Bigfoot A Right to Life (Unabridged Edition)

Bigfoot

A Right To Life

By

David L Forand

Unabridged Edition

This book dedicated to Terry Elizabeth Homan-Adams

Bigfoot

A Right to Life

 COPYRIGHT 2013 DAVID L FORAND

Smashword’s Edition

This publication is protected under the US Copyright Act and all other applicable international, federal, state, and local laws, and all rights are reserved.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes



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Check out Boogiemen of Susick -- if you are into paranormal/horror.

David McKinnly is drawn into a twisted and bizarre world through his Uncle Jacob’s diaries. Mysterious beings leave behind unique messages, using the body parts of their victims. Follow David as he treks along a malignant path filled with betrayal and the curse of a vile past. For your enjoyment: At the end of this story is the prologue and first chapter of the Boogiemen of Susick. Thank you!

PROLOGUE

It’s nearing nine pm when the Wardens direct their attention to Thomas Harold Carver, the poacher who likes to shoot animals out of season, the illegal hunter--too good to obtain an out of state hunting license, the holier-than-thou outsider. Two Wardens approach and stand next to their prisoner. When Captain John comes over, his two aides reach down, each grab an arm, and yank Tom off the floor. Still, no one speaks to Tom, not a word after three and a half hours of sitting idly by while his future crumbles before his eyes.

Put him in the back of my SUV. One man stays with him at all times.

I’ll stay with him, John.

Ok, Charlie!

No one cares about the pain Tom endures, cramped legs need time to stretch, head aching with a knot the size of a baby’s fist protruding on the left side of his forehead, from when he careened against the wall. Nor, does anyone offer him a mere sip of water to quell his burning throat; nor does anyone allow him to relieve himself. Tom tries to walk, but his legs refuse to move, so he allows the men to drag him to the SUV. At least the Sob’s are nice enough not to ram the door into his body. Hell one Warden protects Tom’s head while shoving him into the backseat. Charlie glares at the prisoner, before grabbing a hold of Tom so he can apply the seatbelt in proper fashion.

Captain John arrives at the vehicle after bellowing out further instructions. He glances at Tom and then opens the driver’s door. Captain John places one foot inside, but hesitates about entering the vehicle. There’s something on his mind but is unable to recall any details. He looks back and barks out four orders in rapid succession, Larry and Tim, stay here until the State Police arrive, I’ll notify them as soon as I hit the Interstate. His statement causes two of the Wardens to wave their arms in acknowledgement. Charlie, hop in the back with what’s his name. Charlie obeys without question and without making a sarcastic remark, quite unusual for him considering it’s the first time in twelve years of service. Frank, you lead, run silent! I’ll take second position. Frank quietly enters the vehicle and begins to take up his prospective position. Don you follow me . . . let’s go!

Tom implants one major memory, as the caravan heads down the driveway. So far, not one Warden has mentioned what they intend to charge me with, what is my crime. But, the best is: not one soul told me I have the right to remain silent. The fools, they just made his case for me: illegal detention--in fact they violated my civil rights.

When the first vehicle enters the highway, the Warden turns on his swirling, red lights. This causes a chain reaction, as each vehicle turns on their obtrusive lights at exactly the same point. Tom thinks: How comical are these fools. Shit, they act like they’re on a secret mission the way they’re going about this. So far, this isn’t worth writing about. Hell, I’ll have to make this part much more convincing in my novel. The stupid asses, if I led this pact, I would . . .

Captain John interrupts Tom’s thought when he radios the State Police of his needs. The caravan stays fifteen miles under the speed limit, which upsets Tom, he wants this crap done and over with. Even when they hit Interstate Five, they remain under the speed limit, which plants another seed. Tom realizes what he can expect when his novel becomes the number one best seller. Everywhere he goes, the police shall see to his every need, and this one fact sounds cool.

