It was time for our cell block to enjoy some outside activities. It was overcast, but I knew that some fresh air would do me good. I wandered over to the Ecuadorian prisoner’s area. I was welcomed, and they consoled me on Raphael’s death. Of course, I had to smoke another cigarette. They were soon joking around, tussling with each other. One of them yelled to me in broken English, “Estephen, I show you how to kill Miguel!”
I could tell that they were just joking around. He grabbed me by the waist, and using a rubber hose as a prop for a knife, pushed it into my stomach. “You look Miguel straight in the eye and say, ‘Voya con Dios (Go with God)’!” The rest of them laughed.
I smiled at my new friends and jokingly said, “Thanks! I’ll remember that!”
***
There had been secret talk about a prisoner rebellion. More facts were coming out of the boiler explosion. Monies from the prison remodeling program that were destined for a new heating system had been diverted to a less important matter.
The prisoners were becoming more organized. Notes and plans were being exchanged in the outside recreation area. My reputation as a troublemaker and a rebel rouser made me a choice among several to lead the uprising. Many wanted me―i.e. “The Man Who Cobb Couldn’t Break”―to lead the charge and stand tall for more rights. And the fact that my cellmate, my best friend, was dead because of negligence made me the obvious choice. It was a worthy cause and, to many prisoners, worth it, even if it added time to their sentence.
I felt that I had too much to lose and declined any involvement in this action. In one fell swoop, I lost all credibility with my peers. It was not an easy choice. At meals, no one sat with me or attempted to make conversation. It was like I had the plague. I felt ashamed that I was not trying to avenge Raphael’s death. I sat on my cot playing solitaire, looking at the empty cot across from me. Should I sit still and let my best friend’s death be in vain?
Cobb had moles everywhere, and it was soon obvious that he had been informed of the possible uprising. Guards were placed on overtime, fitted with bulletproof vests, and instructed to carry extra ammunition. The outside prison gun towers were now manned by three guards instead of one.
The prisoners quickly and quietly backed down, and any plans that had been made were dismissed. I had ruined my reputation for nothing. It also made me realize that I was being selfish in that no death was more important than my own well-being. It wasn’t just me; it seemed that everyone had become selfish and narcissistic in their view of death. The deaths of people―such as Father Patrick, Raphael, and the six other inmates―had become a common occurrence and was not to be taken seriously. It was all swept under a rug. When a person died, it was the end of time. When my father died, I had grieved. I continued to grieve my loss.
I felt myself being conditioned to treat death as “just another day in the office.”
With less than a year left on my sentence, I withdrew and kept to myself. I was no longer held in high regard by my fellow inmates. My meetings with Jake were, hopefully, coming to a close as he filed for my parole. He insisted that I attend church on Sundays, as that would look good in my file. I agreed and found that it was kind of a sanctuary from the nasty looks I was receiving from my formerly loyal inmates.
When my parole hearing came up, I spoke with deep regret about the death of Father Patrick, said that my time in prison had been a time to reflect on my errors in life, and pleaded for mercy. I just wanted out.
Cobb sat in and read from my file about the trouble I had caused while confined.
I thought my chances for parole were slim.
Jake commended me on my speech and spoke about how convincing I was. I felt he thought it had been rehearsed or something. Whatever I said was totally from the heart and not in any way a ploy to gain favor. Jake told me to await a decision.
In the meantime, I acquired a new roommate. In many ways, he resembled me when I had entered this hellhole. He was a young kid who had made a mistake and was thrown into the lion’s den. I was not required to meet him in the basement like Raphael had with me. I guessed that Cobb didn’t want me to influence this young prisoner. I watched as he made his initial way through the common area being spit on and tossed about. I felt the need to nurture him, but I was hoping that my time left would be short lived.
I received a hand-delivered letter marked “Personal and Confidential.” I had seen these letters before. They were to inform the inmate of the decision in their parole hearing. It was usually followed by screams of euphoria or tears of pain. Many were reluctant to open them or had their cellmate read them the results. I spared no time and opened it.
