Shad's Awakening

AuthorHouse

Chapter One

Running away from home had been a frequent temptation for him, but he could not abandon his mother and leave her behind to suffer alone. He knew she loved and needed him. Terrified as he was of his stepfather, he accepted the moment had come for him to act no matter what the consequences.

His private hell had boiled over; he could no longer keep a lid on it. He had anticipated the looming, ultimate showdown with his stepfather and was prepared. He did not think of the future; knew he would not have one if he did not take measures into his own hands to put a permanent stop to the abuse to which his mother and he had been subjected for years.

The long kitchen knife he had absconded was hidden within reach in his room, ready to be used if it came to that. His mother, knowing what her son had to endure, continued living in her own world of terror and denial. She had secreted herself in the back of the house, in her room, where she could pretend to be oblivious to his screams. She knew she would be next if she so much as made a sound.

If his stepfather noticed he was not cowering as he had always done, he gave no sign.

"Did I or did I not order you to be home by 11:00 o'clock?" he hissed, his lips stretched into a mean thin line. "Did you think I was kidding? What the hell is wrong with you, you little piece of shit?"

The boy did not answer; refused to take off his shirt and lower his pants when told to do so. Instead, he stared at his stepfather defiantly. It threw the man momentarily off stride.

"I guess I have been too lenient with you, haven't I? Well, that can easily be remedied," he said, raising his arm, ready to strike, his face contorted with whiskey driven rage.

"Don't you dare!" the boy croaked his warning, barely hanging on to his new found determination not to accept what his stepfather was so fond of dishing out. His heart beat wildly; sweat poured down his back. His hands shook. His blond hair was plastered to his scalp. He was deathly afraid; could already feel the lash of the belt and the bite of the buckle and instinctively turned away and raised his arms to protect himself, but there was nothing he could do about his exposed back.

His stepfather's wild roaring shattered the ominous silence as the belt whistled down. The boy couldn't help himself; screamed in pain as the metal buckle struck his elbow, nearly paralyzing his left arm. Blind outrage consumed him. He rushed his stepfather, both of them tumbling to the floor. A leather wrapped fist found his face and stars exploded. He managed to scramble to his feet in the tight quarters, his stepfather, still on the floor, holding on to his ankle, determined to pull him down.

They struggled. Grappled. His stepfather was caught off guard by the stepson's unexpected defiance and show of strength. A knee drove into his groin, the full weight of his stepson behind it, and he curled up, gasping for breath. He wrapped an arm behind the boy's leg, reflexively holding him down while his roundhouse connected with the back of his head. The boy's fist smashed into his nose. Blood spewed and he bellowed with rage and pain. The boy took advantage of the man's momentary incapacitation to drag himself within reach of the hidden knife.

His stepfather, with blood smeared face, stared at the gleaming knife in shocked surprise. "You wouldn't dare use that," he taunted before scrambling up and launching himself at the boy, his arm with the belt ready to slam down once again. But he was too slow. The boy had stepped into the attack and plunged the knife high and deep into his hated stepfather's midsection.

* * *

In the emergency room of the hospital photographs were taken of the boy's latest injuries and his mother's barely healed scars, documenting their persistent abuse and the wounds he had suffered in defending himself. The man had died on the operating table, the surgeon unable to stop the profuse internal bleeding in time.

His mother had been totally supportive, backing up his testimony of years of severe physical mistreatment through her second husband. Before their 911 call they had agreed to tell the police her husband had brought the knife along and the boy had wrestled it away from him in the fight. With the man dead, no one could dispute the chain of events by which the knife had gotten into his room or explain why his stepfather had brought it along.

It was all plausible, given their difference in height and strength. Since the knife had come from the kitchen both his stepfather's and his fingerprints had been identified on the handle, corroborating his version of events. The amply documented, clearly visible scars on his back and buttocks confirmed the abuse story, as did the angry red welts on his mother's body. The severe bruising of his elbow and the lump on his head from his stepfather's fist had been further evidence of his self defense claim.

The printing business the family owned was profitable enough to allow them to hire a good criminal attorney when the grand jury indicted him, and yet he had not been able to prevent the boy being convicted of involuntary manslaughter. He had fought for self defense or justifiable homicide, while the prosecutor had argued for pre-meditated murder, trying to convince the jury that the boy had brought the knife to his room. At the end a plea bargain had been struck which required the boy to serve three years in prison. The first year was to be spent in a juvenile detention center, with subsequent transfer to state prison upon attainment of his eighteenth birthday.

