won’t quit. Like your father, my soul can be called on to summon the Devil for his own pleasure. Most of all, I don’t want to die a young man like your father did. I now have a wife and two small boys. I know Miguel will be contacting them sometime in their lives to become a legacy. I don’t know that they will have the strength to say no like you did.”

  Don then felt that it was time for him to speak. “Steven, we really haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Donald Karcher. I own Power Media.”

  I had never heard of Don Karcher, but everyone knew of Power Media. They were players in just about every form of entertainment―newspaper, television stations, movie studios, etc. Probably the biggest company this side of General Motors.

  “And why do you want Miguel dead?” I said, feeling like Jake as he cross examined a witness.

  “Because, Steven, I am a legacy. My family’s generations go back several hundred years. Every generation has had a tie with Miguel. I have no children, but I have several nieces and nephews who will certainly receive a visit from him. I feel it is my duty to expel this demon before my time is up. End the cycle if you will.”

  I suddenly felt in command of the room. “Judge O’Neil?”

  I expected the same type of story about how Miguel had given him the power to be a judge. I was wrong. In fact, he put me on the defensive.

  “Steven, I got to where I am by good old hard work. I have never met this Miguel person. But I know he exists. One of my hobbies is theology and the occult. Believe me, he exists. Jake and I have been on the opposite sides of legal cases for several years. One day, he seemed very distressed, and when I asked him what was wrong, he looked at me, scared, as I had never seen a human be before. He told me that Miguel had visited him the previous night. The man was pale as could be. I knew it had to be true.

  “Also, Jake has asked me to be kind of a liaison to the court on your behalf. Because you, my son, are in a boatload of trouble.”

  By the tone of his voice, I knew he was right.

  “But why me?” I asked.

  Don interrupted. “I have an employee who has a degree in theology. It’s his passion. In fact, he claims he has been approached by Miguel when he was younger. He feels that when you took the ring from Father Patrick, you assumed some type of legacy, and that battling Miguel is part of a journey―or maybe your destiny.

  “Steven, we all feel you are the Chosen One. The Bible speaks in several passages on how a ‘common man’ will rise from the rubble to fight and destroy Evil.”

  “What rubble?” I asked.

  “When the church collapsed on you,” Don said.

  I wasn’t buying it, and they knew it.

  “Jesus was a pauper, a carpenter, a common man. How about the story of David versus Goliath? And the phrase, ‘The meek shall inherit the earth.’ Face it, there is no one meeker than you. Come on, Steven, the Bible is full of stories where the underdog triumphs over Evil,” Jake said and then came to stand less than a foot away from me.

  Serious.

  “You have a chance to change history, to do what no man, mortal or immortal, could do in the past. Lore has it that when Miguel is killed, every soul that hasn’t been claimed will be released of their contract. Think of everyone you could save. I know it’s too late for your father, but there are so many others out there that need your help.”

  I immediately thought of Alexa. Had Miguel actually killed her, or had it just been a show?

  Then he continued, “And besides…you have the ring.”

  “Give the ring to someone else. And besides, I don’t have it. The crazy people in the insane asylum have it!”

  Jake looked lost for words. “Well…we’ll get it. I’ll file a motion for release of personal goods.”

  He looked at Judge O’Neil for approval.

  The judge shook his head. “I’m sorry, Jake. I can’t approve it or condone it. The only way Steven can get his ring back is by serving his term in prison. And besides, according to lore, the ring will only give power to the one who possesses it. And that is Steven.

  Jake looked defeated as Judge O’Neil spoke. “Although I believe that killing Miguel is an urgent matter, he’s been around for thousands of years. Steven is up for parole in nine years. By then, he will be almost twenty-nine years old. He will be a man. Right now, he is a child, and you two are talking about throwing him in Hell with an Evil demon that they speak of in the Bible! If you want him to succeed, give him time to grow up.”

  Jake and Don agreed. It appeared as if I had no say in the matter.

  I was the Chosen One.

  ***

  I had been at Don’s for just over two weeks. I had regained some of my strength, and my weight was at 120 pounds. The story had died down, so instead of seeing myself on the front page, now I was relegated to page two and beyond.

  Judge O’Neil entered my room. He was to escort me to the nearest police station to turn myself in. I was apprehensive to say the least.

  “Are you ready, Steven?” he asked.

  “Not really. Getting kind of used to this soft life.”

  The judge smiled.

  One of Don’s drivers drove us several miles up the road, and from there he called a taxi. That way there was no way for the authorities to trace me back to Don’s house, relieving him of any responsibility.

  The nearest police station was ten miles away in a small town that no one had ever heard of, with a population of thirty-five hundred and a police force consisting of eight officers.

  They were about to become famous.

  I entered the police station without fanfare. No one even looked my way as we stood at the front desk.

  I looked at the judge, and he gave me nod.

  “Excuse me, sir. I’m here to turn myself in,” I said.

  A young patrol officer looked up at me and, with eyes the size of half dollars, calmly called for the captain. “Sir, I think you need to come up here.”