“Parole Approved” it read, along with some lawyer jargon about prison overcrowding and a date for release.
I sat back in my cot and took a deep breath as my young roommate read through his handout that all the new prisoners received. I felt bad for the kid. My time was coming to an end, while his was just beginning.
I slept well on the eve of my release. I felt comfortable in the fact that I had paid my debt to society. I was leaving in the best shape of my life, but in the last years I had grown cynical about how death was treated.
Contrary to popular belief, you don’t receive a new suit on the day you are released. Jake had dropped off some jeans and a T-shirt with a note saying, “Congratulations!”
I was awakened by the morning buzzer. I ate breakfast by myself and was escorted to the release area. I was given the clothes that Jake had dropped off for me and waited impatiently in stocking feet. As time passed, I was annoyed that Jake was late on this particular day. He had the key to the lock box and some parole papers that needed signed.
He arrived an hour late. He was apologetic as he unlocked the box containing my belongings. I put on my father’s shoes and my rings, hoping that I could get out of this “funk” I had found myself in.
We walked to the outside gate as I questioned him on his tardiness and chastised him regarding the importance of the day. He kept silent; the whole time he had that stupid smile on his face.
We walked through the final door leading to the gate. It was at that point I realized that there were no news reporters or television cameras focusing on me, no ridiculous questions being hurled my way, and no religious leaders condemning me. Maybe I was on my way to leading a normal life.
Through the fence, I saw Don Karcher and Judge O’Neil standing next to a car. But it wasn’t just any car; it was my dad’s! It was all fixed up and looked like new. I gave Jake an apologetic smile. My “funk” was over.
“It was all Don’s idea,” Jake said.
I hugged everyone (maybe Don just a bit longer) and piled into the driver’s seat. Jake stood there with the keys dangling from his fingertips. “I think your permit has expired. And you’re not going back to prison for something as stupid as driving without a license.”
“Sorry, I got ahead of myself.”
Jake took the wheel, and I sat in the passenger seat. Don and Judge O’Neil sat in the back, scrunched. “Steven, could you possibly move your seat up?” the Judge asked.
I went to move the seat up, but it seemed jammed. Don was incensed.
“Goddamn it! I told them to fix anything that was wrong!”
I told Don that it wasn’t a big deal and I was thrilled with the car, but he insisted on getting it fixed.
We stopped for lunch, then proceeded to my temporary home: Jake’s house. Don dropped us off with a promise to return when the seat was fixed. I was expecting a fancy house but was surprised to see a modest home in an upscale neighborhood. While Don’s estate was somewhat “gaudy” in its presentation, Jake’s house was very nondescript, meaning you could drive past it and really not even notice it.
We entered the house, and Jake introduced me to his wife, Susan. She was just as I had expected―gorgeous, as I knew Jake would settle for nothing less. His boys were the spitting image of him and a little ornery. I felt very much at home.
Don had told us that
his jet was being used by his board of directors for business purposes, and that he could fly me to Peru (Ecuador’s neighboring country) in a week. That was fine with me, as I needed time to catch my breath.
Jake took the week off to help me adjust to being free. It was only the second day out when I discussed visiting my mom. Jake thought it was a good idea but recommended letting her know that I was coming. I agreed.
The phone call home was very trying. It really didn’t sound like her, and she was weeping on the other end. I told her, through my own tears, that I was sorry for what I had put her through. She sounded apprehensive but said she was looking forward to seeing me.
I was glad I had called.
The journey home was bittersweet. The town looked remarkably worn as we entered past the welcome sign. Lawns needed mowed. Houses needed painted, and several established businesses had shut their doors. I asked Jake to go by where Father Patrick’s church had been. It was now a parking lot. As we approached Randolph’s church, I looked at my Battle Ring for a response but felt nothing―not even a flicker of red. The church looked in disrepair, and Beth’s garden looked like it hadn’t been touched since she left town.