The caravan soon reaches Redding, CA and travels through the center of town. Tom spots several landmarks; one of them is the airport. He wonders if his bitch of an ex-girlfriend feels any remorse for her actions as he watches an airplane lift off the runway and ascend into the moonless night. They pass the movie theater and the shopping mall--Brenda’s home away from home. This thought causes a quizzical smirk to erupt. As the convoy takes a sharp right, they turn off their obnoxious, swirling lights and come to a complete stop.

Tom looks to his right and sees twenty people standing in front of the Police Station. When Charlie exits the vehicle, he barks out an order, Everyone get back! Yet, all stand their ground, as if the command falls upon deaf ears. Captain John exits and opens Tom’s door. Even though he never speaks, Tom knows he must leave the safety of the SUV and face the real world. Just as his feet touch the pavement, several onlookers make a mad dash, each trying to have their voice heard over the others.

One lady yells, You piece of shit. How could you? Still others demand to know, How did it feel? Did you plan on selling it on e-bay? Flashes from cameras fill the night, so Tom looks to the pavement in a vain attempt to get rid of the bright spots. Only by Captain John’s intervention, of pulling Tom through the crowd, does he escape the madness. The other Wardens clear a path, but it feels more like a gauntlet, as fist and outreached hands try to punish the poacher. Tom remains mute, fearing he might accelerate the mob’s furry, should he try to defend himself. Shortly before they reach the entrance, several police officers exit the building and begin manhandling those insurgents incapable of following orders.

Inside, ten pair of eyes follow Tom’s every move. All motion ceases, all sounds ebb to silence, save the footsteps of Tom and Captain John. Officers leave their sheltered caves simply to gaze upon the cold-blooded being. One soul shakes his head in disgust as he closes the door. Tom begins to wonder what all the hoopla is about. Surely, this hillbilly town has had its fair share of degenerates. Tom controls his emotions, even though he wants to raise Holy Hell.

Captain John stops and knocks on the door before entering Interrogation Room One. It’s the typical quaint room one expects to see in a small city. The room is complete with a hard metal chair bolted to the floor for the accused, a leather cushioned seat with cushioned back for the accuser, a three foot wide by six foot long steel table separates the combatants, a large silvered mirror for one-way viewing, and a solitary overhead light to give the room the correct amount of ambience. Tom knows what they expect, after all, he did write a similar scene in his first novel.

Captain John nudges Tom’s shoulder and his body’s instinct is to follow suit. Tom plops onto the steel chair and waits for his captor to unlock the handcuffs, which have bound his hands for several hours. Captain John secures one end of the handcuffs to Tom’s right wrist before attaching the other end to the arm of the chair. The stone-faced Captain turns and leaves the room without saying a word. Tom has a disturbing thought: The sob could have said he’d be back in a few minutes, Goodbye at the very least. Now comes the waiting game, a vain attempt to break the will of the accused, soften him up, let his mind run wild with silly notions of making a deal. Fuck them, I’ve done nothing wrong. So, let the waiting game begin.

Two hours linger before a stern looking, Detective, age fifty-five, peppered hair, unkempt mustache, bulb of a nose, square shouldered, pot bellied from alcohol, all on a five-foot eight-inch frame, enters the room. He holds a single piece of paper in his right hand. This fact gladdens Tom, as it means simple charges and nothing more.

Unlike the other men, Becker politely introduces himself as he sits. Hello, Mr. Thomas Harold Carver, I’m Detective Lawrence Becker.

Mr. Carver believes it best not to antagonize. Tom appears more interested in getting a good night’s sleep rather than exchange pleasantries with the good cop until the arrival of the bad cop.

Hello, meekly spills from his mouth. Tom adjusts his position and prepares to deal with an unlikely friend.

Tom, it appears you’ve gotten yourself in a peck of trouble. Tom studies Becker’s face as Becker studies the facial features of the accused. Tom watches as the cop searches for the smallest clue to help govern the next round of questions. However, stone-faced Tom tries to portray innocence, but Becker is too experienced for this foolish act. A twinkle in Becker’s right eye signals he’s found something. I have no deal to offer, nor do I intend to be your friend. I must advise you of your rights before allowing you to make your one phone call. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be . . .

