The Light at the End of the Tunnel (8 page)

Sadie was first to leave the captain’s table.
“Goodnight, everybody,” she said, “See you later, Nicole.”

Riley had finished eating earlier but then
returned to the table with a cup of coffee. He then sipped his
coffee and waited quietly as the Chaplain and Nicole finished
eating. When they finished they both took their plates and utensils
to the counter, then returned to the table.

“So, what do you folks think so far?” Riley
asked.

“That mess-cook kind of scares me,” Nicole
said quietly, then glanced toward the kitchen area.

“Sheldon? Oh, he’s harmless,” Riley said, “He
just doesn’t smile much. In fact, Nicole, he will be your main
trainer tomorrow and for the rest of the week…will you be okay with
that?”

Nicole’s mouth kind of fell open as she
released a breath, then glanced at the chaplain before answering,
“Yes, of course.”

“I hope so, because Sheldon is our best in
the martial arts, so there will be some physical contact.” Riley
turned his attention to the chaplain, “How about you, Radford? Will
you be okay with Nicole working with Sheldon?”

The chaplain first glanced at Nicole, now
sober. She tightened her lips and nodded positively. “Yes,” he
said, “Nicole handles herself fine.” He returned attention to
Riley.

“You maybe have wondered about my wife. She
doesn’t always eat with us, and right now she’s visiting our son
down in Yuma. Our daughter is back east at Harvard. Eventually
we’ll have our own attorney right here at the ranch.”

The chaplain was glad to hear about the other
family members, and finally asked, “What will I be doing
tomorrow?”

“You’ll work with Tucker, the older guy first
in line tonight. We’ll start you out with the .45 caliber
semiautomatic pistol. Have you worked with guns at all?”

“Not much, sir.”

“Well, when you two leave here you will both
be experts.”

“How long…will we be here?” the chaplain
asked.

“That’s up to you, Radford. I recommend six
to ten months at least, with vacations of course.”

“Rad,” Nicole exclaimed, “Can we afford that
much?”

“Not to worry,” Riley said, “You can work for
your stay.”

“’
Work?’
”

“Yes. We—all of us—do certain jobs for the
government, for rich people, even for poor people—and for free—at
times, and that’s all I will tell you right now. I said six to ten
months, but a year is better, two years better still. You’re both
young people. Two years is nothing, and when you leave here I will
guarantee you’ll have no trouble obtaining a private detective’s
license.”

So Riley, Tucker and Sheldon would be their
trainers the next day. What of the other two men? The chaplain
wondered but didn’t ask.

So ended their first indoctrination into the
art of survival.

Chapter 14
Murder

Several months passed. On October 18, Les
Paul reached his second birthday.

For a late season vacation his foster family
drove from their home in Nebraska to the Grand Canyon National
Park. As they walked along a narrow path with a full view of the
nearby colossal gorge, Les Paul couldn’t get enough of looking out
and seeing the vast distance, especially the vast distance down,
which he couldn’t really see at all, and he kept pulling at his
foster mother’s hand, trying to see down.

In his growing little mind he kept wanting to
see something fall. But his foster mother of three months kept his
left hand clutched tightly in hers. But he wanted to see something
fall
! He stopped and reached for a rock that would fit his
hand.

“Come on, son—“ his new foster mother had
followed the unofficial tradition of
not
naming him, but
refused to call him Baby Boy-Doe9, so simply called him
‘son,’
“—Don’t be dallying.” She pulled him back upright,
then looked down and smiled, “We’ll get to the lookout spot
soon.”

This family had, of course, parents, a boy
nine and a girl seven. As usual, the boy of the family was the
member Les Paul allowed to see his other side, but he never did
anything really bad enough for his new foster brother to report
him. And he certainly didn’t know what the word
‘dally’
meant, so he kept pulling back on his foster mother’s hand and
reaching for a rock when he saw one the right size.

