Sadist Ii: the Duppy King

By Kel Fulgham

After suffering heavy losses at the hands of the Sadist, Patrick Stetson goes home to properly tend to his wounds. Three years later, Patrick is up for promotion and his life has almost returned to normal. But he learns the danger he fought once before is back, and this time it's hunting him.

Paige Stetson left New York and moved to Boston leaving the past behind her. But her new found freedom is short lived once she receives the message encapsulated in a dream.

Donald Jones found peace and happiness with his new family. Donald felt the call but ignored it until destiny showed up at his doorstep.

Maria Fletcher withdrew from everyone after losing all she loved and cherished. Patrick was the last of her family, so she reached out to him and learned that Cal Johnson was still alive. It wasn't long before her help was sought by Norton Wyle, an ambitious federal agent who wants to harness the Sadist's power.

The final judgment has begun, and in the eyes of the Sadist, all are guilty.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465382689

Kel Fulgham

Kel Fulgham was born and raised in New York, but even as a small boy, he loved to set pen to paper or whatever else he could write on. Raised as an only child, his only steady companions were the multitude of books he could get his hands on. Starting from authors like Richard Adams and Madeleine L’Engle and moving towards James Blish, Carl Sagan, and Stephen King, his voracious appetite for the written word could not be satiated. He would devour hundreds of books in his 20s, and then he picked up writing in his 30s. Kel Fulgham has written poetry that has touched the heart, songs that have both angered and soothed the soul, and books that have scared the crap out of many. Now residing in Maine, he has found a peaceful venue to write and has done so.

Book preview

ONE

PATRICK STETSON STOOD in the doorframe of the house where he spent the last twenty-two years raising his family. Everything about being here felt wrong to him, but he really had no other place to go. All his belongings and memories were still here, trapped as if the house itself was the captor. As far as Patrick was concerned, it might as well be.

It was here by the door that Paige stumbled and picked herself up after taking her first steps. In the backyard four years ago, he tripped and fell off the ladder while he was painting the house, and he could hear Ellen laughing and running to his aid. He watched his family grow up in this house, and it was here in this house he believed he was the happiest in his life.

But it didn’t feel like home anymore.

The first thing to catch his eye as the door stood open was the fact that the red smears that once were his wife’s lifeblood had vanished. He stood at the doorway, looking at the staircase and the floor where he last saw her face. He could still see her gazing into the deep night, her eyes wide and unbelieving. She was somehow still there but gone—nothing but a ghost of a passing memory.

He looked around and saw that someone had been busy. The entire house had been practically sanitized: Every article of clothing was put away, every pen was placed in a pen holder, no strewn magazines or rotten fruit on the kitchen table. The windows had been cleaned, so the sun shone brightly onto the wood floors. Even the layer of dust he routinely found on the TV was gone. Sometimes Ellen would forget to wipe it down, but he didn’t care one way or the other. He only noticed how dusty it was when Ellen did.

She’s still here. I can feel her.

Patrick finally ventured into the cold house and closed the door behind him. He looked to his left behind where he stood. He could just about make out the bullet holes that were about two feet away from the door hinge. He traced the holes with his finger just to challenge his mind and feel the realness of it. The holes were very close together; he would guess they were separated by about two inches. The bullets had been dislodged from the wood, but he didn’t have any doubt that they were from his gun.

Near those bullet holes was a photograph of Paige. The frame was silver with a rose in the center top and bottom. He remembered when Ellen had picked out that frame, but at the time, he didn’t think it was anything special. Paige looked like she was frozen at twelve years old. She had that same half smile that the Stetsons all had, including Amanda and sometimes even Maria.

He found himself walking up the stairs of the house and over to Paige’s room, bypassing more pictures of his family at different stages of their lives. He paused for a moment when his eyes found the picture of his sister and her daughter. It was a picture taken on Maria’s fourteenth birthday, with Amanda standing behind her.

