Chapter 1 Thursday (#57)Michael Tucker killed at night, in a one-room cabin he owned but did not live in, where the inside walls and window glass had been painted black and the window shutters were closed and locked. Where old congealed blood made the wet air coppery sweet. The cabin contained a sink, a double burner gas stove, a small table with a rotating electric fan, and a rocking chair spiked to the plank floor.
A light dangled above the chair; the bulb enclosed by a green glass hood. A string tied between the fan and the light cord made the light swing back and forth, confusing the alcoholic naked man tied to the chair. His name was Johnny Gomez, and now he was scared sober.
Tucker, wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, stared at a glass pot on the stove, his back to Gomez.
"Boiling water lives, Johnny. That's why I always use clear glass so I can watch the water come to life."
Gomez mumbled through the rag in his mouth. The rocking chair creaked. Tucker turned to examine the prey.
The swaying light created shifting long shadow patterns. Gomez whimpered and strained at the ropes, tilting his head up to focus his good brown eye on the bulb. His bloated bronze face was streaked with purple veins. Slick black hair stuck to his forehead. His left eye was a dark slit, closed from Tucker's punch before he was dumped into the car trunk.
Gomez had a large flat nose from years of boxing. At age 32, after three years in jail, his career had ended. Fat protruded over the ropes circling his stomach. His hands dangled behind the chair, tied to the ropes binding his ankles. He now managed to spit the rag to the floor.
Tucker smiled and turned to check the water. Small bubbles streamed upward. Soon the water would be a weapon, and the soul of scumbag #57 just might stream up toward his god.
"I doubt it," Tucker said. "This soul will go down."
Gomez reacted. "Who the fuck are you? What kind of shit is this?"
Gomez still didn't comprehend the reversed situation. Scumbags seldom did. Their brains blocked the horror until the last moment.
Tucker turned and stripped off his black shirt, exposing pink shrapnel scars on his upper stomach. His aging muscles were hard and stringy, slick with sweat and suntan oil. He imagined his eyes as cold blue flames, casting a wide arc. Rubbing both hands across his chest and stomach, he gathered oil and sweat, smearing his scalp until two thick brown hair clumps stood like short horns above his forehead.
His nostrils flared at a strong ammonia smell. Gomez had wet the chair while failing to cross his legs. Urine pattered the floor.
Tucker growled. He had become the monster.
"Who are you?" Gomez bit his lower lip. "What do you want?"
Tucker inhaled then exhaled a hiss. The light swung back and forth. The fan hummed and the water boiled.
"Why are you doing this to me?"
Tucker glanced back at the stove before he stepped forward to pinch the scumbag's left nipple. Screaming, Gomez tried tipping backwards, but the spikes held the chair legs to the floor.
"Speak some Spanish to me."
"Help. Somebody help me."
"Speak Spanish to me, tough guy."
Gomez stared. "I don't speak Spanish. I never did."
Tucker took two backward steps. "I know that. No one in your family speaks Spanish."
"Help."
"No one can hear you."
"You're crazy, man. You just can't kidnap somebody. Why are you doing this?"
"Have you ever heard of Malacoda, Johnny?"
Gomez strained at the ropes. "Man, I don't know nobody by that name. You got the wrong guy."
Tucker extended his arms toward the ceiling and growled.
"God, somebody help me."
"Malacoda is a demon from hell in a book by Dante called The Inferno. Your convict ass wouldn't know about stuff like that." Tucker lunged and grabbed Gomez by the chin, squeezing until the man's lips puckered and turned purple. "He boils people, like you did to little Charles." He spat on Gomez, then released his chin and stepped back.
Gomez worked his jaw from side to side as drool trickled down his chin.
"Oh, man, it was an accident. I didn't mean to hurt him."
"I saw the story in the newspapers a few years ago. Did it make you feel like a big man to torture an eighteen-month-old baby?"
"Man, who the hell are you?"
Tucker stepped forward again and gripped Gomez by the throat. Gomez tried rising, his face beet purple, eyes bulging.
"Answer my question, asshole. Did it make you feel like a big man?"
Gomez shook his head from side to side and Tucker released him. Gomez gagged once, then stared up at the swinging light.
"Then what did you feel like?"
Gomez swallowed hard. "Please, you don't understand."
"Understand what?
"I was shooting up, man. I couldn't work. All he did was cry and scream. Hell, it wasn't even my kid."
"So you punched the baby until all his ribs were broken." Tucker reached into his jean pocket and removed a pair of thin, white rubber gloves. He put the gloves on, stretching the fingers for a tight fit. "Then when little Charles cried because his bones were broken, you put duct tape across his mouth before you filled the tub with hot water and scalded him to death."