I know my rights, Sir! Becker hears nothing of Tom’s statement and continues with the reading of his constitutional rights. When finished, Becker takes Tom off guard by stating the obvious, You can use my cell phone to call your lawyer. I’ll give you five minutes. Do you want a smoke or a coffee? No! Good! Becker reaches into his jacket pocket and then slides the cell phone to Tom. I’ll be back in a few. When I come back, I’m taking you to processing.

Tom can’t believe his ears. He grabs the cell phone and dials his lawyer’s number while turning to Detective Becker, How much is the bail? Fully expecting to be hit with a fifty thousand dollar cash bond, Tom chokes when Becker answers. There is no bail on these charges!

Becker glares at Tom, This is only the opening salvo. The grand jury convenes tomorrow. I’m sure they’ll find additional charges from the looks of this preliminary reports. With enough information spilled forth, Becker leaves the room. Tom isn’t sure if the cop tried to fill him full of shit to throw him off track, or if this BS was real. Either way, Tom leaves a long-winded message telling Robert Allen Stallsworth to get his ass to Redding, CA on the red-eye. Tom’s last words, Screw the cost, I’m not worried about payment to the one man who can clear up this little fiasco.

Tom calls Brenda, but either she refuses to answer or she’s unable to reply. Maybe, the cops arrested her as an accessory. Hell, she might be in Interrogation Room Two, sobbing, spilling her guts, co-operating with the DA to keep her own ass out of jail. Tom does his best to talk himself into believing Brenda still cares about him and hopefully will remain silent. Fat chance of that happening!

Detective Becker re-enters the room with two police officers. Looks like the FBI wants to talk to you as well. Listen, do you wish to co-operate? No! Good . . . take him away boys. Becker never gives Tom a chance to answer, never gives Tom a chance for redemption. I’ll have my phone back now, if you don’t mind. Becker rips the cell phone out of Tom’s hand and bids him ado.

Everything turns into a nightmare. Suddenly, Tom remembers a passage in his novel and throws out a smirk. It’s as if Detective Becker somehow got a hold of Tom’s novel and read it, because this exact scene went down in Chapter Eleven. Oh, you’re good all right, just the bad kind of good. Yes, it’s true; I let you trick me. However, it’s the last time you’ll get one over on me. From here on it’s my game.

His panic, now under control, brings Tom back to his reality. He knows the Detective lied. Hell, under the current law, in all fifty states, a law enforcement agent has the right to lie in order to get to the truth. This doesn’t make it right, although this method remains quite effective. It’s solved many cases that might have remained unsolved. However, this is not the case with Tom.

The officers remove the handcuffs and lead Tom to a large room filled with many empty chairs. A few drunks, a couple of prostitutes, and a few rough and tough characters make up the unique menagerie. Tom appears to be the odd man out, the person that doesn’t seem to belong. However, such is life--he is here now, amid fellow lawbreakers.

His first stop is at a window where the Sergeant tells him, Take everything out of your pockets and empty them into this basket. Also, take off your watch, ring, and any other personal items you’re wearing and place them inside as well! Tom stands in silence while the man writes everything down before placing each item in a large manila envelope. Next, the Sergeant hands the form to Tom for his review. Sign here and here and then initial this third spot.

Stop number two is the fingerprint station. Tom thinks it’s neat how they pressed each finger and thumb on a screen, instead of using the ink and pad method. He watches as the lady sends his fingerprints out to a national database. He knows they’re looking for outstanding warrants and past arrests, and if so, what was the crime or crimes.

When the response is negative, the officers lead him to the next phase--picture taking. Tom holds a small panel, containing a series of numbers, in front of him. First they have him look directly into the camera, front view. Face left. Tom obeys and turns his body to the left, making sure the panel takes center stage. Face right. Thomas repeats the same procedure and then returns to his escorts.