Jake pulled into my mom’s house, and I got an uneasy feeling.
Reverend Randolph greeted us at the door, and my blood boiled. I looked at my Battle Ring: nothing. I was stunned to see my mom slumped over in a wheelchair. Ten years had passed, but she looked like she had aged twenty. I grabbed Reverend Randolph and put him against the wall. “What have you done to my mom?”
Randolph replied and sounded out of his mind. “Whatever plagues your mother will be healed by the grace of God!”
Jake interjected, “Steven, I’m no doctor, but it looks like your mom has had a stroke.”
I released Randolph and tended to my mom as Jake called for an ambulance.
I held my mom’s hand as they placed her on a gurney. My thoughts and my rage turned to Randolph. Jake held me at bay as the Reverend rambled incessantly. “He’s gone! He’s gone! He said he was going to take me with him. Then he took my baby and my grandson! Now I can’t find them!”
Jake looked at me and spoke: “Miguel?”
I nodded. Miguel had taken the life out of this town and had then left it to die, just as he was doing in Ecuador and in the future, the world.
We followed the ambulance to the hospital, and I assisted in getting my mom admitted. They sedated her and insisted that I return home and wait for news.
“There is nothing you can do now,” they said. I felt helpless and angry.
***
We returned to Jake’s home and kept in contact with the
hospital. They commented that she had suffered a stroke some time ago and that her paralysis was permanent. I then remembered that in the only note I had received from her, her handwriting was almost illegible. And that was five years ago! The thought of putting Randolph through the wall emerged again. Jake was doing his best to calm me.
Jake and I talked about being focused on the task at hand: the killing of Miguel. We watched the nightly news as he destroyed and plundered the countryside. The current president and his cabinet had escaped to Argentina. Miguel was close to taking the capitol. I pictured the Ecuadorian presidential palace in my mind from the book that had been given to me. If he took the palace, it might be over for the people of Ecuador. They interviewed General Raul Suarez, who was leading the “Freedom Fighters” to fend off Miguel’s army. It was all bad news.
Meanwhile, Don had called. His board of directors were coming back, and he had scheduled a flight to Peru leaving in four days. I felt nervous but tried to remain calm on the outside. If anything, I had to look fearless to Jake, Don, Judge O’Neil, and most of all, to Miguel. Jake mentioned postponing the flight until my mom was feeling better.
“No,” I said. “It’s time to kill that bastard.”
Chapter 28
Jake suspected that I was apprehensive about leaving with my mom being quite ill. He concentrated on my travels to Ecuador to take my mind off of things. He presented me with an army-style duffel bag with clothes that were appropriate for a person of Ecuadorian ethnicity. He showed me a pocket he had sewn in the inside of the bag to put my rings in. He thought it would be safer not to wear them as I crossed the Ecuador-Peru border. He even had a fake passport with stamps from prior travels. I struggled to pronounce my new name. He pulled out some quinine tablets for Malaria, a snake bite kit, and a knife with a compass. He then told me his wife would be dying my hair black so I would blend in with the majority of the population.
“She does this for her friends, so it will look good,” Jake said. I wasn’t worried about looking good; I was worried about getting killed. I also commended him on the preparation of my trip. He had thought of everything―everything but a weapon. Raphael’s words went through my mind:
“…if this is all Destiny and Fate, then just keep your eyes open, and if it is meant to be, a weapon will present itself.”
OK, Raphael, anytime now.
***
Don came over to give us an update on Miguel and to return my father’s car. We turned on the television and saw Miguel standing on the balcony of the presidential palace. He had officially taken over the government. Standing beside him was Miguel Jr., now eleven or twelve years old, dressed just like his dad in a military uniform. Another interview with General Suarez made the whole scenario look hopeless. It was more bad news.
Don spoke up: “But, hey, as least I got your car back! You won’t believe what they found. A Goddamn stick was wedged under the seat. It was clear up into the upholstery. They had to take the seat out to…” Don’s voice trailed off as I gave Jake a “devilish” smile. Could it be?