  As the captain neared the desk, his eyes looked like he had just won the lottery.

  “Thanks for coming in, son… And I thought this was going to be a boring day,” he said.

  Judge O’Neil intervened. “Now, he is not to be questioned or moved until his attorney is present. Is that clear?”

  The captain nodded as though he knew who he was talking to and escorted me back to an empty cell. I sat on the lumpy mattress and instantly began regretting my decision.

  From that time on, I heard multiple phones ringing―not doubting for a minute that the calls were all about me. Several hours passed until Jake entered the cell.

  “How are you doing, Steven?” Jake asked with his ever-present smile.

  “Just peachy,” I replied.

  He continued: “Well, the good news is that from here you are headed to a hospital for rehabilitation, and all of that time will be counted as time served.” He continued to smile.

  “Why are you so happy?” I asked.

  He opened a newspaper and gave it to me.

  The headline read: “Warden Indicted On Charges Of Mistreatment Of Prisoners.”

  That did bring a smile to my face.

  “I’ll keep you posted,” Jake said

  “Oh, please do.”

  ***

  Although it was against the rules of this tiny police station, Jake stayed with me the whole evening. We dined on stale meatloaf and runny mashed potatoes. He convinced the staff to order a pizza for us. They eagerly obliged, as we had just made them the most famous police force around, even if it was just for a little while. />
  Jake made several trips up front to check on things. He would return, always saying something like, “It’s really filling up out there,” meaning that word was spreading that this escaped murderer had been caught and the news stations were bombarding this small town.

  There seemed to be a lull in the action. I was getting sleepy, and the thought of a night on this paper-thin mattress wasn’t seeming so awful, when an officer whispered in Jake’s ear.

  “You ready?” he asked, looking at me.

  “Now?”

  “We’re getting you out of here under the cloak of darkness.”

  Two officers took me to the basement and had me lie down in the back of a squad car with instructions to take me to Mercy Hospital, almost twenty miles away.

  Jake told them, “No sirens and no lights. Just act like you’re going on night patrol.” He received a complying nod.

  Jake covered me with a blanket. “Steven, you stay here and don’t move. I’ll meet you at the hospital.” I nodded.

  The twenty miles seemed like forever. All I could think was that they were trying to lose any followers. A right turn, then a left turn. It was getting hot under this wool blanket, and I uncovered my nose to breathe. The pizza we had eaten was giving me indigestion.

  Finally, the car stopped at an inside entrance for emergency vehicles. I emerged from the back seat, sweaty and belching.

  “Thanks for the hospitality, guys,” I said as the small-town officers left, still basking in the glory of “capturing” me.

  Jake was waiting for me along with some State Patrol officers. I knew that from now on, it would be all business.

  Chapter 20

  There were calls from religious zealots and right-wing advocates for me to be incarcerated immediately, but Dr. Scott had a lot of pull, and with the results of my recent exam and all the bad press that Warden Johnson had received, I was admitted to Mercy Hospital indefinitely, by order of my friend, Judge O’Neil.

  It wasn’t as nice as Mr. Karcher’s Estate, but I assumed that it was far better than any prison.

  ***

  It was the same thing every day. I had to exercise and then drink some kind of protein-like milkshake that tasted awful. And carbohydrates―I had to consume lots and lots of carbs to put the weight back on.

  Sometimes, I would eat three meals a day with snacks in between.

  Jake visited me daily to update me on any further charges that I would have to face. They were actually being harder on him than me. Normally, escaping from a federal or state prison was dealt with harshly. But the extenuating circumstances of me already being on leave, and the fact that I had been horribly mistreated, seemed to dismiss any further penalties.

  What I enjoyed the most about my hospital stay was the morning paper. While my story was pretty straightforward with not much developing, Warden Johnson’s story was growing by leaps and bounds. He had been forced to retire. They had suspended his pay and his pension, and any ideas of a political future had been squashed. Guards, nurses, and administrative personnel were coming forward, mainly to save their own necks but still telling the truth on how numerous inmates had been tortured and drugged. Dr. Scott had provided important testimony.

  We watched the television as he was sentenced and dragged to jail. The whole time, he spoke of seeking out those who persecuted him, and he vowed vengeance against their souls.

  Just the sight of him made me shudder, and I hoped that I would never see him again.

  I asked Jake, “Did you have anything to do with this?”

  He answered, “Eh, a little. Actually, since Dr. Scott and I were so active in the investigation, we have been appointed to form a committee to find someone to replace Warden Johnson and to further oversee the new administration to make sure something like this never happens again. That way, when you go back in a couple of weeks, things will be much better.”

  I hesitated, then spoke, “That’s great, Jake.”

  Jake left the room, and I felt uneasy. Even with a prospective change in the administration, I didn’t want to go back.

  The exercise continued daily, and the rehabilitation pain soon subsided. I had kept quiet about not wanting to go back to the insane asylum.

  I was notified by certified mail that a new judge would be presiding over my case. Jake mentioned that someone had squealed about my friendship with Judge O’Neil. The prosecutor claimed that there was a conflict of interest, and a new judge would be named, pushing the trial back another two weeks. While Jake objected and was not happy, he agreed that Judge O’Neil and I had formed a friendship and it would be hard for him to be objective.