From there, they travel down a corridor and turn right into a large bathroom. The room contains many lockers, several changing stalls, and a large open shower. A man tells Tom to disrobe and stand still. One officer writes a description of his clothes while the other puts on rubber gloves and grabs a small flashlight. He inspects Tom’s ears, looks up his nose, while ordering Tom to open wide. The man removes a tongue depressor and searches under Tom’s tongue, before searching each side of his mouth. The officer demands Tom reach for his toes, so he can search where no man has gone before.

Alright, time to shower, make sure you use the blue bottle. Before you ask . . . it kills head lice. You have three minutes. When Tom completes the task, an officer hands him a bright orange outfit and a pair of flip-flops. Once dressed, the officers lead Tom to a holding cell. Here, he will wait until called before the Judge, his attorney, or for an interview with other law enforcement officers.

Seven men are in the cell waiting to face the Judge. Each of them has a burning desire to vacate this dismal place and get back to their normal existence. Tonight, only First Circuit Judge, John Francis Marlow, may declare these low-life’s viable citizens, worthy of a second chance, even though they are only charged and not convicted of a crime.

The two drunks have little knowledge of where they are, one man chants as he rocks back and forth meditating, two other men appear to have lost their manhood, most likely from a bar brawl, another man paces back and forth muttering about the coming of the Anti-Christ, and the last man, equal in size and shape of Tom, is mad as Hell as he glares at the remaining five roommates. Make that six; he spots Tom making his way to a neutral corner.

Each man takes a darting glance at Tom; each tries to figure out what sort of crime this upscale society guy had the balls to pull off. Feeling uneasy, Tom backs himself into the corner and slowly slides down until obtaining a sitting position. All he can think of is: when will this ordeal end. Long gone is the caviler attitude which once separated him from the common man. He wonders how long it will take Stallsworth to get his ass out of here. Tom wants his miserable life back; he wants it just the way it was before all this bullshit happened.

You . . . you’re the one . . . right? Tom doesn’t move. He refuses to look in the direction of the voice. Tom doesn’t want to hear the bullshit. Tom shakes his head no, but it’s too late as the man is already on his feet and fast approaching. What gives you the right, you stupid son of a bitch? Hope you thought it was worth it. I hope you know you’re going to get the shit kicked out of you. This is our town, asshole. You have no rights here.

By the time Tom looks at the man and checks on the rest of the inmates, he knows it won’t be a pleasant experience. The two brawlers have already risen, the chanting man ceases his incantations, and the two drunks try to stand erect but are not having any luck. Tom tries to see if any of the officers bother to take notice of the commotion and if they will react in time to prevent harm coming to anyone. What a foolish thought for a man with an above average intelligence.

The inevitable happens and Tom does his best to rise to the occasion. While trying to stand, his assailant grabs him by his uniform and throws him across the room. Tom feels the boots strike his body and pain emanating along his belly before making its way up to his ribs. The second bastard kicks him in the back, while Tom throws his arms around his head hoping to protect the most critical area. Tom hears someone shouting orders, Leave him be . . . get off him! Believing the police have come to the rescue, Tom allows his hands to drop away from his face. Tom looks up long enough to see two officers standing at the gate smiling and making snide remarks about his situation.

He’s all mine! Tom feels the man’s true power when the culprit rolls Tom onto his back and plops onto his chest. A flurry of bare knuckles find their marks as they pummel relentlessly about, striking the jaw, ears, nose, and forehead. The punching bag tries to yell out, but to no avail, there is too little air in his lungs to accomplish this feat. Before the next minute passes, Tom sees darkness encompass his vision--light quickly yielding to its nemesis. All thought evaporates as his subconscious takes control of his vitals.

Two days pass, before Tom’s eyes take in the real world. By his bed sits the distinguished Robert Allen Stallsworth rifling through stacks of papers, presumably relating to his case. Ah, I see the dead has finally arisen. How are you feeling today, Tom.

Ok, Bob. What’s all the noise about?

Protestors outside the hospital!

Protestors?

