The Vigilante

PROLOGUE

Christine Robinson was an African American, twenty years of age, and attractive. She worked at the McDonald’s on McKenzie Street in Lauderhill. Her mode of transportation was the bus, since she was unable to afford a car on her meager salary. If she missed it, she would have to walk home, and that was a good distance away from where she worked.

Tonight her relief was late; it was Carol McCreary. She loathed it when Carol was supposed to relieve her, because she too, had to take the bus, and most times when she arrived, it was on the last bus, and that was the one, which was expected to take Christine home.

Her manager noticed that she was impatient to leave and told her she could go.

Thank you, Mrs. Reeves, she said happily to the African American lady as she hastily grabbed her stuff and headed out.

As she approached the stop, she was just in time to see the last bus moving out. She started to run, but it was useless; the bus was going further and further away from her.

She stopped, she was very tired, but she smiled to herself as she remembered what her mother had always told her: there are two things in life you shouldn’t chase after; the bus, and a man.

God bless your soul, mother, but I wish I had a man right now; at least I’d be sure to get a ride home. Now I’ll have to walk, she said sadly to herself.

It was late; she didn’t exactly know how late it was, but she knew it was. With each step she took, she looked behind her to make sure she wasn’t being followed, but then she never thought to look before her, because that’s how she bumped into Josh Lindfield. He was standing there with his legs apart, one powerful looking man, tall, more than six feet; he was a Caucasian.

She wanted to know where he had appeared from, because just now when she had turned to look behind her, she hadn’t seen him.

She stepped back, appalled at the sight in front of her.

She wanted to run away from this menacing looking man, but it seemed as if she couldn’t move; it was if she were petrified, as if she had frozen.

The man was looking at her as if he were appraising her, evaluating her the way they would do an animal that was about to be slaughtered. He walked up to her; he held her head and turned her face from side to side. She found herself opening her mouth as he looked at her teeth. She found herself turning around slowly as if she were showing off herself, but she knew she wasn’t doing this thing voluntarily, something was causing her to turn.

Finally the man said something, something, which sent shivers up her spine. You will do, you will be the vessel that I will use to plant my seed on this earth; a seed that will bring destruction… destruction like you have never seen before. He threw back his head and laughed maniacally.

CHAPTER 1

SEVENTEEN YEARS LATER, EARLY SPRING

He was seated in the back of the diner; a mere boy. He couldn’t be older than sixteen years of age; he was a mulatto; a very handsome boy. His back was turned to the entrance.

The diner was partially empty.

When they entered, he heard screaming, but he didn’t look; he knew already what was happening; he had seen it in his vision. He knew what would happen if he didn’t intervene.

It was two of them; they had guns and were wearing ski mask. Both were big men. The first one who entered shouted above the noise the people were making. He had a gruff voice, probably one which was muffled by something he had in his mouth.

Everybody shuts up and does what you’re told, and no one will get hurt. He was waving his gun menacingly.

His companion, who was as tall as he was, stood at the door, continuously looking outside.

The boy’s name was Richard Wright; he seemed distant and faraway; it seemed as if he were in a trance. He closed his eyes. He spoke softly, but his voice carried powerfully.

Put the guns on the table in front of you, both of you.

The one who was in the lead and who had spoken asked, What? as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Yes, you heard me the first time; now do as you’re told.

Both men went forward obediently and placed their guns on the table. Both guns were Uzi submachine guns.

Now you only have five minutes in which to leave. If you want to be arrested, you can stay, but if not you can leave now.

Both men started to walk toward the door, but he stopped them in their tracks.

You’ve got to promise me one thing.

They turned as if they were on an axis.

You will never do anything like this again.

We promise, they both chorused robotically.

Now you may leave.

They both turned and walked out.

When the cops showed up five minutes later, he was not there. The people were excited; they couldn’t understand what had happened; one minute there was about to be a robbery, the next both men had laid down their guns to the command of a mere boy and had walked out as if they were Robots being commanded by their master.

Detective Michael Grant wanted to know what happened; they had gotten an alarm they knew was a silent alarm from this diner, but when they came, all they saw were two guns on a table and whoever was about to commit the robbery had obviously had a change of mind and had somehow left their guns in the eyes of the public.

Did anybody see what happened? he asked.