Once he opened the door to his daughter’s room, he sat on her bed and held his hands to his eyes. He had held it in as long as he could, telling himself he needed to be strong for himself and Paige. But now that he was alone, he felt the cold stares of his lost family upon him. He cried so long he started to lose track of reality. When he was finally done, almost an hour had passed, and the sun that was shining brightly onto the wood flooring downstairs had progressed to the sofa and table.

He knew his suffering was just beginning. Losing his wife of sixteen years to an evil supernatural being was a terrible thing by itself. The death was so senseless; it felt like the soul of Ellen was still in the house, trying to find some remnant of peace. It was his fault that she was dead. It was no one else’s. She cheated, yes. She lied. But he was the one who couldn’t stop his obsession with the Sadist. And the Sadist took her to punish him.

Every time he tried to close his eyes to put those memories behind him, all he could see before him were the eyes of Amanda looking back at him, pleading with him. Her face was one of sadness—not because her life had come to an end, but because she would lose what precious time she had with her daughter. Amanda’s death was barbaric and unnecessary.

Losing his daughter would be the worst of all. His mind tumbled over the information he had until his head felt like it would split in half. The gun she found on the ground was his. Every little detail of what happened in Montreal pointed to his ineptitude. None of them had any business being there.

Paige would be safe right now if he had just left her with her grandfather.

But he didn’t think of that.

I have to believe she is still alive. What choice do I have?

He knew better. The last time he had seen Paige, she was dying in his arms. That look he had seen in her eyes he had seen half a dozen times before in others. It was the look of someone who was breathing their last, someone who was ready to experience their final journey.

Some can see the world the way I see it in the moment of their death. Their eyes grow wide, but they can’t fully understand what they see.

He went over those words spoken while he watched another of his botched plans go as so many of them did. He would give anything at this point to see its eyes the moment death overcame it. He hoped that in its last moments, it would see the faces of the damned coming with vengeance. Still, even that would not be a truly fitting end for the creature he commonly referred to as the Sadist.

Patrick went back downstairs and reached for the phone. Information gave him the number for Inspector Bouchard. The inspector answered the phone and just as quickly hung up the phone when he heard Patrick’s voice. He didn’t even have the common courtesy to acknowledge him.

Before he could dial 0 again for the operator, he heard someone’s voice behind him.

Detective?

Patrick turned to see Sergeant Harris standing at the door. Patrick wordlessly turned and stood.

Sergeant Harris laid eyes on Patrick’s face, and his eyes widened.

You look like you have seen better days.

Patrick stifled an unhappy laugh while wiping his face. I’m just beat. I haven’t slept in… well, it’s coming up on a day and a half. I just got in a few minutes ago.

Yeah, I know, Harris said. They told me you would be here. Those glorified mall cops took every speck of data we had on the Sadist case and briefed everyone involved. They called you a hero.

Patrick again stifled a chuckle. Yeah, I have heard that one before.

The sergeant made his way to the sofa and sat down, and Patrick followed suit. Harris had the look of someone who had not found sleep recently either.

So… you gonna tell me what really happened?

Patrick sat back. As much as I would like to, sir, I can’t. The feds had a chat with me too, and it appears we are all out of it for now.

Yeah, like I believe that, Harris said. You went to Canada. I know that much. I know you were tracking that kid and his mother. We can’t find them anywhere. Their apartment looks like it’s been trashed. So they must have gone up there.

Harris, I can’t—

So you found them. You confronted the bastard. What happened?

Patrick thought about what he would tell Harris on the ride back from the airport. He could easily formulate a lie that would keep Harris quiet for a while, or he could simply plead silence. He had known Harris for years, and he was a man with many locked-up secrets. He knew that of anyone save himself, he could be trusted not to blab.

But his daughter was still in Montreal, and he wanted to make sure she was safe first. He was also wondering about his niece and where the agents had taken her. Added to that, he couldn’t be sure the house wasn’t bugged.

Give me some time. I will tell you, but I just need to get back to Canada.

Harris stood. How you gonna do that?

Patrick shot Harris a quizzical look.

