by Steven Swaks
Praises for “The Devil’s Grip: The Curse of Stone Falls”
“From enticing to completely captivating… Swaks boldly went to places I wasn’t expecting to, which was pleasantly daring...”
John Hervey II, writer and producer
“Creepy, suspenseful, and cool all at once!”
Elena Rangel, editor
“Wow! Wow! Wow! I could not put this down–very suspenseful and riveting.”
Priscilla Tjio, Miss Los Angeles Chinatown, 2003
“A real pleasure to read…”
Olivier Schawlb, editor
Other Works by Steven Swaks:
Alaska! Up North and to the Left
6545 Snow Summit Drive
Coming up!
The Devil’s Grip, Valaxahr’s Seed
The Devil’s Grip is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Steven Swaks
All rights reserved.
Library of Congress Control Number: Pending
Cover Artwork: Lee Salcone
Published: April 2015
To my family
To Scott, as always
To my Eureka kiddos, past, present, and future
Acknowledgements
I might repeat myself in this section of the book. After all, there are only so many ways I can say thank you. The most important is this: the deep gratitude is there. I might play. I might pretend to be ungrateful, but I am truly thankful.
There is a nucleus of people who have been with me since the beginning of my little writing adventure. They have managed to stay patient (I sometimes wonder how!), and they gave me so much good advice. You know who you are. Thank you!
In the very front of the procession, there is the flag bearer. That would be you, my dearest wife. Thank you for your continuous encouragement and for reading the same story over and over. Thank you for being kind and available for any endless reviews and questions.
Thank you to the rest of the gang, Priscilla and John Hervey, Pastor Richard Chung, Olivier Schawlb, and Elena Rangel. You have always welcomed my manuscripts, and you were prompt to dissect them with a critical, yet tender, eye. Thank you for the time you have spent for me.
Out of the original pack, I would like to single out my two youngest editors, Dominique and Dorothy Lie. Thank you so much to both of you. You have proven to be two mature and smart young ladies. You have transcended any possible skepticism, and brought a fresh approach to my work. For that, I am very, very, grateful.
Some technical advisors also came along with their knowledge to make this book as realistic as possible. Thanks, Lucas Altepeter, for your legal, tactical weapons, and SWAT expertise. Now, I can always blame you if I wrote something inaccurate! Without leaving the legal section, thank you, Paul Yee and Chris Leong, for your legal counsels. You took the time to talk to me when you did not have to.
Thank you also to Dr. Paul Lee for sharing your surgical expertise. Your skills and knowledge are fascinating, while you have stayed a humble and peaceful man. I am thankful to count you among my friends.
Thank you to Pastor Richard Chung, Priscilla Hervey, and Samuel Akleh, for answering some of my Biblical questions and for giving me your input.
I shall not forget Jack Smith and Sue Hall Nguyen from the Brea Museum & Heritage Center. You have opened your doors and gave me the time I needed while answering my questions.
Christine Andrew, thanks for your Yupik translation, and thanks for giving a Northern flavor to this story!
Thank you, Lee Salcone, for your patience on designing the cover and for listening to my wishes. I gave you a twisted jumble of ideas, and you came up with magic!
Last, but definitely not least, a big thanks to you, my readers. Without you, I would be a lone grouch writing for myself. To my repeat offenders, I humbly thank you, and salute you. I truly appreciate your faithfulness. “The Devil’s Grip,” is wandering away from anything you have already read. It is bold (I think!), but I know that you will enjoy it!
Table of Contents
Ramble
Medic 61
Sisters
Ravine
Lights
Cubbies
Textile Avenue
Downtown
House Call
Stone Falls High
Next
Headquarters
Dina’s Diner
Sweet Bath
Gas Station
Psych Ward
Jim’s Repair & Body Work
White Office
725 Meadow Drive
Pecan Pie
Left Lane
Night Watch
Todd
Flickers
Ambulance Bay
Backyard
Biochem.
Dispatch
The Sanctuary
Mirror
Sweet Evening
Big Sister
Highway
Closed Doors
Another Evening
Night Guard
Ghost House
Everyday Low Prices
Jessica
Long is the Night
Police Force
Fire Road
Jeffrey Simons
Aragon Movie Theater
Wall of Fame
Sweet Dreams
Red Light
Black Robe
Black Tape
7-Eleven
Cabin in the Woods
Desk Work
Visit
Divine Wind
Dark Shadow
Coming Down
White Lights
Epilogue
The Devil’s Grip
The Curse of Stone Falls
Steven Swaks
Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.
Ephesians 6:11
Ramble
Stone Falls, January 4th, 2008.