A lady in a corner stood, I did, officer.

Later at the police precinct, detective Grant seated himself in front of the lady; he had a sheet of paper creased on the desk in front of him; they were both in the interrogation room.

The lady’s name was Catherine Rodriquez; she was Hispanic. She appeared excited.

What is your name? Detective Grant began.

Catherine Rodriquez, the woman responded.

Were you there from the beginning?

I was there when they came in. Officer, the little boy is not going to get himself into any trouble, is he?

I don’t think so. I just want to know what happened. The criminals obviously had a change of heart, but to have left their guns in the diner is what’s baffling to me.

It was incredible, officer; the little boy just commanded them to leave their guns on the table, and they did it as if they were obeying commands from someone they were afraid of.

Did you see the little boy’s face?

Yes, he couldn’t be older than about sixteen years of age, he is mixed; I think he is half white, half black.

Do you think he could have been a part of the gang?

I don’t think so, but before they left, he asked them to promise that they’ll never do anything like this again.

Did they promise they wouldn’t?

Yes, they did.

You didn’t see their faces, did you?

No, they were wearing ski masks.

Do you think they knew the little boy?

I don’t think so, officer. There was something about this little boy’s voice, something strange.

What do you mean?

I don’t know, officer; it’s as baffling to me as it is to you. I’m glad he was there, because someone could have been hurt.

And you said the little boy couldn’t be older than about sixteen?

That’s how old he looked to me.

Anything else you would like to add to the statement?

Yeah, officer, she said; she had a thoughtful look on her face when she answered. Before he left, I thought I saw a grimace on his face, and as he was about to leave, he went up to the counter and asked the lady if she had a Tylenol.

A Tylenol?

Yeah.

Why?

I don’t know, officer, all I know was that he had an intense look of pain on his face.

Apparently detective Grant didn‘t think it was necessary to put that in the statement. He stopped writing and leaned back in his chair; he looked at the lady. I’m going to get this typed and ask that you sign it.

Sure.

Detective Michael Grant, African American, was a man in his mid to late thirties, but he looked a bit older. He had been through a lot; this was his first job, and he had seen a few things, but he had never heard or seen anything like this before. He had heard about vigilantes, people who had gone and taken the laws in their hands.

These people hadn’t just told someone who was about to commit a crime to stop it and allowed them to stop it on their own, these people had seen to it that they stopped it, in most cases by doing something terrible to these criminals. But this was something new to him; this person wasn’t hurting anyone; he was convincing someone not to commit a crime, and it seemed like the people he had stopped from committing this crime were hardened criminals. How do you stop hardened criminals from committing a crime without doing something terrible to them?

Detective Grant was finished working; he was having his dinner in a diner, somewhere similar to where the crime that was about to take place was stopped. He wanted to know who this sixteen years old boy was.

The waitress was clearing his table when he was joined by a lady reporter; she was someone he knew, someone he didn’t want to see at this particular moment.

She was Beverly Johnson, a reporter from the local newspaper company. She pulled up a chair and sat in front of him.

I heard about everything that happened today, she said, smiling broadly and triumphantly.

Michael leaned forward and looked straight into her eyes. Good, I haven’t heard everything; I’m looking for something more, and since you have heard everything, maybe you can tell me something.

Are you going to try and find the boy?

He hasn’t done anything wrong.

But maybe he knows them. They didn’t do anything today, because they were stopped, but who knows, there are other crimes they may have committed somewhere else.

The little boy didn’t do anything wrong today; as a matter of fact he did something good.

Why did they listen to him? I think he is someone they know, someone they respect.

How did the boy know it was them? They were masked.

Maybe he knew they were going to be at that diner, that’s why he was there, awaiting them.

Still doesn’t make any sense. If he could have convinced them while they were about to commit the act, not to commit it, then that means he could have stopped them from ever even bringing a gun into the diner, why didn’t he do that?

That’s for you to find out, detective.

I would like to meet him, but not to arrest him, or to harass him; maybe to thank him, because he is doing a damn good job, better than anyone of us has been doing for a while.

CHAPTER 2

He was beginning to feel the pain, an intense pain and one he wished he never had to feel. He clasped his hands over his face, and then the voice came, one from inside of him. You’re a fool, a weakling; you had the opportunity to make yourself a man, and look what you did, you stopped them.