“Son, now I mean it!” His foster mother
sounded a bit mad at him. When she pulled him up she kind of
jerked, which didn’t make her any positive points with her new
foster son, as when he got straight again he let fly with a kick to
her shin. Les Paul was growing fast, and weighed more and stood
taller than an average two-year-old, so the kick hurt. She stopped
and knelt down, “Son, now that hurt me.” She grasped both his upper
arms. He figured she would hug him. She didn’t. Instead she
tightened her grip on his arms and very lightly shook him, “Now I
want you to follow along like a good boy.” She gave him that light
shake a second time, “Okay, son?”

“Okay.” Les Paul wasn’t using many words yet,
but he was learning quite a few. He knew what
‘okay’
meant,
and he spoke the word to give him time. Yes, he would now follow
along and not try to pick up any more rocks, but his little mind
kept seeing something falling, and he wanted to see something
really fall...and he
did
begin seeing something falling, and
that something began to look a lot like his foster mother.

But, since he knew what
‘okay’
meant,
like a good little boy, he began to follow along, and his foster
mother’s grip on his hand began to loosen. Up ahead—he had no idea
how far—but he saw a fence of some sort, and a few other people
standing, looking, pointing.

His little mind kept seeing that
something—
his foster mother
—falling, and his free right hand
began moving on its own, opening and closing. Just as his hands had
carried out the murder of his twin brother while still in the womb,
his hands now began to ready themselves for another murder. That
voice that sometimes entered his head said,
She should have let
you throw at least one rock. She brought this on herself.

The family reached the lookout point and
somehow the mother and Les Paul got separated from the others. The
fence was not high. His foster mother released his hand, and
stepped close to the fence. The fronts of her knees nearly touched
it. The huge gap of open air beyond the fence, and the short
distance to the drop-off, brought an involuntary inhale from Les
Paul. Once more he saw that something falling. He didn’t know why
he would glance at the other people, but he did. Nobody was looking
his way. He stepped to behind his foster mother, placed his little
hands behind her knees, pushed, then quickly brought his hands to
just below her buttocks and pushed again, violently.

She screamed and went over the fence. Les
Paul exalted in what he had done. His face grinned ferociously, but
he stayed quiet as he listened to his foster mother continue
screaming and watched as she rolled and fell and grasped at the
earth but kept falling, over and over and over…till the
drop-off.

Her screaming continued…for two or three more
seconds then he heard no more.

“Baby Boy!” His foster father reached him and
pulled him into his arms and hugged him closely, “Son! Are you all
right? What happened?”

“Okay! I okay.”

His foster father stood but held onto Les
Paul, “Tyler! Chloe! Come here!

The brother and sister hurried over. The
father didn’t see the look on Tyler’s face. Les Paul did. Chloe
just rushed to her little foster brother, picked him up and hugged
him close.

“Did either of you see what happened?”

“No, daddy!” Chloe said, beginning to cry,
“Where’s mom?”

“No,” Tyler said, but he continued looking at
his foster brother.

Les Paul looked right back, but made sure
that neither the father nor the daughter saw the look he was
sending to his foster brother. The voice came to him again,
You
can’t trust that boy, you might have to dispatch him too.

Les Paul, of course, did not know the meaning
of
‘dispatch’
but his conspiring little hands understood
perfectly. In the meantime he enjoyed the warm arms of Chloe.

Chapter 15
Training

During their training sessions the chaplain
and Nicole often watched each other. Today it was Nicole’s
turn.

“Loosen up your knees, Radford” Tucker said,
“You went to army basic, right? Didn’t they tell you not to lock
your knees? That you could pass out if you did?”

The chaplain shook his head, “Yes, they did,”
and glanced toward Tucker, “I fired a pistol like this just one
time. Chaplains didn’t get a lot of training…least
I
didn’t.”

“Well, you won’t pass out here,” Tucker said,
“But firing a big gun like that with your knees locked, could knock
you over. I let you shoot as you wanted that first day so long ago,
and you did fine with the rifles, the shotguns, even the M16, but
now we’re back to the pistol, the Colt .45 semi-auto, so just bend
your knees slightly and put your whole magazine into that
target.”

The chaplain bent his knees and held the gun
out straight and stiff.