Gina Hawkins hated this town. People smiled at each other like robots. They said “hi” like they truly cared. They didn’t. They liked their own little self-centered life. They went to church like a bunch of brainless followers. She hated it. She hated the comedy act and the salutations, the fake smiles, and the “Oh, honey, we hope your mother will feel better.” They were only judging her. She could feel the weight of their vile opinions upon her shoulders. They despised her. It was even worse than if they had openly said something, but Gina didn’t care anymore.
A yellow light bulb hardly lit her bare bedroom. She lay on her bed, unwilling to open her eyes to her sad life. She used to be happy. That was before her mother got sick. Got sick, that was a nice way to put it. She went nuts. That description was more accurate. Her mother stayed in bed all day. Sometimes she watched her shows on TV. Sometimes she slept. Sometimes she cried for hours at a time. How was that even possible?
Gina used to look pretty with her black hair and dark brown eyes. She was skinny, too. Not anorexic, but thin enough to feel attractive. At least, that’s the way she used to look. A boy or two even liked her when she was in high school. How long ago was that? Eight years, an eternity. It was before her life went down the drain. That was before her mother became drugged-out on everything: Vicodin, Valium, even some coke once in a while.
Gina ran her hand on her bony cheek. Her skin was pale. Her eyes devoid of life and her used-to-be-beautiful hair belonged more to a skull in a nursing home rather than a girl in her twenties. She looked dead.
What had happened to her? It d
idn’t even matter. She was done with everything. She was at the end of a once-normal life.
A faint continuous sob rose from the end of the narrow corridor leading to her mother’s bedroom. Her mother was crying, again.
Gina stood up like a zombie and walked down the corridor to check on her. She stopped. She couldn’t. She retreated into the bathroom. She didn’t even know why.
She looked down at the sink. She noticed a few insignificant details, a mostly empty toothpaste tube, a dry glass with white water stains running down to the bottom. She looked up at the mirror on the white medicine cabinet. There was a small crack at the bottom corner. Like it even mattered, everything was falling apart in this house.
“Gina!” Her mother cried.
Gina used to be a gentle name, a calling for a little girl frolicking down a grassy hill. Now, it was torment, a sign up for another session of verbal abuse.
“Gina! Come over here!”
She hated her own name. She should leave. Walk to the front door and escape without looking back. How could she? She hardly had enough money to put five gallons in her gas tank. What about getting a better job than flipping burgers? She was blacklisted. She was the daughter of the druggy, the town nut. Nobody wanted to deal with her. She was a step too close to the madhouse, her house.
“I told you to come here!” the craggy voice hollered one more time.
Gina opened the medicine cabinet. She moved an outdated remedy for colds and a dusty Lunesta box. The narrow shelves were an invitation to the end. Legal and not-so-legal substances coexisted for anybody to see. With the cops going to her house on a regular basis, her mother was asking to get caught. Perhaps it was the answer, the unvoiced call for help.
“You piece of filth! Are you going to come when your mother calls you?”
Gina started sobbing. She grabbed each side of the sink, and hung tight, an uncontrollable tremor travelling down her entire body. A cold draft travelled through the bathroom and enveloped her frail body in a blanket of ice. Gina shivered and rubbed her arms to stay warm. The troubled girl glanced at the door. It was closed. She looked to the window. It was locked.
That was it. She was becoming like her mother. She was losing it. Soon, she would spend her days lying in bed, staring at the ceiling for hours between two shots of medication.
She could not deal with this anymore. Nobody was helping her. Nobody cared. She was alone. There would be an end to this. Something would have to change. Soon.
Medic 61
The white modular ambulance with red and blue stripes running front to back motored down Sequoia Street. A bold company name, Medics Ambulance, written in red letters was slapped on each side with diagonal yellow and red traffic bands painted on the back. The unit slowed down at a light and turned north on Jefferson Boulevard. After a few hundred yards, the driver, Ben Callaway, veered into a Wendy’s parking lot.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the thin and athletic Alex said.
“What?” Ben asked while backing up the ambulance into a wide parking spot.
“Wendy’s? At ten in the morning?”
“Why not?”
“Is this breakfast or lunch? Wait. We ate two hours ago, so that’s not breakfast, and it’s too early for lunch.”
“It’s a snack, a brunch,” Ben said with a satisfied smile.
Health conscious, Alex could not help but stare at his partner.
After three years working with Ben, twenty-four hours at a time, three days a week, Alex still could not get used to Ben’s sloppiness and gluttony. “You’re going to blow one of these days.”
“Blow? Nah, I’m well-proportioned.”
“Well-proportioned? Right, how tall are you? 5’10?”
“5’9,” Ben answered pulling his blue EMT pants up as he walked out of the ambulance.
“And what? 220 pounds?”
“Always exaggerating. I’m 205, 210 on a bad day. Not everybody can look like a tall stick like you!” Ben tapped him on the back.
They both crossed the small parking lot.
“I hope we won’t get a call during lunch,” Ben said.
“Lunch? You said this was a brunch.”
“Yeah, same thing.”