* * *

The juvie center had in some ways been worse than his stepfather's beatings. He didn't believe he would survive his initial incarceration, let alone two more years in state prison. He had little hope he would be paroled much earlier, based on the terms of the plea bargain. He thought constantly about escaping and starting his life over, but how? Lying awake on his bunk, he thought feverishly about how to get out but could not come up with a viable plan.

He had all but given up hope when an escape opportunity came about unexpectedly. During the transfer from juvie detainment to state prison, a short period of confusion suddenly arose. He was among a group of fifteen juvies loaded on a bus with only one guard sitting in the back in addition to the equally armed driver. They were not considered high escape risk prisoners, given their age, short sentences and criminal histories. Halfway to their destination, a brief pee break at a truck stop had become necessary. The toilet facilities were limited. There were too many prisoners to be effectively controlled off the bus by only two guards. Following a short discussion among the guards, they decided one group would stay in the bus with the driver, while the other half went inside, with the second guard patrolling the vestibule and supervising the prisoners' entry and exit to the toilets themselves.

It astounded the boy that the guards were not more vigilant in keeping a tight rein on their charges. They should not have let more than two or three at a time off the bus, to be escorted by one guard while the other one remained in the bus with the balance of the prisoners.

But the guards were old and overweight and less than diligent. No one had ever made an attempt to escape on these routine transfers.

When it became the boy's turn to relieve himself, he found both urinals already being used. He went into the single stall and when he looked up, discovered a small window above the toilet, wide open. It dawned on him a unique opportunity beckoned. Their guard had opted to remain in the hallway, rather than the smelly facility itself. Before he could think the ramifications through or lose his courage, the boy was standing on the toilet seat and shimmying up to the ledge of the window. He could just squeeze through the narrow aperture and let himself drop to the ground. He looked around quickly and noted he could not be seen from the bus out front. He started running and disappeared into the wooded area behind the rest stop.

His absence was only discovered when the bus had been reloaded and the headcount showed one short, but by then he was nearly a mile away, running wildly through the sparse underbrush. By the time an alarm could be raised and search teams mobilized and dispatched to the truck stop he figured he would be miles away.

He had no more than the vaguest idea of where he might be. He was isolated, alone, and both scared of what faced him and elated about his successful escape. He had no money; no food, water or shelter. Nothing beyond the clothes on his back. He didn't know what to do now that he was free but presumably already being hunted. He knew his mother would help him, but how to reach her? Even if he would have known how to get to her house, it would surely be the first place the police would look for him. He hoped it would take them some time to find her new address. He needed to get in touch with her before her phone was tapped or her incoming mail monitored. He needed money and her help to disappear. The only positive factor he had going for him was that he was wearing civilian attire, his juvie uniform having been discarded at the center in anticipation of being issued strident orange state prison overalls following his transfer.

The past year had made him physically stronger and added to his height. He was lean and fit and felt he could walk briskly forever, but he worried about the police tracking him with dogs or conducting a helicopter search. Was he as an escaped juvie prisoner important enough to the authorities to have them mount a full press search? He had turned eighteen days ago and was not sure he was still categorized as a juvie. Perhaps technically, since he had not been checked into the county jail yet. He had been a model prisoner, never complaining, never causing problems, and could not possibly be seen as dangerous, he felt. But escaped he had and they would want to recapture him expeditiously. It would be a matter of principle for them, he assumed.

Miles later, still no pursuers in sight, he came across a narrow paved road cutting through a huge orange grove. Heading south would bring him further away from the juvenile detention center and the truck stop, so this was the direction he chose to follow. He was hungry and thirsty but had no choice except to keep on walking, keeping to the side of the road, checking his surroundings regularly, ready to duck at a moment's notice. He lost track of time, plodding along automatically.

He heard the motor before he saw the vehicle coming up behind him. He crouched low by the side of the road until he could just make out the approaching conveyance. It did not appear to have a light bar on the roof. He was tempted to hide as best he could and let it pass, but he was exhausted and dehydrating rapidly and knew he had to cover more ground quickly, as well as to hide his tracks from the dogs which might have been put on his trail by now. On the spur of the moment he stood up slowly, ready to scramble for cover as the pick-up started bearing down on him. He stuck his thumb out before he could change his mind.