Your passport has been revoked. I thought you already knew. They said you aren’t going anywhere for a while. They also made it clear to Gordino you are not to be reprimanded for crossing into another country carrying a firearm without authorization. You have been reinstated as detective as of this morning. You can come back to the precinct whenever you like. If you want to take a few months off, go for it.

Patrick listened without changing his expression.

"Listen, Stetson… Patrick. I don’t know a hell of a lot about… what happened, but I know you took some heavy losses up there. I know your sister was killed. Anything you need from the department, you let us know.

But… as to your jaunting off on your own… between me, you, and the four walls… if you ever get that thought in your head again, the last thing I’m gonna do before I turn in my own badge is to fire your ass, and no goddamn fed is gonna change that fact. You could have shut us all down with that stunt. You got me?

Patrick looked down and nodded.

All right. Give me a call when you are ready to return. The boys wanna do something for you. Don’t even argue. It’s not like a ticker tape or anything. It will most likely be a few beers at the pub.

Okay, Patrick said wearily.

Again, sorry for your loss. I hope your kid will be fine. Harris stood and exited the room, leaving Patrick’s mind in complete disarray. He didn’t even know whom he would have to contact to get his passport reinstated. He looked around the living room and then stood. He had no direction and no help. His daughter was close to four hundred miles away, and so was his sister’s body. He had to plan for the funeral as well as coordinate bringing his daughter home.

Also, there was the small matter of Calton Cal Johnson.

There was an added component; somehow, Aggie Johnson was part of it. The thing lived inside and worked through Cal, but it needed Aggie for some unknown purpose. Without the two, the Sadist was somehow compromised.

If I had known all of that . . .

Patrick realized that, for the most part, the border to Canada was secured; and getting into the country would require documentation. However, there were unpaved roads in various sections of the border that were not policed regularly. He would have to figure out how to do it, but he could find his way back up there.

But before he could do that, he needed one thing: sleep.

Patrick didn’t even bother changing or going upstairs. He couldn’t bring himself to do it even if he was able. The bed he shared with Ellen was their bed. If he lay down on it, he was certain he would smell her, and it would haunt him further. As he drifted off to sleep, he thought of her and how things got so out of control. He had to take the lion’s share of the responsibility for what happened. It really wasn’t his case anymore, and if he had just let Reid and Kent take over, it would be them facing these consequences.

Before he could blame himself even more, he closed his eyes for the first time in thirty-six hours and was snoring minutes later.

Two hours after Patrick passed out, Paige started to wake up. Her eyes blinked open, and it took her all of a second to remember everything that happened except the last few seconds. She was holding her dad’s gun. She had fired into Cal’s chest. Then something happened to her.

She tried to move her hands, but she realized she was strapped down to the hospital bed. As she was about to call for someone, she stopped mid-cry. An enormous surge of pain registered in her brain coming from her right side. She then noticed she had straps on her legs too. They were holding her in place. Just as the pain started to subside, a man wearing scrubs walked into her room.

Paige Stetson, I am pleased you are awake, he said. I am Dr. Bache. I am part of the surgical staff here at St. Mary’s. How are you feeling, Ms. Stetson?

Paige gathered from the doctor’s accent that she must still be in Montreal. Where is my dad?

I’m sorry. All I know is that he is back in New York. I would have called, but the inspector did not leave me any contact information.

New York, she said just above a whisper. Why would my dad leave?

Dr. Bache tried to smile for her. I am not sure, Ms. Stetson, but I am certain he is worried about you. But from what I was just told, you will see him very soon. You won’t be a guest at our hospital much longer.

Paige struggled with the hand and leg restraints.

Ahhh, the restraints. We were not sure about how you would awaken, so we put the restraints on for your protection. Your injury could still be life threatening if you tear the sutures on that side. I am sure you understand.

I just want my dad, Paige said angrily.

Dr. Bache stepped back from Paige. He wasn’t totally sure she was still secure and did not want to agitate her more.