Gomez didn't answer. Probably, the last thing he remembered was stepping outside the bar. Most people did the same things daily. Gomez had been easy to find. The bastard would now plead his case. Scumbags always had excuses for crimes.
Tucker glanced at the stove. Scalding bubbles raged against the glass. Time to begin.
"No one stands up for children. Scum like you torture and kill them, then after a few years in the joint you're back on the street. Life is hard enough without being tortured before you can grow enough to defend yourself. I am the avenger of all those children. To you, I'm Malacoda, and I'm going to boil you alive."
"Man, please, you can't do that...Jesus, what are you talking about?"
"There are fifty-six bodies in the woods behind this cabin. You are number fifty-seven."
Gomez vomited bile down his chest. Tucker walked to the stove and opened the oven door. He removed duct tape, a metal soup ladle, a rubber mallet, pliers, and an eight-inch, stainless steel knife. He placed these items on the floor near Gomez. Then, he taped the scumbag's mouth shut.
Gomez made a mewling noise, and a sudden sulfur, rotten egg stink made Tucker angry. Dropping the duct tape, he slapped Gomez.
"You spineless fuck. How many times did that little boy shit when you tortured him?"
Gomez strained at the ropes. Stomach fat quivered when his hips slid sideways.
A tingle raced up Tucker's stomach to his limbs; his internal monster wanted to shred Gomez. Stepping back, Tucker spread his arms and growled until he imagined the cabin shook. The rage subsided and he regained control.
Gomez had stopped squirming but whimpered. Tucker bent and picked up the metal soup ladle, then walked back to the stove. He dipped it in the pot before turning around. The shadows from the swinging light were like silent souls of maimed children.
"This one is for you, baby Charles," Tucker said. Towering over Gomez, he held the steaming ladle above the man's genitals. "Welcome to hell, Johnny."
Chapter 2 Friday"So Barbara has been demanding more from your relationship," Doctor Stahl said. "How does that make you feel?"
Michael Tucker leaned forward in the chair, glancing out the window. He had just come from the Indiana cabin, without stopping at his Cincinnati apartment.
"I don't know. Angry, I guess."
The session had started late because of a long VA staff meeting. Stahl apologized. It had taken a year of therapy before Tucker trusted Stahl enough to discuss war issues.
"You look exhausted today," Stahl said.
Leaves rustled the black iron fence surrounding the building as rain hammered the street. The air conditioner hummed. A horn blew and brakes squealed. Tucker turned from the window and crushed his cigarette in a coffee cup. Smoking was forbidden in any Veterans Administration hospital, but Doctor Stahl waived the rule.
"I thought you would be ready to give up on me by now. Like all the other doctors."
"I'm not a quitter."
"I need to come and talk. It helps."
Tucker had been in some form of therapy since his 1969 Marine Corps discharge for severe combat fatigue. Rated a psychiatric war casualty, the government paid him 2200 dollars a month. Since 1969, he had held two jobs, both less than a week. He couldn't take orders anymore. Loud noises made him hit the ground. He was a bomb ready to explode. There was no cure.
He had been seeing Martin Stahl for five years, often twice a week. Previous doctors had labeled him incurable. Stahl, an ex-Marine who had served a few years before Vietnam, was a half-Seminole Indian with shoulder length gray hair. He had been the first VA therapist Tucker encountered who seemed concerned about Vietnam veterans. A psychologist, Stahl could not write prescriptions, so Tucker did not take antidepressants to make him a drooling junkie.
Several psychiatrists had ordered medication, but Tucker refused to take the pills, which caused constipation and stomach pain. He couldn't drink alcohol because the monster would rise with a killing urge. Instead, he lived a disciplined life, lifting weights to control internal horrors. Even now, at age 56, he had thick, defined muscles and an athlete's speed.
Stahl claimed Vietnam had implanted reactions into combat veterans that became permanent personality traits. Drugs would suppress the reactions, not create a cure.
"Why do you think Barbara's demands make you angry?"
"Because I can't feel what she feels for me."
"What is that?"
"Love, I guess. I don't know."
"That bothers you, not being able to feel emotional attachment to anyone."
"I don't think about it."
"But do you sometimes?"
"Yes." Tucker lit a cigarette. His skin felt slimy. These sessions brought out things he tried to forget. "I've seen couples of every shape and size walking hand in hand and I could tell they were in love. They looked happy. This makes me think there is someone for everyone, except me. I feel alone in the world."
"Do you think maybe there is someone for you?"
"No. I've accepted it."
"Then what do you feel for Barbara?"
"I don't know. Holding her at night helps me sleep, and as long as I make love to her, everything is fine. I guess we use each other."