The engine rumbled throatily as the driver took his foot off the gas pedal. The sun reflected off the windshield, making it hard for him to see the driver, but he thought he recognized a woman behind the wheel. She was looking at him uncertainly, studying him with rather apprehensive eyes as she slowly rolled past him, no doubt surprised to come across a hitchhiker on this lonely stretch of road. He smiled at her, trying to look unthreatening, and was relieved when she came to a stop and lowered the passenger side window several inches. He noted the door remained locked.

He saw penetrating eyes mustering him suspiciously. "Where are you heading, young man?" she asked as he rushed over to her.

He hadn't thought of a specific destination. "Pasadena," he said, where he used to live.

"Well, I can't take you all the way there. I am only going as far as Glendale, but I guess you are welcome to hop in if you want to go there."

"Thanks. I really appreciate it. Glendale will be fine. I can call my Mom from there to have her pick me up."

The woman reached over to unlock the passenger door and he climbed in. She drove a few minutes in silence before curiosity got the best of her.

"What brings you out this way?" she asked. "I drive this road every week and hardly ever see another car, let alone a hitchhiker."

He didn't have enough time to invent much of a credible story. "I was out on a hike in the woods with some friends and somehow got separated from them when nature called and they inadvertently left me behind. When I tried to catch up with them, I got lost."

"I guess that can happen. This area can be tricky, no doubt. You are lucky you found this road and I came along. You would have had a long walk ahead of you."

He nodded his agreement. "I suppose I should have just waited where we got separated, so my friends could have retraced their steps and hopefully would have found me."

"Yeah, that would have been the smart thing to have done all right."

"Say, you wouldn't have a bottle of water I could have, would you? I had to abandon my backpack a while ago and I am dying of thirst."

Instead of answering, she reached behind her and came up with the water. He drank greedily while he studied her out of the corner of his eye. She looked to be in her fifties, her face tanned and weather beaten. A farmer, he thought. Her demeanor was open and friendly. She had strong hands, he noticed. A plaid man's shirt was tucked into her jeans, the sleeves buttoned around her wrists.

"I'm Maude," she said. "What should I call you?"

"Roger. Roger Stevens," he said truthfully before he remembered the police was searching for him. By the time his faux pas had dawned on him, it was too late to retract and he felt relieved when she did not react to the name. If an all points bulletin for him had been issued, she had apparently not become aware of it. Her radio was turned on to a country and western station.

She was driving fast; well above the speed limit. It made him nervous. He wanted her to slow down, afraid they might be stopped by a sheriff's cruiser, but when he asked her about this risk, she waved him off.

"Don't you think those folks have something better to do than patrol this lonely neck of the woods for speeders?" she dismissed his concern.

He was tempted to point out to her that there was always a first time, but he did not want to make her suspicious. He focused on listening to her explain her weekly overnight visits to her daughter in Glendale, on her way to sell her produce at the Saturday farmer's market in South Pasadena.

"Do you think I might be able to use your daughter's telephone to call my mother?" he asked.

"Sure. I guess she wouldn't mind."

A few more miles had passed before she interrupted his thoughts. "So tell me about yourself, Roger. What do you do when you don't get lost in the woods?"

"Not much right now. I just turned eighteen and graduated from high school, so I am still on vacation. I am trying to find a job, but I am also thinking of joining the army. I already visited their local recruiting office, and they seem eager to sign up volunteers."

He could not have explained why he came up with this fiction so spontaneously, but it appealed to her, and they discussed what three years in the military might mean for him. Her husband was a retired marine, she told him, and went on to extol the advantages of the marines versus the army. But he demurred; pointing out to her he would then have to sign up for four years instead of three.

As soon as they had arrived at Maude's daughter's house and the introductions had been made she invited him to use the phone.

"Mom?" he said when she answered, "are you alone? Can you pick me up? I am here in Glendale."

"What in the world are you doing there, Roger? And yes, I am alone, but I thought you were in the county jail by now? What's going on?" She sounded worried and confused.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Shad's Awakeningby Helmut W. Horchler Copyright © 2011 by Helmut W. Horchler. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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