Ms. Stetson, we were just made aware that you are to be transported to St. Barnabas in New York within the next few hours. I will call your father to let him know you will be coming back to New York and when. I will just need a phone number from you if you are able. You’re going for a helicopter ride!

He tried to sound excited, but Paige still had a concerned look on her face. She wanted to know what was so important back in New York that would make him leave her there. Several different ideas popped into her head, and none of them were good. She remembered everything that happened up to the point the thing tried to kill her. She even remembered her father catching her. It was her last memory before the blackness took her away for a not-so-pleasant trip.

*     *     *

After being questioned for hours, Donald Jones was finally allowed to reclaim his vehicle and was given credentials from the U.S. embassy. He was allowed to drive his car back over the border and back to the Bronx. Once he was back on Devoe he got out of the car and started dancing around it. Then he knelt down in the middle of the street and fake kissed the ground. Those passing by watching his display gave him a wide berth.

Still, he thought it might be a good idea to check on Cecile, just in case that bastard did something to her. But that time was far from now. He just wanted to be back in his apartment and find out how many bridges were burned by his absence. He was certain that the jobs he had lined up to do before the fake Cal showed up were already under contract and done by now. But he had to call to make sure he wasn’t completely banned by the agency. He didn’t think so, and after his explanation, he was betting they would understand.

He would have to fudge the story a little. Being kidnapped by a seventeen-year-old boy wasn’t reason enough to skip out on those jobs. Then again, put a gun in his hand and his age wouldn’t matter. In his mind, that’s exactly what happened. Not only was he threatened, he was mentally and physically beaten and abused.

The best part of this is that I never get to see them again. Ever.

Donald parked his car and took the stairs up to his apartment. When he arrived, he saw a sign on his door:

Notice of Eviction.

Donald took the eviction notice down from the door and placed his key in the lock. The key would not fit. As he read the document, he saw why. He had only been gone for two months, but no one could locate him. Since he missed two payments, they proceeded to change the locks and move his belongings to a storage facility at his expense. If he had been back with a payment less than a month ago, he would have spared himself the three hundred bucks he had to pay in order to get his stuff back.

After tolls and junk food, Donald had exactly twelve dollars on him. He had no savings whatsoever, and most of his family was just as broke as he was. His only hope would be his aunt that lived in Maryland. He just needed to get down there and then organize getting his stuff out of storage.

Donald ripped the eviction notice in half and balled the two pieces together. He tossed it down the hallway and then kicked the apartment door in anger. He really didn’t need all this as a cherry topper to the hell of the last two months. He leaned against the door, trying to think of what he should do next. He didn’t have enough gas in his car to drive to Maryland, and the money he did have might get him there, but not back. If she couldn’t lend him the cash, he would be stuck in Maryland.

Better than being stuck in a house with two lunatics and a killer.

The night everything happened, Aggie had passed out in bed, and Cal was still awake, trying to watch TV. Donald was not sleeping much at all; he had been running around doing whatever Whitney wanted him to do, and he desperately needed sleep. Donald’s eyes closed, and he started drifting off when he heard gunfire. He dropped himself out of bed and placed his back to the wall. Finally, the shooting stopped, but he stayed on the ground. He heard one more shot fired near the house. It was over to the right of the house, almost to the side closest to him. He peeked through the bedroom window and saw the police practically surrounding the house and then…

He saw it.

He didn’t get the best look at it because of the lack of a vantage point. But he knew it was the thing inside Cal. He had never really seen it like this; in his nightmares, he would see beings or creatures and imagine what they really looked like. But this was even worse than his imagination. That thing was death incarnate.

He opened the front door just in time to see it plunge its paw or whatever it was inside a young girl just before it vanished into a mist. Seconds later, Aggie forced her way past him and started beating on a red-haired guy. She was quickly subdued by the local fuzz, and once that had happened, he knew it was all over.

But it didn’t take long for one of the police officers to take notice of him standing in the doorway, and within a few short seconds of that, he too was in cuffs. But Donald didn’t complain or resist. He knew that whatever had been going on for those months was finally over. Even if he had to rot in a cell for the next ten years, it would be preferable to those weeks of terror he was submitted to.