Alex opened the glass door for his partner. “Getting a call at 10:00 AM? I doubt it. People are already either at work, or somebody would have already found the one who might have croaked during the night. There’s nothing else going on in this town anyway. I bet you we won’t get any more than four calls today.”
“I don’t care how many calls we get. I just don’t want one when I’m eating. Don’t jinx us.”
“Relax, Ben. We won’t get a call–”
“Engine 61, Medic 61, unknown medical, personal alarm, 1721 Monterey Bay Ave, Stone Falls PD en route.” A dull female voice cracked on their hand-held radio.
“So much for not getting a call, you asked for it, buddy!” Ben said before jogging back to the unit. “You had to say something. You could not stay quiet. No… mister had to say something!”
Alex chuckled. “Don’t worry about it. It’s going to be a quickie.” He grabbed his hand-held radio, “Medic 61, en route.”
“Medic 61, copy,” the female voice repeated.
The duo jumped in the ambulance. They acknowledged the call on a small computer screen and verified the address.
The large Ford 350’s engine roared to life. Ben pushed the master lights on, just off his right hand on the center console. He armed the growler, and activated the long and slow wail siren upon entering the wide boulevard.
At the first intersection, Ben switched to the rhythmic yelp siren. He turned the growler on for a deep whine worthy of a fire engine and merged onto the left turning lane to continue straight on Jefferson.
Ben was focused but calm, his eyes swiveling from distracted drivers to the best possible route through each intersection.
Alex had nothing much to do but keep an alert eye on other cars.
“What’s the numeric again?” Ben asked.
“1721. It’s that retirement community, Golden Oak, on the right. Should be a couple blocks away.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right, we haven’t been there in a while. Nothing better than a call at an old folk’s home to spice up the day!”
“You’re going to get your excitement of the week.”
“I bet,” Ben said slowing down and shutting the siren off. “The engine is already there.” He picked up the mic, “61 on scene.”
The same female voice repeated the update.
The ambulance maneuvered around a large flowerbed and parked behind a white fire engine and a police cruiser beneath a tall porte cochère. The rest of the two-story building sprawled on each side in perfect symmetry.
The routine took over. The two paramedics stepped out of the ambulance on their respective sides and met in the back of the unit. Alex opened the right door. Ben opened the left and unlocked the gurney before pulling it out. Alex grabbed the yellow legs and gently lowered them to the ground. It was a company-wide dance. It was not taught or advertised. It was a custom transmitted from more-experienced employees to newer ones. There was no need to talk, no need for useless conversations, nor wasted plans of action. Calls were mostly a silent choreography with chatter for minor adjustments. Routine did not need explanations.
They both walked in, Alex steering the front of the gurney, Ben pushing the back. A belted cardiac monitor, trauma bag, and medication box traveled atop the thin mattress. An oxygen tank was beneath the adjustable back.
The hallway was elegant with a tall chandelier beneath a cathedral ceiling. A few well-arranged light beige leather couches and armchairs were scattered throughout the lobby for the comfort of the visitors.
“Don’t they have staff in this place?” Ben asked.
“Nah, I don’t think so, just a cleaning crew once in a while. It’s some kind of independent living thing.”
“What’s the apartment number?”
“A55
,” Alex answered.
They located a small placard at the entrance of a narrow hallway splitting into a long T-shaped corridor.
Alex looked further on the right. Three firefighters in yellow turnout pants, red suspenders, and blue t-shirts were facing an apartment door. A police officer in dark blue uniform was behind them. One of the firefighters stood in front of the door. He waited an instant and knocked.
“Never mind, they’re over there,” Alex said. He steered the gurney toward their direction. “What’s going on, Cap.?” He called out to the captain.
The oldest and shortest of the three men turned around. His hair was gray and short, but his deep blue eyes kept the spark of love for his job. Each call was exciting, and even after three decades with the department, he couldn’t get enough. Captain Johnson was one of the old-timers at Stone Falls Fire. He was respected and was one of the pillars of the institution. He had never become battalion chief. BC was boring. BC meant politics and pencil-pushing all day long. Once in a long while, he would have been on the bigger calls, the fires, the big traffic collisions, or TCs for short. That was not him. He needed to be out on the field.
“We’ve been banging on that door. There’s no answer,” Captain Johnson said.
“It’s a panic button, right?” Alex asked.
“It is,” the captain briefly answered.
“What about the back window?”
“It’s an enclosed garden. I have no clue who has the key in this place. We can’t even see what’s going on in there.”
“Don’t they have a security guard?” Ben asked.
“No idea. I haven’t seen one yet.”
“You figure the guy would be here by now if there was one,” the officer commented.
“So we don’t know anything about the patient?” Ben asked.
“Nothing,” Johnson confirmed. “I say we bust the door.” He glanced at the officer for a visual confirmation.