  While all of this was important information, it was all for naught, as I still didn’t want to go back to that crazy place. Just the thought of it made my heart pound and my hands shake. I felt claustrophobic and anxious. I suffered from flashbacks as the nurses instructed me to do my exercises. I started talking back to them and not cooperating. I started thinking that if I could delay my recovery, maybe I could spend more time in the hospital. Safe.

  Finally, Jake had had enough. “Alright, Steven, what’s going on? Why are you giving the nurses a hard time? They’re here to help you.”

  “I know, I know.” I struggled to find the words to tell him that I was just plain afraid of going back. I didn’t really have any other reason. Just scared. And keeping it all bottled up just made things worse.

  ***

  I was fast asleep when I thought I felt a prick in my arm, just like I was back in the insane asylum. I sat straight up, screamed, and couldn’t catch my breath. The nurses rushed to my side as I began hyperventilating. I remember hearing them yelling.

  Screaming.

  “He’s turning blue! Possible cardiac arrest! Get the doctor! Get some adrenaline ready!” They tilted my head back and administered oxygen.

  I thought to myself, This is it, and I’m glad. I can’t take any more. You win, Miguel, you sonuvabitch.

  I awoke in ICU with more than a few tubes in my arms and up my nose. I reached to pull them out but was restrained by a nurse. I kept hearing a voice call my name. I couldn’t respond, but I kept conscious until things came into focus. It was Dr. Scott.

  He spoke loudly. “Steven? Steven? Can you hear me? You’re stable now, but we are running some tests to see what happened. We are keeping you in ICU merely for observation. You’re going to be fine. Please, you have to leave the IVs in. They are for sedation.”

  I nodded, then passed out.

  After a few days, I returned to my room. Jake and Dr. Scott came by with the results of the tests. “Steven, I can’t find anything wrong with you. Do you have any input?”

  “All I remember was feeling a prick like someone was giving me a shot. The next thing I knew, I couldn’t breathe. My chest was pounding. I felt like I was going to die.”

  Jake was enraged, “Who the Hell has access to this room? I want names, and from now on, I want an armed guard at his door 24/7!”

  “Easy, Mr. Swift,’’ Dr. Scott said. “If he had been given anything other than what was prescribed to him, it would have shown up in his bloodwork, and his enzymes are fine, so it wasn’t a heart attack.”

  Dr. Scott struck a thoughtful pose and excused himself.

  Jake stayed with me the rest of the day. He seemed anxious as he made a few coffee runs to the hospital cafeteria. I felt weak and weepy. Several times, my eyes welled up with tears. I quickly wiped my eyes before he could notice. Sometime in the evening, I fell asleep.

  The following morning, I felt Jake nudging me to wake up. Sitting at the side of the bed was Dr. Scott. He said, “Steven, I’ve given your condition some thought. I think I know what triggered the ‘attack’ you had the other night: pure and simple anxiety. Just as prisoners of war who have been tortured and are treated for trauma, you are suffering from the same thing. What you went through at that prison would be way beyond my comprehension.”

  “What about the prick he felt?” Jake asked.

&
nbsp; “I’m guessing it was psychosomatic. The mind can play terrible tricks on one’s body.”

  “Doc? Do I have to go back?” I asked.

  He rested his hands on the railing at the foot of the bed, looked me straight in the eye, and declared, “As God is my witness, you, Steven, will never step foot in that hellhole again!”

  I felt relived, but my hands were still shaking.

  ***

  The prosecution soon found out that I had also developed a friendship with Dr. Scott and convinced the Judge to appoint an independent medical professional to examine me in hopes of speeding up the trial. I had to admit, after getting that monkey off of my back about going back to the mental hospital, I was feeling as normal as possible―that is, until Jake walked in with my morning newspaper.

  The front page read: “Convicted Murderer Overdoses at Mercy Hospital.”

  I read the article. “It says here I tried to commit suicide!”

  “We’re asking for a retraction, but so far they’re sticking by their guns. They must have someone on the inside,” Jake said.

  “Not fair,” I replied. I was mad. And I was even mad at Jake for showing me.

  Jake shrugged his shoulders.

  “What if my mom sees this crap?”

  “Steven, there’s no guarantee she won’t. The press was finally starting to leave her alone. No doubt that they will all be back asking questions.”

  I crumpled up the newspaper and aimed for the trash can. I missed, which added insult to my already injured ego.

  Jake stood there smiling. I took offense.

  “What the Hell are you smiling for?” I asked.

  “I told you before that I believe in total disclosure with my clients. This is part of the game the prosecution plays to get sympathy from the public. That leads to convictions and re-elections. It’s a dirty game that they play.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Jake explained: “In the public’s eye, only a guilty man would try and kill himself to keep from going back to prison.”

  “OK, now I get it, but that doesn’t explain the smirk on your face.”

  “Maybe this will help make up for the newspaper article.”