As he was being escorted to one of the police vehicles, he looked back and saw Cal lying on the ground. He thought he saw blood on his chest, but the officer pushed him into the car before he could get a good look. He tried to steal a glance while in the car, but he couldn’t see much of the scene. Everything had gone straight to hell. But at least he was free.

Free of it.

*     *     *

Norton Wyle sat at his desk waiting for the Bentons to show up. It was already 9:18 a.m., and they didn’t buzz in yet. He shuffled through the documents on his desk again and then got up from his chair to look outside. He wondered from time to time what the director’s office looked like and if he had a better view. He assumed the director did, but he had never had the pleasure of talking to him face-to-face. Norton considered that to be a good thing, because face-to-face conversations with the director usually were reprimands or something else that wasn’t good.

He thought about home a lot, especially in the last few days. After he got off the plane, the second thing he did after making sure Patrick and Maria were escorted to their respective vehicles was to call his father to check up on him. He didn’t stay on the phone too long simply because his father had a way of saying something that pinched him. His father was reaching his seventies, and he was losing his ability to temper his words. In his younger days, Norton watched his father artfully perform his duties in his various contracted jobs, but in the last ten years, he found it hard to even be around him.

Since Norton’s mother died a year ago, his father has been in Little Rock all by himself for the most part. When she died, he handled the funeral arrangements and enrolled his father in an in-home program so he didn’t have to go the nursing home route. His father was still pretty much self-sufficient, but he was also stubborn and sometimes willful. The reality of the situation was he didn’t have the time to be in Arkansas very much, and even if he did, he didn’t want to be around his father.

During the conversation with his father, he joked about grandkids. More to the point, Norton was expected to give him an ETA. Since Norton wasn’t married and was too busy to even go on a date, he told his dad what he usually told him. He told his father that grandkids were in the plan, but not the immediate plan. And that was usually when the pinch came.

It was watching that sad young girl for the last three and a half weeks that made him think of his father and his home. Since he was placed on this mission, his desk was cleared of all other projects, and all he really had to do was browse Patrick’s notes and watch over her. The former was simple; the latter was heartbreaking.

The phone buzzed, and the voice announced that Charles and Alice Benton had arrived. He went down the hall, greeted them, and made small talk about the traffic in the capital area.

It’s that time of year, Norton said as he escorted the couple to his office. The elections are getting geared up, and we usually see a lot of foreign license plates. Traffic can be a bear. I personally can do without it.

Right, Charles Benton said. So have you met Reagan yet?

Norton smiled. No, the president doesn’t come to this neck of the woods often. I’ve seen him dozens of times, just not here and in person. We like to keep our faces out of his face.

I’m sure, Charles said.

Mr. and Mrs. Benton, I know you have a full house right now, and I realize this might be a bit of a hardship for you. I’m in a bit of a predicament, and I was hoping you might be able to help.

Alice Benton made a face that Norton took to mean that they had discussed what he was proposing and was in disagreement. Norton perceived himself to be a good reader of people’s thoughts and emotions. He was fairly certain she was the one he had to convince.

As I mentioned, I need to place a young girl in a safe house. She just lost her mother, and her father wants nothing to do with her. I know that she would be safe in your home, and you came highly recommended by everyone I spoke to.

I… , Charles started but was interrupted by Alice.

As much as we would like to help, I really can’t handle even one more kid at this point. We just don’t have enough rooms, and we have some kids three to a room now.

Norton gave her one of his disarming smiles. Of course, Mrs. Benton. I am sorry if I am wasting your time with all this. It’s a big undertaking, I know. Each kid has special needs and requires monitoring and attention. I know in the past, our agency has asked you to handle certain… special cases. Maria Fletcher is a very special case, and I am prepared to offer an extra 50 percent for the inconvenience.

Alice blinked twice. Charles put on a smile of his own.

