Valley of Redemption (Tucker Novels Book 2) Read online

  Valley of Redemption

  By R. O. Barton

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by R. O. Barton

  Cover design by Emmett Barton

  For my daughters,

  Shannon and Mary

  “The secret of health for both mind and body is not to mourn for the past, worry about the future, or anticipate troubles, but to live in the present moment wisely and earnestly.” — Buddha

  “Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” — Jesus

  Prologue

  Sheer exhaustion had long ago erased any memory around the series of events that caused me to be on the face of this cliff. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was surviving. It wasn’t looking down that I feared, but it was the thought of looking up to see how far I had yet to go that was so paralyzingly crushing. There was blood on the rock in front of my eyes—and a large piece of fingernail. I knew they were mine because I couldn’t feel my hands. How was I going to climb higher without my hands?

  I looked down to see a thick floor of soft cottony clouds billowing about 30 feet below. I didn’t know how high up I was, but without a doubt, to fall through the inviting clouds would mean certain death. Then I heard him say, “I’m gonna let go.”

  My shame almost wiped away my fear. I had forgotten that I wasn’t alone. Someone I knew was on this cliff with me. His name was cloaked by the fear and fatigue, but I knew we were close and I cared for him like a brother. His voice came from my right so that’s where I looked. He was hanging 10 feet away and a foot or so higher than me. The rock face he was clinging to appeared to be bleeding. It was from his mangled hands. I knew mine were in similar if not worse shape. His head was turned away. I couldn’t see his face. A range of rugged, snow-capped rocky peaks painted on the bluest and clearest of skies backdropped him. Just another indication of our predicament — the thin air that wouldn’t surrender a breath was another. I felt faint, almost sleepy. Through a blanket of weakness that was trying to cover me, I saw that he was only five feet from the top. A wonderfully inviting flat ledge with nothing but sky above it was within his reach, and I knew within mine. It felt safer to look up. When I did, I saw the top and my hands. That’s when I knew I wasn’t going to make it. They didn’t much resemble hands, more like two giant spiders that had been run over by an 18 wheeler. How could I possibly use them? I hated spiders. Why would I think of that? Why couldn’t I remember the pain that I had gone through that created these bloody arachnids?

  I looked over at my climbing partner and said, “Look at me. Look at me!”

  He didn’t move. The whipping wind that held no oxygen was trying its best to steal his words away before I heard them.

  He said, “I can’t. I’m gonna let go.”

  “No!” I yelled. “Don’t let go! You can do this! We can do this! You’ve got to get to the top!”

  “I can’t!” he yelled.

  Then, so calmly and resolutely that I barely heard him, he said, “I’m gonna let go.”

  His identity was still a question, but I knew if I could see his face I would remember. I knew if I could just say his name, I could get his attention enough to turn his head toward me and talk him up the rock.

  “Look at me!” I yelled. “We can do this! You can do this!”

  He didn’t move.

  I tried again, “We’ve come too far! We’ve worked too hard to give up now! We have to get to the top! Look at me!”

  “I’m going to let go,” he said again. It was almost a whisper, and I wondered at my ability to hear him through the howling wind that was plucking at me like a talon stretched condor at my back.

  I wouldn’t have believed I could be any more afraid, but his words kindled my fear into a entirely new realm of sweltering terror.

  “Don’t! Please don’t!” I pleaded, but even as I said the words, every fiber of my being wanted to let go, to just quietly float down through that soft cloud and end all the pain and suffering. But if I did, I knew that the powers that be wouldn’t allow me to see her.

  I looked back at him and, in doing so, realized that I couldn’t see any of the cliff face on the other side of him. He apparently was on some sort of turn on the rock face just to his right.

  I yelled, “What’s to your right? Look over there! Can you get around? What’s there?”

  Hope was faintly surfacing, giving me a small measure of strength.

  He said, “Nothing. I’m going to let go.”

  I was really getting sick and tired of him saying that. Every time he said it my hands would involuntarily start to relax, and my feet that were on the smallest of holds begged to slide off. Part of me was really pissed and wanted to scream at him to go ahead, but through the midst and the mist of it all, I was racking my brain trying to remember what had brought us to this cursed rock. I couldn’t bring it up, but I knew the journey was long and painful and I’d be damned if I was going to let go of the rock now. I thought about praying but before I could start, the word EIDO shot into my head. I remembered that it was how I lived my life, that Everything’s In Divine Order. But I had to try to climb to the top to the best of my ability. If I fell and died trying, then EIDO, and I would be allowed to see her. If I made it to the top, well, that might suck, but EIDO. I wondered if that thought counted as a prayer. Probably not — it seemed inadequate if not inappropriate for the occasion.

  Before I could summon the words for a proper prayer, he said it again, “I’m gonna let go.”

  With my eyes boring into the back of his head, I yelled, “Listen! You can maaaa…..”