"Is that so bad, Michael?"
Tucker crushed his cigarette in the old coffee cup. "I should quit smoking. I take three drags and put them out. I don't know if my relationship with her is bad. You tell me."
"I think that maybe you do love her."
Tucker shrugged, biting his lip. He shifted in the chair and sipped the coffee he balanced between his legs. He did not want to look Stahl directly in the eyes, finding talking easier if he stared at some imaginary point on the wall.
"I don't know what love is. I can't get close to anyone."
"You've never been in love? Even in high school or before the war?"
"I had girlfriends. Maybe it was love back then. When I think about high school, it's like remembering another person's life. I broke up with the girl I was going with the day before I joined the Marine Corps. I guess something inside me knew where I was going."
"What something? Was it a voice or just a premonition?"
Tucker felt his stomach knot and a cold sweat on his forehead. "I don't know. Just something. Anyway, I was lucky. I saw men get Dear John letters and lose it. I didn't have to worry about that. After I was in Nam for a few months, it seemed like I had always been there. Back home was a dream."
"What about your family?"
"My father was an asshole. You know I hated him."
"What about your mother and sister?"
"They didn't exist anymore. I thought I would die in Nam."
Doctor Stahl shifted in his chair. "Michael, how did you react when your mother died? Did you cry?"
Tucker quickly looked at Stahl and back at the wall. "You know I didn't."
"But you did love her."
"I must not have or I would have cried."
"That's not true. Many combat veterans have trouble showing emotion over the death of a close relative. You had to numb yourself during combat to deal with losing friends. You're protecting yourself."
"But she was my mother, and I didn't feel anything. I wanted to cry."
"Then why didn't you?"
"I guess I accept death in a different way than most people. We've gone over this so many times. I just don't know."
"Well, not crying at your mother's funeral doesn't make you a bad person."
Tucker squirmed, thinking about the monster and the cabin. He glanced over his shoulder at the wall clock.
"I know it's time to go," Stahl said. "I just want to ask you one more thing. What do you want out of life?"
Tucker looked past the doctor at the wall. "Peace. I want to be happy and to sleep without a gun or without waking up every two hours." He said it without hope. "I'm tired of fighting myself."
"You want to stop the war inside."
Tucker nodded and finished his cold coffee. Outside, the rain and wind whipped the trees. He stood up. "I would like that."
Stahl walked him to the door. "I'll see you a week from Monday. Call if you need me before then."
"I will."
But he knew he wouldn't.
Chapter 3Tucker hated the city sweltering beneath the constant gray smog mist. By noon, after the Doctor Stahl session, he returned to his Hanfield Street third floor apartment in a red brick row of buildings built flush against the sidewalk. Called Northside, the Cincinnati neighborhood was a maze of alleys, tenements, filth, and garbage, ruled by youth gangs and crime.
The steel doorplate displayed new scratch marks from a failed attempt with a pry bar. He heard a drunken male cursing in the apartment below. Glass broke and a female yelled back. The couple had moved in two weeks ago, after the previous tenant, an old man with lung cancer, had been found dead in the street. The first floor apartment had been vacant for four weeks, after being trashed during a police drug raid.
Tucker placed the morning newspaper under his arm to unlock the door. As the door swung outward, he eased the stainless .357 magnum from his waist and went from room to room checking the perimeter. The fire escape stopped at the second floor, making forced entry up the side of the building almost impossible. Some idiot could gain entry from the roof by climbing down a rope. Tucker considered every possibility. He checked the closets and the tub behind the shower curtain.
In the kitchen, he turned on the window air conditioner after turning off the frozen bedroom window unit that had run all night. This kept the apartment lukewarm during the summer. When one unit froze, he switched to the other.
With the perimeter secure, he put the gun and the paper on the kitchen table and heated coffee water in the microwave. He removed his black shirt before sitting to read the newspaper.
He thought about Gomez. Johnny had lived alone so it would be a few weeks before the landlord missed the rent. Two months ago, he read a newspaper article about scumbag number 56. Marie Robertson smothered her baby, but had gone free on a technicality. The article listed her as a missing person. It also mentioned a possible pattern of missing child abusers dating back to 1993. Someone had become suspicious. It didn't matter; the monster didn't make mistakes.
The killings began in March of 1993, eight months after his mother died, and three months after his drunken father burned to death while smoking in bed. One night, Tucker had cried while watching a news report about a tortured baby. He often felt like a child with an ancient mind. He needed a reason to live. Maybe the tears were a delayed reaction to his mother's death. He didn't know, but suddenly, mangled children represented the innocence he had lost during combat. No one avenged child victims.
Then, the monster inside growled for the first time since Vietnam and began murdering the murderers.
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