Not to mention, Norton continued, she is almost eighteen years old. A little over a year left to go, and she will be back with us again. Maybe even sooner if the need arises. She has an uncle that lives in New York, and he’s a good man but needs a little time to adjust to his new life. His sister… her mother… was killed right in front of them both.

Oh… I didn’t know, Alice trailed off.

So depending on several factors, she might not be with you for long. Plus I hope the compensation is adequate.

Well… maybe we can clear out the mud room… , Alice started.

The kids use that mudroom, Charlie said.

We could just make them use the front door.

The mudroom is kinda tiny…

We can make due. A twin bed will fit in there.

You sure, hun? Charlie asked.

Alice turned to face Norton. We can take her. Where is she now?

Um, currently, she is in one of the apartments we have downstairs for short-term housing. She has been there for a few weeks now, so I am sure she will be happy to get out of there. The windows down there are pretty small.

Alice looked over to Charles and then offered to take Maria immediately. Norton told them that he has to communicate their acceptance to his boss and then talk to Maria about it. Added to that, there was paperwork that had to be filed and processed, but Maria could go as early as tomorrow morning if all goes well. Alice and Charles shook Norton’s hand, and they were back on the road in minutes.

Norton made his way downstairs to the first sublevel floor and down a corridor that led to the apartments. He went to the last apartment on the left side and rang the buzzer. The buzzer was connected to a light similar to the one in Maria’s old apartment in the Bronx. Norton rang the buzzer again, and the door opened.

Maria Fletcher stood before Norton. Her hair was tied back into a ponytail, and she wore a white blouse and dark slacks. Her skin was so pale Norton thought she might be coming down with something. Her big brown eyes were locked on his, and he could tell she had been crying recently. She greeted Norton with a smile of sorts, but he had a good read on her, and he knew she was absolutely miserable.

The apartment had most of her belongings transferred from her Bronx home, except the few items that would not fit. The apartment was not overly spacious, but it wasn’t small either. Inside the apartment, the walls were adorned sparsely with pictures of her family; the photos of her mother and Patrick and family long forgotten lined the wall immediately to the left of the entrance. The wood floors were covered with rugs that ran along the sides and the middle of the apartment. Most of the rooms in the apartment had security cameras except for the bathroom.

Ms. Fletcher, Norton said when she turned to face him. Could we sit and chat for a moment?

Maria did not answer, but she moved to the couch and sat down, keeping her eyes on Norton. She had met him right after she got off the plane at JFK. They spent some time in New York gathering her belongings and those that belonged to her mother. The apartment was well furnished, so there was a lot to move as well as place in storage. Maria didn’t feel connected to any of the items in the apartment other than the oblong cigar box she kept under her bed and a few clothes and small trinkets. Norton had convinced her to take some of the pictures and furniture in her room so that staying at the apartment would feel a little more comfortable.

Ms. Fletcher, I have found a nice family for you to stay with. Maria cast her eyes downward, but he took his hand and placed it lightly over hers. It’s going to be all right, I promise.

She nodded her affirmation to him. He gave her a smile and said that they would hold on to the big stuff until she had her own apartment. Still not uttering a word, she nodded to him, and then he left.

She closed the door behind the federal agent and locked it. She then peered at the camera pointed right at her on the west side of the apartment. From that camera, one could see the entire room, but there was another camera on the east side that covered what the other one might miss. She understood that the cameras were there to monitor her so that they can report that they took good care of her.

What she didn’t know was that she was officially on suicide watch. She had not uttered more than a few words to anyone, and she cried constantly since her arrival. When she ate, which was rare, she would leave most of the food on her plate when she was done. And her sleeping patterns were, to say the least, erratic.

She was directed to talk to a social worker and then to a psychiatrist. She didn’t speak at all to the social worker, and all she did with the psychiatrist was cry. Both of them suggested that she should be monitored for a good while, but Norton didn’t bother passing that information onto the Bentons.

Part of what was eating her was that she had not been able to see her mother buried. They flew her body back to the United States, and she was interred within a day. But Maria wasn’t absolutely sure if she was buried at all. She couldn’t bring herself to ask, and they wouldn’t volunteer any information, fearing it would upset her more.