I’m not a fool; I did what had to be done; I saved lives.

Whose Lives?

The lives of humans.

The lives of humans? he asked disdainfully. What have they ever done for you? You have been left alone ever since you could remember, and you have been in a foster home forever. Every time someone comes to look at you, they would pretend that they like you, they always promised to return, but they never did. And you are saving them? His tone was incredulous.

They are good people.

They’re not. Let me go, and I’ll prove to you who they are.

No, I will not.

I will get out, and when I do, you will be sorry.

A knock on the door jolted him back to reality. He got up off the bed and went to open the door.

It was Mrs. Johnson, the owner of the foster home where he was living. She was a nice lady, petite and good looking; she was dressed to go out.

Would you like to come with me to the market? she asked him.

He smiled sheepishly, I’m okay, Mrs. Johnson; I think I’ll stay in.

Are you sure?

Yeah, I’m quite sure.

All you do is go to school, come home and lock yourself in your room; you’ve got to go out and meet some girls you know.

I will when I’m ready.

Okay, can I bring you back something?

You know I’m not fussy.

Yeah, I know you’re not. Anyway, I’ll be back; see to the other kids for me, will you?

Sure.

See you.

Mrs. Johnson started to walk away.

Mrs. Johnson.

She stopped and turned, Yes.

Could you bring me back some Tylenol, please?

You’re having that headache again?

Yeah.

I think you should go to the doctor with it you know.

The Tylenol normally works.

Okay, I’ll bring you back some.

Thanks.

You’re welcome.

Mrs. Johnson left and Richard closed the door.

Detective Grant brought with him a bouquet of flowers. He smiled at the Oriental nurse at the nursing station. The nurse smiled at him and asked, Are those for me?

Oh, hell, he said jokingly. I brought some for you, but I left them downstairs.

The nurse pretended to be hurt, Ah, that wasn’t kind.

Detective Grant smiled, I promise I’ll bring you one the next time I’m coming, he said, as he walked away and entered a room.

An African American nurse was there attending to his daughter. She was in her mid-thirties, attractive. She smiled at him.

How are you, detective?

Fine. And you?

Not bad. I guess I’d better leave you two alone. She started toward the door, taking the blood pressure machine she was using. Call me if you need me.

Sure, he said.

She left them.

He leaned over and kissed his daughter on her cheek. He took a seat at her bedside; he looked lovingly at the frail looking child who was lying on her back. She was hooked up to an IV drip and was connected to a heart monitor.

How are you doing, Sweetheart? he asked.

Fine. How are you?

Trying to cope.

I’m going to be fine, Dad; don’t worry about me. Haven’t you started dating as yet?

Do you think your mom would have wanted me to be dating?

Dad, mom died two years ago; she loved you; I know she would have wanted you to be dating.

His daughter was fourteen years of ago with a heart condition, a disease which had also took the life of his wife; she needed a new heart.

He gave her the flowers.

Thanks, she said. You shouldn’t be giving these to me; you should be giving them to a girl that you like.

Sweetheart, I’m going to get myself a girl, but I want you to be better first.

I will be better, daddy; they think they may have found someone; maybe this time there’ll be a match.

I hope so. He looked sad.

I’m not there to take care of you now, so you need someone to take care of you. Have you had dinner as yet?

Sweetheart, I’m fine. I stopped by a diner and had myself something before I came here.

I don’t like it when you eat at those diners.

Their foods aren’t too bad.

I wish I could be there to take care of you.

Sweetheart, just get better; everything will be fine, I promise.

I wish mom hadn’t died; we would have been so happy together.

Things are going to work out, Sweetheart; you’re going to be better, and we’re going to be a family again.

Are you going to get yourself a nice lady? Because you know mom isn’t coming back?

I’m aware of that, Honey. Sometimes I’m so busy that I hardly have time for myself, much less to have time for a woman.

You’re not a superhero, dad; you only can do so much and that’s it.

I know. Are they feeding you well in here?

Yeah, they’re taking care of me.

Sometimes I’m scared; I lost your mom and I don’t want to lose you too.

You’re not going to lose me; they’re going to find someone who is compatible with me.

I hope they do, and soon.

We all need to pray; I think God has a plan.