Yes, Tom. I hate to tell you, but you’re an international sensation. It’s been like this since I arrived.

What are you talking about, Bob?

Here let me turn on the TV. It’s better to show you. Prepare yourself, it isn’t pretty. Robert grabs the remote and turns to channel three. As the aged TV warms up, Robert turns to Tom and tells him, Don’t be alarmed at what you see. We have a good shot at having this case thrown out. If this doesn’t happen, I believe we can win hands down.

Tom shakes his head in response to Robert’s words. However, his whole body shakes in recognition to the events unfolding before his eyes. The screen comes alive and Tom can’t believe the images. Twenty or so camera crews have set up shop in the hospital’s parking lot, with more pulling in with each passing minute. Some are local, but a majority are national broadcasting companies, others bear unknown words and Tom assumes they are international broadcasters.

This is not just a local media sensation, Tom. Nor is it a national event, Hell, this thing has gone viral and the entire civilized world waits in anticipation. Everyone wants to know every detail, every scrap of evidence. They want to see every photo you took. They want your journals.

Tom tries to analyze Robert’s last meaning. He doesn’t want to, but he must know the answer to one question. Robert . . . I’m not sure I can afford your services. I never expected this to go to this level. I only have Five Hundred Thousand to put toward my case. Do you suppose . . .

Without allowing Tom to finish, Robert raises his hand and explains the facts to his client, You have no money in the bank, Tom. The government seized all of your assets this morning. Right now you don’t have a cent to your name.

Does this mean you’re not going to take my case? Tom cannot look his lawyer in the face and turns away hoping to find solace in one of the floor tiles."

Not to worry, Tom. I must leave now, Doctor’s orders. I’ll see you soon.

The next two weeks of rotting away, in jail, takes a heavy toll on Thomas Harold Carver as he sits idle, day after day, except for the daily visit of his attorney, Robert Stallsworth, or Derek, one of Robert’s aides. His Jailer’s allow visitation privileges for no longer than two hours a sitting, once a day. Even Tom’s legal team must undergo a thorough search before they can enter the jail.

Tom has no one to converse with, nor given any books to read, or television to help pass the time, or music to soothe his tormented soul. Of the eight cells in the building, only one houses any type of lawbreaker. The authorities plan to keep Tom alive, at any cost. They do not need another black eye placed upon their dignity, since the world watches their every move with microscopic proportion. As well they should, after the little fiasco that allowed a gang of thugs to savagely beat a presumed innocent person while under the watchful eye of two police officers. This disparaging act brought about an immediate lawsuit by Tom’s attorney. The lawsuit also caused an uproar in the community. Not one person thought the suit should be allowed to go forward. Not one soul said, If it happened to me, I’d sue the Hell out of them, too! What a poor cause for people to believe in, so much for logic and reason, in a land where fairytales out rules justice.

The second event, proves man’s inhumanity toward fellow man, happens when the police transport Tom to his initial pleading of innocence. Because the courthouse sits directly across the street, a mere fifty feet from doorway to doorway, the police plan to walk Tom to his hearing. The chief figures it will be quicker and easier than loading Tom into the back of a police car, drive the width of a four-lane highway, unload him on the sidewalk, and walk the prisoner into the courthouse.

So at ten o’clock in the morning, they suit up Tom. He shall wear a helmet belonging to one of the off duty Swat officers. Officer Livingston enters the room holding the helmet and asks if Tom will autograph it, Would you make it out to Barry Livingston? Tom feels on top of the world, after all, he believes he will sign many a signature in his illustrious future. Sure thing, Barry. Tom writes: To my friend, Barry Livingston before signing his full name below. The officer chuckles and gives Tom his thanks. The man turns to another officer and speaks under his breath, This helmet will be worth a fortune. Especially if someone bags this prick!

Another officer, Donald, asks Tom to sign a bulletproof vest, shortly before putting it on Tom. The man pulls on the straps to adjust the vest. He gives Tom a meaningful thank you and tells him, Not everyone feels the way he does. Good luck!