She sat down on the couch and placed her hands in her lap. She looked down to the ground, and drops fell in a tiny puddle below her.

*     *     *

Aggie raised her head when she realized that someone was knocking. She got up somewhat slowly from the chair she was sleeping in and went to open the door. The one and only thing she actually liked about living in a military compound was the security. She had spent most of her adult life needing at least three different locks on the door. But here, the lock was purely for modesty reasons, because she was certain that most of the personnel at the compound could get in if they wanted to.

She opened the door and saw a man barely a few years older than her son pushing a rolling food tray with burners on the top and bottom. Since Cal and Aggie were both transported, she started to develop a routine. Mornings were pretty much the same: Usually, the sounds of horns would wake her up, and she would never be able to fall back to sleep. She would putter around the thirty-by-twenty-five-foot cell for a few minutes and then turn on the radio to listen to the news and what some would call music. Breakfast would come around 7:30 a.m., and then she would be allowed outside for half an hour. By 9 a.m., her shower was usually over and she would be planted in front of the TV watching whatever came in over the air.

By 10 a.m. on most days, she would see the military psychiatrist to discuss her anxieties about being locked up in what she frequently called a military prison. She would talk about the lack of respect she has been shown since she arrived and the issues she has been having with her accommodations. She would not talk about Cal or the events in Montreal or the year before. The doctor would smile and listen and write. Then she would leave, telling Aggie the same thing: as long as she kept holding back the real problems she was having, she would not be able to address them.

When 11 a.m. rolled around, she would find herself outside again, trying to address the anger she felt. Since they were closely watching her, she was reasonably sure she could go for a run without being shot for getting too close to the boundaries. Aggie usually spent about ten minutes stretching and then about a half an hour jogging. When she was done, she would head back to her home away from home and take a shower. Minutes later, she would access one of the varied books on the wall and start reading while munching on a celery stick.

At around 2 p.m., on occasion, she would be visited by the military police and would be asked if she wanted to go see her son. When she first arrived at the compound, she spent a good amount of time with the doctors and the team checking on Cal’s injury. After a couple days of this, she felt she was just in their way and decided to stay in her room. She would be escorted to see him, but there was little change to his condition.

Cal was connected to five different monitors. Some of them reported his vital signs, but two of them were specifically monitoring brain activity and the electrical impulses associated with his brain. Originally, Cal was on a ventilator. But they felt confident he would be able to breathe on his own, so they removed the breathing tube. The gunshot wound in his chest courtesy of Patrick’s gun handled by Paige was all but completely healed. The doctors remarked more than once on how quickly he was healing.

Aggie went at first to see him, and sometimes, she would try talking to him. She would tell him things she heard on the radio about the imminent death of the Strategic Defense Initiative program and the postseason Mets game. She realized they were listening to her every word, so she used some of her time with her son as a mini soapbox.

But after seeing him that way for a week, it started to bring back those days when she didn’t know if he would ever wake up. She knew that Cal would be waking up this time, but it didn’t make it any easier to see him bandaged and helpless. She started to decline the offer to see him, and she said she would go when she was ready. So her 2 p.m. time slot was filled with more reading or poor television reception.

It was 7 p.m. now, and that was usually when she would hear the knock on the door, and the young man would bring around a hot cart full of food. She usually was quite hungry by then, so she would make herself a small plate and have a quiet dinner. Sometimes, she pondered what would ultimately happen to her and her son. She found herself wishing more than once that she had stayed in Jamaica.

Around 9 p.m., she would take her final shower for the day. Florida temperatures for September were not dipping below seventy degrees, even at night. The room she was kept in had a decent-sized fan, but it did little to cool the room off during the day. The fan was loud and rustled everything not nailed down in the room, but it circulated the night air somewhat and allowed for a more comfortable sleep.

But sleep didn’t come easy, and the first few nights, it didn’t come at all. She could still see in her mind the moment her son was shot, and she couldn’t remember the