Well, I sure hope He puts into action soon; I need my baby back.

Richard was seated on his bed; he was alone, suddenly he started feeling the pain, one he had grown so much accustomed to, and one which he loathed with a passion. The bottle of Tylenol was opened on the bed beside him; he picked it up and threw out a couple; he threw them into his mouth and swallowed them.

Then the anticipated voice came, You’ll never get rid of me like that, Richard; I’m here to stay. All you have to do is what I tell you to do. You can’t deny who you are, Richard; we’re both one and the same; we’re evil.

Through clenched teeth Richard replied, I’m not evil.

The voice laughed; Why won’t you accept who you are? We don’t love; we hate, that’s all we do, we hate, we kill, we destroy. Everything you do is against what we stand for.

Then maybe I’m not one of you. Why don’t you leave me alone?

Can’t do that, Richard; this body is mine.

No! Richard screamed, and threw the container of pills against the wall; the bottle went one way, and the pills scattered all over.

No one can hear you, Richard, no one.

There was silence.

Then the knock on the door came, Richard, are you okay? asked Mrs. Johnson.

He looked at the television, and it came on.

He got up, and went to open the door; he had a smile on his face, It’s the television, Mrs. Johnson.

Well, you’ve got to turn it down; remember you’re not the only one here.

I did, Mrs. Johnson.

Did the Tylenol help you?

Yes, Mrs. Johnson; thanks.

I don’t know why you won’t go to the doctor with the pain you’re having.

Why waste money, Mrs. Johnson, when the Tylenol can help?

They’re getting expensive too.

I promise I’ll pay you back, Mrs. Johnson.

It’s okay, Richard. She looked at him, this look was one of love and empathy, Sometimes I would love it if someone would adopt you, and another time I know I would miss you terribly if you should go.

Well, it looks like I’m going to be here for a while, Mrs. Johnson; every time someone comes who seems to love me, they never return.

I’m sorry, Richard.

I understand, Mrs. Johnson. I feel fine here; you take care of me as if you’re my parent.

You’re such a sweet boy; you need more than what you’re getting here though; you need a real home.

Maybe someone doesn’t want me to leave here.

What do you mean?

He shrugged evasively, Well, they come; they said they would return, but they never did. Don’t you find that strange?

Well, sometimes people change their minds at the last moment.

Mrs. Johnson, kids have come here after me, and they’ve left. But each time I’m to leave something happens to stop me from leaving.

Mrs. Johnson had a sad look on her face when she answered, Oh, Richard, I’m so sorry, she said.

It’s not your fault, Mrs. Johnson, he said, But I think I know whose fault it is.

When Detective Grant walked into his office that morning, it was a normal day; everything was the same way it had always been. His partner Randy Garcia, a tall well built Hispanic greeted him. Buenos dias, Senor Grant, como estas?

Detective Grant looked at him as if he were talking to someone else and not him. He was not enthused or amused. Come on, Garcia; we’re not in Puerto Rica; we’re in America for God’s sake.

So what, we can’t speak our language here in America?

I didn’t say that. Detective Grant takes a seat.

How is your daughter?

She is okay; she still needs a heart transplant; I’m just afraid she might not get it before her time runs out.

Think positive, man; it will happen.

Yeah, just the way it happened before my wife passed away. How was it last night?

Nothing new. But it seems like we have a vigilante out there.

What are you talking about?

Haven’t you heard of this little boy?

What little boy?

The little boy, who seems to be stopping crimes before they are committed.

Did he do something last night?

Yeah, a lady came in this morning and told us about a little boy, who saved her life.

What did she say happened?

Some guy was about to kidnap her when he came and told him to let her go.

And he let her go, just like that?

Yeah.

I wonder if that guy is the guy we’re looking for.

You mean the Oakland rapist?

Yeah.

I don’t think so. The way the lady described the guy, I don’t think he is.

Where is the lady now?

At her home; do you want to talk to her?

Yeah, I think I should. I don’t understand this vigilante; he is behaving contrary to the way an ordinary vigilante would behave.

The lady was Beverly Anderson; she was an African American, early thirties and petite. She gladly invited both detectives into her house when she saw them. She took them and showed them to seats in her cozy living room.

Can I offer you something to drink? she asked them.

No, thanks, detective Grant replied.