  He let go before I could finish. He didn’t yell on the way down like you see in the movies. With just the smallest of a pushing gesture to clear the rock, he fell, turning to the right to face the cloud below with his arms outstretched, holding a giant bloody spider in each hand.

  I watched in horror as he fell. I never saw his face and still couldn’t, just the back of his head and his strong broad back with those bloody hands slowly coming forward like a diver preparing to hit the pool.

  I was alone. I had felt this alone only once before. I didn’t want to think about that. If I did, I would probably just let go then I’d be in that Catch-22 I thought about earlier. I’d make it to the top of this fucking rock even if it killed me. That made me laugh. I must have laughed my way all the way to the top, because that’s where I found myself without remembering the climb.

  I was lying on my stomach with my head resting on my crossed arms. My hands were starting to throb. They didn’t hurt yet, not like I knew they were going to. I was just beginning to feel my heart throbbing in them. I must have passed out for a while because my heart rate had slowed and my hands were asleep. Thank God. The edge of the cliff was only a few feet in front of me. I crawled to the ledge and looked over. I could see the clouds below. They stretched as far as I could see. All around me were the spectacular mountain peaks of rock and snow and the cloudless blue sky. I was suddenly cold and thirsty and I had to urinate, but thought I should wait.

  I stood and turned my back on what I had just been through. I saw a path to my left. It clearly led down the mountain. It was no more than an animal trail, probably for a mountain goat. Almost as if I had walked it before, I knew it would lead me to the body of my friend. I wasn’t sure if I had the strength to do it, but like with the cliff, I knew I had to try.

  I was without water and supplies. I still couldn’
t remember why we had started this journey nor what had transpired to deplete all the resources we may have started with.

  So once again, I struggled. This time walking down a well-beaten path. Not only was I fighting with my lack of energy, but with the thought of what I might find at the bottom. Wherever that may be. Now I feared the journey down might turn into the nightmare the climb had been.

  My hands were beginning to hurt more and more, and I was having a difficult time walking. I felt like a drunk walking through knee-deep sludge. Like putting one foot in front of the other was a major accomplishment. I was surprised at how fast I came to the cloud bank.

  As I walked through the cloud, it clung to my skin like a cold sweat fighting a fever. I could barely see my feet on the path. I looked for the tracks of wild animals but found none. The trail was surprisingly barren, smooth and free of rocks. That was a good thing. I probably would have tripped over a pebble and busted my head open to let loose what few brains I had left. I was chilled to the bone. The kind of cold you don’t get rid of without warm water.

  I could tell the clouds were thinning, as there was a light below me getting brighter with each step. I didn’t know how long I had been walking. Fatigue does that. When I could see landscape through the clouds below, I stopped. I really didn’t want to see his body. I knew without a doubt that it would be bad and that I’d seen enough of kind of thing — I just couldn’t quite place where and when.

  I gathered my resolve and pushed through the last of the cloud. The air was immediately warmer and the sunlight had somehow miraculously penetrated the cloudy mist and illuminated all before me. Ahead of me was an astonishing clear blue lake with small plumes of steam drifting across its surface. My hands were beginning to pulsate to the extent that I feared putting them in the lake’s warm water. Dreading the pain, I walked into the lake. The water, which was almost hot-tub temperature, soothed my feet, then my knees and as it rose above my waist, I felt my bladder begin to let go after hours of bloat. Just as I was going to let it go, I saw him.

  He was about 30 feet away floating serenely on the surface. He wasn’t face down, but appeared to be suspended as if on a swimming pool float, the kind that has armrests. In his left hand was a tropical drink glass with a little umbrella. His hand was in perfect condition. No blood at all. His head was still turned away. He was looking away, down the lake and was extremely relaxed, exuding health and vitality.

  “Hey!” I yelled. “What the fuck!”

  He turned his head eerily toward me.

  As he faced me, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. My head dizzied with a disorienting pressure. I knew this couldn’t be right. But before I could ask the question that was trying to synapse from my brain to my mouth, he suddenly was within inches of my face. His eyes only inches from my eyes. The eyes were full of all-knowing compassion and understanding. They were my eyes. It was my face I was looking into, but the mask of grief and pain caused by the years of loss and misery was gone.

  “You should have let go,” he said, smiling and deepening the already profound crescent scar on his…my…our, left cheek.

  When my eyes snapped open, I was looking at the ceiling fan hanging in my bedroom.

  I lay in my bed thinking it was too late.

  I got up, and walked into the bathroom knowing I wouldn’t be looking into the mirror anytime soon.

  Chapter 1

  Each soul has a white side and a dark side. Most are born presenting their white side. Life, with its many twists and turns, rights and wrongs … shapes our souls. As life forms our souls, with any luck, the rights outweigh the wrongs and our soul is twisted in the right direction, with the white side dominant, leaving only a small fraction of the dark side showing. Small enough that we can hold it back. But, when life’s wrongs are too great, and our souls are twisted too tight in the wrong direction, the white side is almost imperceptible. And the dark prevails.