Officer Donald radios they are ready to move Tom to the courthouse. Three other officers arrive to begin the precession. Two walk ahead of Tom and two others follow close behind. The parade pauses at the door as the lead officer, Donald, exits the building to survey the situation. Officers span the entire corridor from one doorway to the next. An inch separates the next man; no way will anyone break through this solid barrier. Each officer yields a shotgun, and each stands ready to use the weapon, should the need arise. Officer Donald re-enters the building and announces the area remains clear. Donald grabs his two-way radio and transmits the get ready for action message to the Swat units positioned on the top of several buildings. All units report confidence high and stand ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

There is a great uproar when the procession exits the building. Crowds fifty deep, on both sides, push against the wall of blue, each wanting to touch, harm, or rejoice with Tom. Somehow the police repel the surge and begin pushing them back. Words fly everywhere, fights break out as opposing forces clash. Yet, none of the officers advance to stop the fighting. Instead, undercover policemen engage the groups.

By the time Tom reaches midway of his long journey, he sees the police line weaken on the right side. Twenty more policemen exit the station to shore up the defenses. Tom hears a couple of loud bangs and watches clouds of smoke choke many of the protesters. The four officers escorting Tom try to rush him along. However, the shackles sharply restrict movement. Tom manages to move each foot ahead of the other, gaining a mere distance of twelve inches each time.

Their use of smoke canisters serves two purposes. Sure, it drives the protesters back, rendering them useless as they gasp for breath. However, it also serves as a blinder for the men in blue. Smoke now obscures their vision as well, not a thick cloud, but rather a heavy mist. As the mayhem builds, a few people break through the line. However, the extra manpower quickly subdues these violators.

Tom gets two-thirds of the way to the courthouse door when a policeman exits the building and makes a mad dash toward him. The man runs unopposed fifteen feet before anyone notices. When someone does, it’s too late. The policeman neither looks right or left, he remains locked on target, and his target is Tom. The man unveils a three fifty-seven revolver and plants two slugs into Tom’s chest.

CHAPTER ONE

Three months before the shooting . . .

Mark called three times today. You need to finalize the arrangement.

I’ll call him when I’m damn good and ready.

You must call him today, Tom. Today!

Don’t push me, Brenda!

Mark said he’ll give you a three-month extension on the deadline.

I’ll call him in a while.

What’s wrong, Tom? Isn’t this what you wanted?

Tom pauses and takes a deep breath before answering his fiancé. Brenda, I can’t do it. I haven’t started the rewrite. There’s no way to make the changes Mark wants without wrecking the book. He wants the impossible. Jesus, he expects me to change the main character and adjust the ending. Then he wants to tone down the murder scene! I can’t and won’t make the changes! Screw it!

What! For the love of God! Last week you said the final draft was three pages away from completion. Now you’re telling me you haven’t even started the rewrite! What the Hell is the matter with you?

I can’t write. It’s that simple. I have writer’s block. I’ve had it for six months.

You need to get your thumb out of your ass and start writing.

But, Brenda.

No buts. I’m not going to let you ruin your chance to achieve immortality. You’ll stand beside Charles Dickens, James Joyce, and all the other great writers. Your book will become a new-aged classic.

Yeah, right.

For the love of God, what’s the matter, Tom? Don’t you believe in yourself anymore? What happened to the person I once knew?

I can’t do it, Brenda. So back off!

No! I won’t, Tom, I can’t. I still believe in you.

I’m finished, Brenda. I’m not the man you knew a year ago.

No shit. You’re better.

How’s that?

Well, look how many people believe in your abilities. There’s your agent, your editor, and the people who want to turn your novel into a movie.

Big deal.

Asshole! Why do you think these people paid you so much money? These people believe in you. They believe in Thomas Harold Carver. As do I!

I can’t do it. I wish we never took the book or movie advance. How much money is left anyway? Maybe I can give it back?

We’re down to thirty thousand dollars.

"Just fucking great! Thirty thousand dollars left out