I’m fine, detective Garcia said.

She sat opposite them on her small couch.

We heard about what happened to you the other night, but I wanted some details, so I thought I’d come and check you. Can you tell us exactly what happened?

I think I did something bad, officer, and it’s been haunting me since.

What did you do? detective Grant asked.

The little boy asked me for a Tylenol, but instead of giving it to him, I called the cops.

Did he say why he needed the Tylenol?

He didn’t have to say; I could see that he appeared to be in intense pain.

How?

I saw his face, officer.

Could you tell me exactly what happened?

I was walking home, and it was dark; it was a little late.

How late?

Beverly appeared embarrassed when next she answered, It was after twelve, she said, coyly.

You guys have got to help us you know; there is a rapist out there, and you can’t stay out so late in the night.

I know, officer. Anyway, I was approaching my house, and there was no one on the street.

Well, it was kind of late, said detective Garcia.

She looked sheepishly at him before she continued. Anyway, as I approached my house, I felt someone held me from behind, and the person covered my mouth so that I couldn’t scream. And then I heard his voice.

What did he say? asked detective Grant anxiously.

He said, ‘let her go.’

Can you describe the guy who held you from behind?

He was about six, two, powerfully built. There was no way I could have fought off that guy if he hadn’t come along.

Okay, said detective Grant impatiently, so what did the guy say when he saw that he was just a boy?

He asked, and I could hear it in his voice that he was shocked. He asked, ‘what did you say?’

And what did the boy say?

He said, ‘you heard me, let her go.’ And then it was as if someone were pulling him away from me, because he just suddenly let me go and backed up, all the while looking at the boy as if he weren’t just a little boy.

When you said a ‘little boy,’ how old do you think he is?

Couldn’t be more than sixteen years of age, but it was the way he talked, with a lot of authority in his voice.

So I assume the guy left?

Yeah, he turned and walked away. But then the little boy suddenly started holding his head, and then he looked like the saddest person I have ever seen. Then he asked me if I have any Tylenol. I told him I would get it for him, but when I got in, I was too scared to go back out; I called the cops, but I can’t get the look of his face out of my mind; I think I let him down.

Don’t worry; I think he understood why you didn’t come back out, Grant said.

Beverly looked hopeful, You really think so?

Yeah.

Do you know who he is, officer?

No, but we’re trying to find out. We don’t want him to come across the wrong person and to get hurt, detective Grant said.

Detective Grant got to his feet; Garcia followed suit. Thanks for accommodating us at such short notice, madam, detective Grant said.

You’re welcome.

She walked with them to the door and let them out.

CHAPTER 3

There was confusion in the bank; the computers had suddenly stopped working as well as the telephone system; there weren’t a lot of people in the bank at this moment.

The two guys who entered the bank looked like they were just customers; customers who were about to do business like any ordinary customer would do. There was something suspicious about them though; they both had knapsacks on their backs, ones they removed as soon as they were in the bank. What they took from them was something no one, who was in that bank wanted to see; both took two hand guns from each knapsack.

They were youngsters, Caucasians, no older than twenty, tall and strapping. One was taller than the other; he was the spokesman. There were screams and shouts as the customers in the bank became cognizant of what was about to happen.

If you do what I tell you to do, no one will get hurt, he began.

A lady screamed, We can see their faces; they’re gonna kill us. the screams became louder.

The spokesman shouted above the noise, If you do what I tell you to do, no one will get hurt. Now shut up!

The screams died down.

Everyone stay where you are. I want the manager to lock the door. And don‘t try anything; you have no connection to the outside world; we saw to that.

An elderly man got up and went and locked the doors.

Now we have twenty people inside here including the tellers. I’m afraid this is going to be a hostage situation.

He appeared as if from nowhere; one moment he wasn’t there, the next he was there, standing beside the manager who was still at the door. Richard moved forward. There is not going to be any situation here; you’re going to do exactly as I say.

Both men were standing beside each other; they looked incredulously at him; the spokesman asked, Who the hell are you? Their guns were now trained on him.

Surely not your friend; you’re going to put those guns on the desk that you’re standing beside.

Both men stepped forward obediently and placed their guns on the desk.

Now you’re going to take off your shirts and put the bombs you have on the table too.

They took their