  Rape didn’t run rampant in Reclusorio Norte, Mexico City's Northern Penitentiary, situated in the far north of Mexico City, a very long trip for most residents. The inmates and most anyone affiliated with it, just referred to it as Reno. You were definitely better off if you didn’t know it as Reno. Reno wasn’t run by the wardens or the Policia but by the prisoners themselves. El Padrino (the Godfather) was at the top and under him were the cabos de la fajina’s (chiefs or cabos) who collected from the pagaderos (Those who pay the prison warden to avoid doing forced labor i.e., most of the prisoners); those that could pay so as not to become fajineros; the forced laborers that existed under the cruelest and harshest of conditions. The food supply and quality was in direct proportion to the hierarchy. The monies collected would then go to the wardens. And so Reno goes.

  No, rape wasn’t the norm by any means, but like with just about everything, there is the exception. And the gigante Canadian was undeniably an exception. His injuries were starting to heal and he had to be dealt with. One of the cabos de la fajina’s was half Yaqui brujo (witch) and had managed to insert some of his superstitious beliefs into prison society. One such belief was considered a certainty, and that was that it was bad luck to kill someone possessing el ojo malo (the evil eye).

  The fact that El Gigante had obtained his ojo malo (evil eye) from the bullet that had danced across his nose then onto his brow before exiting was not known nor important. What was important was El Gigante could not be allowed to regain his strength. That would be disastrous. He would literally tower above the prison population. The beatings with the manquerazos (sand filled hose pipes) wouldn’t be enough. A psychological tool must be implemented. As distasteful as it was, through a cabos de la fajina, El Padrino arranged for the first rape to take place.

  El Gigante was lying on the dismal floor of his apando (punishment cell), he didn’t know how long he had been there, or that it was an apando. There was no window, therefore no sunlight, no way of telling night from day. He didn’t know where the ambient light originated. He figured his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness just enough to make out his surroundings. He was having trouble with his vision anyway. He seemed to have a broader peripheral vision on his right side than before, and it often gave him headaches. He could feel the scars around his brow and nose. He had not seen a mirror since before his capture, but could tell by the length of his hair and beard that he had been incarcerated for at least a month, if not longer. He remembered being in some sort of infirmary; it could hardly be called a hospital, before he was thrown into his present surroundings. He assumed all the inmates in the prison were in a similar place. There was no way for him to know there was a structured society that was allowed to roam free under the sun inside the confines of the great walled prison, and that some inmates were even allowed to have their families live with them, depending on their monetary status. He remembered being told by a nurse, who spoke a little English, that he had been shot in the head — twice.

  El Gigante’s name was Charles. Charles was having a difficult time wrapping his mind around the events that had landed him in this living hell, with only a bucket for his bodily waste. It reeked and wasn’t emptied regularly. He didn’t know what was worse, the almost overflowing bucket or the beatings he received every time it was emptied. He couldn’t understand why they would beat him for doing his business everyday. What was he supposed to do with it? He found himself not wanting to eat what little food they gave him in the way of a few tortillas and frijoles, because he knew it caused him to fill the bucket faster, which meant a beating. They would come in, five to six men strong, and pound him with heavy rubber hoses. They concentrated more on his legs than his torso or head, making it almost impossible to walk or to even stand for days, just about the time for the bucket to be emptied again.

  Charles prayed everyday. He prayed for the freedom he knew would come. He prayed for the freedom to come fast, before they killed him. He would lay in the filthy foul dimness and pray to God for his freedom to be bought swiftly. He knew they were working on freeing him. H
e knew of one person that wouldn’t rest until he was free. This person wouldn’t sleep until Charles was free. Free!

  Charles’ cramped cell wasn’t one with bars so he could see out. The walls and floor were damp moldy stone with a wooden door of Medieval design and proportions that added to his dismal, almost surreal predicament. The cell’s dimensions were so small that if the door fell inward, there would be no escape from being crushed. The door was so thick that the only warning Charles had before the tortuous visits, was the rattling of the key as it was inserted into the lock, that smelled of the oil that was used to keep it from rusting in the dank dungeonous atmosphere. He would sometimes put his nose to the old lock to block out the stench and close his eyes to remember better times, like when they would work on their cars.

  Charles was doing just that when he not only heard but also felt the vibration of the key. His eyes grew wide with terror and shot over to the bucket. It wasn’t time for it to be emptied. It was too soon. He scurried backwards on his butt to a back corner of the cell. He had learned that if he could position himself in a corner, the beatings wouldn’t be as bad. It made it harder for them to get leverage on their swings with the hoses. Sometimes the hoses would hit the wall before landing on him, thus exhausting the beaters more rapidly while doing less damage to him, or so he hoped.