“Too much on the knees and loosen your arms,
just a bit.”

Nearby, Nicole was watching the chaplain
closely. She felt somewhat amazed that a man his age—well, she
didn’t
know
his age but he had white hair, didn’t he? But
his face didn’t look old, and his skin was fine. Several times she
had caught herself wanting to touch him, feelings that she always
dismissed as soon as she realized what she was thinking, and more
so
feeling
. She
did
allow herself to continue
admiring him, though, like how he was holding that .45 caliber
pistol.

He shot once, then started squeezing the
trigger every couple seconds. The empties flew out the side and
very quickly the slide opened and stayed open, she knew meaning the
last bullet had been fired. The chaplain bent his elbows and raised
the gun to the sky, then waited.

Tucker quickly walked to the target, a fairly
small circle, at only sixty feet, yes, but, still, it was a pistol.
“Good job, Radford!” Tucker called back, “Three bulls-eyes and the
rest at least in the target.”

The chaplain glanced at Nicole and grinned.
She smiled back. Her own training was coming along fine, too, and
often—well, she never actually
caught
him watching her—and
admiring—but she could
feel
it, and she didn’t mind.

****

The chaplain also watched closely his
partner’s growing abilities, especially the martial arts. She
worked daily with Sheldon, who at first she had not liked. But his
attitude and abilities—and the fact he never hit on her—soon
impressed her, and also impressed the chaplain. Even though neither
he nor Nicole had claimed the other to anyone, the men at the
training facility stayed away from Nicole except for the
training.

Nicole, after just a month of training, was
getting so good at Taekwondo—her yells and screams, and kicks and
punches—that there likely wouldn’t ever be any more threats by
three young men while they were eating, or even four. Five maybe
would be pushing it. Luckily, the chaplain was pretty sure she
would never use her new-found skills on him.

As for taking on three or four men, surprise,
of course, would be part of it. They wouldn’t be expecting a babe
like Nicole to know anything about self-defense. Most guys
appreciated how the chicks on television and the movies could kick
their way through a half dozen bad guys, but, hey, that was the
movies. Chicks and babes weren’t so tough in real life. But with
Nicole, likely all three of those guys bugging her that night at
the restaurant would have been on the floor looking up before they
even realized what had happened. Then things maybe would have
changed a bit, but still, she would have hurt at least two of them
before—through sheer numbers and male strength—they hurt her.

He often caught himself using the word
‘babe’
when he watched her, or thought of her, and he
wondered what she would think if she knew. But hell, she
was
a babe. So he admired her. Big deal.

He wondered about Les Paul too. The child
would be over two years old now. Certainly a two-year-old wouldn’t
be able to cause much harm anywhere, would he?

Chapter 16
Still Alone

On October 18, Cassandra also became two
years old, but her foster family was not experiencing the so-called
‘terrible twos,’
as at least one member of Les Paul’s family
was. She yet had not said a word, and crying simply never happened.
She was just a good and quiet little girl who gave nobody
problems…she…
existed
. But nobody came to hold her, to quiet
her nonexistent cries and fears, or talk to her, or give her love,
so, Cassandra also did not give love.

Her foster mother stood over her crib one
day, just looking at the child lying there, wondering…
she sees
but does she hear? Is she deaf? Is that why she doesn’t ever speak,
doesn’t ever make even a sound?

Deaf and dumb? The thought horrified the
woman. She wanted a bright child, one she could speak to, and dress
cutely, and take places. She wanted a child she could be proud of.
She had thought taking on a young foster child would be the easy
route to adoption.

How wrong she was. “Cassandra, can you hear
me?”

Yes, Cassandra heard her, but did not move
her eyes to look at this woman, this woman looking down on her. She
didn’t
like
this woman; she didn’t know what like
meant
, of course, but her brain knew, and knew this woman
should never be encouraged. This woman would never give her true
love. No warmth existed in her voice and none in her arms the rare
times she was held or carried, and when this woman fed her, it was
just the spoon to the food to her mouth. No
ooohhhs
and
ahhhs
, not ever, no comforting words or sounds.