Jake and I leapt from our chairs, grabbed Don, and made him take us to the automotive shop he had just left. I inquired to the mechanic the whereabouts of this “stick.”
“It’s out back by the burn barrel.”
I ran out the back door and saw my stick laying on top of some kindling ready to be burned. I yelled with excitement and pointed it to the heavens, half expecting lightening to strike it. The employees of the shop looked at me, scratching their heads. Jake calmed me down, and we returned home.
Our plan was coming together.
***
We received a call from the hospital telling us that my mom was stable, coherent, and she wanted to see me. Jake and I took the old Ford and headed out. I thought flowers would be a nice gesture, so I made him stop at a local florist. I was still giddy from finding my wooden weapon and excited to show my mom Dad’s car.
Jake offered to go with me to Mom’s hospital room, but I thought it best to arrive by myself.
All was quiet as I entered Mom’s room. It came as no surprise that she had a Bible open on her lap, and a nun was sitting with her. They were discussing religion. She looked much better, but it was obvious that she was still weak and needed time to recover. I told her of my upcoming journey but didn’t give her the reason why.
“I know why you’re going,” she said, struggling to speak. “It’s Miguel, isn’t it?’’
I nodded. Then she completely shocked me.
“I know all about Miguel. After your father and I married, he confessed to me that, in college, he had sold his soul to Miguel. I hated him for that and hated him for not telling me before.” She talked about her fear for our lives and that she had taken the job at the church to pray every minute of every day, hoping that Miguel would leave us alone. She confessed that her feelings toward my father had led her to be a horrible mother, and I assured her that she was wrong. She said she had known that Miguel would contact me to coax me into following my dad’s footsteps.
“Your father wouldn’t even let you be baptized. He was afraid Miguel would kill him. I was awake that night when Miguel visited you in your room. I laid there under the covers, in tears, praying to God that he wouldn’t take you,” she said as her crying increased.
“When Miguel came
to Randolph’s church, I didn’t know what to do. I was sure that Reverend Randolph’s faith would save him from Evil. Miguel had such a hold on your father. I tried to carry on like nothing was wrong. I was hoping he would just leave! And now, here you are, following Miguel to serve the Devil,” she said.
I was confused. ‘No, Mom, I didn’t sell my soul to him!”
She seemed incensed at my statement.
“Don’t you lie to me, Steven! After Miguel visited you, you kidnapped Beth’s baby and killed that poor old Catholic priest. You are not the same boy that I raised to be a Christian!”
She began quoting scripture and demanding that I pray for forgiveness. She sounded out of her mind, but I was sure that she meant what she was saying.
I quietly left the room with my flowers and walked back to the car.
“How did it go?’’ Jake asked.
“Not good. She thinks I sold my soul.”
“Steven, your mom has been through a lot with your dad and with that crazy Reverend Randolph. Give her some time.”
“I guess I understand now why she never came to see me in prison. She thinks I’m Evil. The only way for me to prove she is wrong is for me to kill Miguel and bring his head back on a platter.”
Jake agreed.
I threw Jake a curve. “I want to go to my dad’s gravesite.”
“Sure,” Jake said. “You’ll have to tell me how to get there.”
I showed Jake the way. It had been over ten years since my dad’s funeral, and it was the first time I had been back. Jake slowed the car to the entrance. As creepy as the cemetery had been when I had first visited, it was even worse now.
Jake had witnessed Evil before and suggested that he would feel more comfortable outside of the gate. I grabbed the flowers and exited the car. Passing through the gate, the temperature dropped, giving me a chill. My Battle Ring was red. I had left my Holy Stick back at Jake’s. The wind picked up, and starlings flew close by. My dad’s grave was unkempt, and cobwebs adorned his headstone. I placed the flowers on his grave, and in seconds they wilted and died.
The Killing of Miguel Page 13
