Baby Jonathan (The J·O·H·N Series Book 1) Read online

  Baby Jonathan

  a novel

  Eddie Vander

  Copyright © 2000, 2014 by Eddie Vander

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design by P. S. Fitz

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  (Warning: This novel is not suitable for anyone under 18 years of age due to explicit language, strong violence and sexual content.)

  Other J·O·H·N series books by Eddie Vander:

  Beware Johnette

  Epicenter Johnny

  for Mom, my greatest hero

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue - Death Wish

  Part One - Baby Steps

  Mother's Milk

  Street Wise

  Time Out

  Godfather

  Visiting Hours

  The Adoption Game

  Home Life

  First Steps

  Curb Appeal

  Part Two - Growing Pains

  Newborn

  Crib Death

  Hand Me Downs

  Boneyard Duties

  Cutthroat

  Brilliant Skull

  The Basement

  Mack Attack

  New Thoughts

  Hunger Pains (Snowbound)

  Part Three - Family Reunion

  Hide & Seek

  Work Horse

  Sacrificial Lamb

  Bread Crumbs

  Girls Grow On Trees

  Mammary Lane

  Monster Logic

  Target Practice

  Tick Tock

  Detective Blues

  Body Language

  Power Nap

  Welcoming Committee

  Part Four - Final Tally

  Exodus

  Born Again

  Epilogue - Daddy's Eyes

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Death Wish

  They sit him down, strap him in, and read God's will.

  The man is young, handsome and plain, soft eyes, a woman's lips. He awaits his moment of truth with a fearless demeanor, like that of a suicidal before the trigger-pull. All around him last minute activity; the warden, fat and jolly, nobody's Santa Claus, stands beside his inmate, emotionless (he's been here before), the Pastor, kind and professional, staring down at the sinner, tightly gripping his Bible, and the guards, dutifully scurrying about like roaches, but with a show of disciplined knowledge. This crew is no stranger to death, weekend executioners for the sake of public demand.

  The sinner waits. He smiles, staring directly at the glass, the immediate family members beyond.

  In the mix of twelve viewers, grieving parents and lost spouses, a single man watches. Tearless, the detective stares at his catch, joy and satisfaction behind his eyes. A smile surfaces, quickly hidden from those around him. Like that of an eager child in a candy store, the heavy-set, older public servant awaits his private moment of retribution, along with the other eleven members in the viewing chamber. The confined man beyond the glass might as well be the Devil himself, for those watchful of his execution find no pity, no remorse, only good old fashioned hatred, and a long-awaited urgency to close the book on this final chapter, forever extinguishing him from the earth, to never kill again.

  The warden readies himself behind the sinner, pulling the black hood over his head.

  The murderer smiles a final time, proud and strong, fearless of his destiny. He winks to those in the chamber. Then his eyes disappear behind the hood, the warden securing it below his chin.

  The Pastor comes on and whispers to the man, short and sweet, crossing him before retreating to a near corner.

  On the arm rests of the electric chair, the killer drums his fingers playfully, seemingly oblivious to the inevitable fire that will soon consume his soul.

  The switch man awaits the command.

  The warden eyes the hands of the clock. Tick-tock.

  The Pastor nods his blessing, Bible against his chest.

  In the chamber, the victim's parents squeeze hands, eager to finish this. The detective smiles behind a clenched fist, willing the executioner on.

  The stage set, the players in position, the audience spellbound, the sacrificial lamb prepared, the Executioner's Hall goes pin-drop silent.

  The killer's fingers stop drumming. In quick fashion, his right hand spins upward, digits poised, his middle finger rudely pointing down the viewing chamber.

  Signal given, the switch is thrown.

  Heat on an unimaginable scale runs through him, seeking out nerves and muscle. His body tenses, his blood begins to boil. His body vibrates, his rude finger gesture lost in a fit of hand spasms, the electric fire eager to exploit every vulnerable exit.

  Under the hood, fluids and spit run from his mouth, his eyes bulging from burning sockets. His heart prepares to explode.

  The warden raises his hand, halting the switch man.

  Electric off, the body slumps, wasted. Reflexes play from covered head to toe.

  Waved on, the physician checks the man. Weak pulse, he nods to the warden and steps back, arms crossed.

  From the gallery: “Hit him again,” the detective whispers under his breath, satisfied. “Make him pay...”

  Signal repeated, the execution continues.

  Internally afire, the killer's body tenses up, every limb shaking madly, chest bulged forward. Smoke begins to rise from beneath his attire, skin melting. At last, all organs burst and the heart and brain center cease function. The prisoner dead, the execution is halted.

  Under the black hood, the killer's terrible eyes sink in and turn to jelly, charred gums forfeit his teeth, his tongue splits in two, and his hair catches fire.

  ***

  Outside the prison, the horde of sign-waving supporters cheer as the killer's body emerges from a side exit. Body-bagged, the deceased is transferred to an awaiting funeral van, swallowed up behind the double doors.

  Within the crowd, Detective James Walter Mackey watches as the driver starts the van past them, some pounding the vehicle, some spitting. Mackey simply smiles and waves, as if fare-welling a relative, until the van is gone. Its running lights disappear into the black of night and the crowd begins to disperse.

  Good riddance, Mackey thinks as he approaches his own car, retirement never felt so good.

  Part One: Baby Steps

  Chapter 1

  Mother's Milk

  I float inside my mother's womb, warm, secure, oblivious to the outside world.

  Pain, at this fragile stage, is a mystery. Alone, cuddled in a ball, my umbilical cord leashing me to safety. I am alive, unborn, but alive. A tiny heart taps within me. I have feelings. And disturbingly enough, I have...memories?

  (Red nipples...)

  I fight the urge to scream, vocals useless at this point, an infantile mouth without voice. Still, I would like to scream.

  Then I am rocked in my pool, something hard burying itself in the flesh around me. I am jerked, rude, I cannot hang on. I kick out, tiny legs without full strength.

  Another vicious blow. Close. My water shakes me.

  I hear - believe I hear - voices, screams. Loud. Full of hate. Outside my private place. Outside in the world waiting to welcome me.

  “Stop! Don't kill my baby! He'
s done nothing to you!”

  “He! Come here, bitch!”

  Vicious movement. Struggling.

  “So it's a BOY!”

  Screams. I slouch inside my mother, helpless to defend her. Violent shakes and thrashing about. I tumble.

  “ - my baby!”

  “You don't want this baby! He'll cost us everything! He'll be a back-talkin', drug-smacking punk 'fore he's ten! I'm doin' us a favor!”

  “No!” Mother screams. “Casey, please! He's your son!”

  Another hard punch to her abdomen, his knuckles brushing me.

  Mother!

  (Red nipples - )

  “I'll kill you, bitch! Let me at him!”

  My thoughts crowd me -

  Why do I have thoughts?

  - as I hang on for dear life.

  Another vicious punch to hurt me. The knuckles are fat.

  Why Daddy? Why hurt me?

  What's a Daddy?

  What's pain?

  What is thought?

  How -?

  Another punch, this one solid inside the sack. I see stars.

  Who am I? What's my name?

  I'm shaken as I tumble upside down, pressed against the sack wall. My tether wraps around me, trying to tighten, to choke. I push it away.

  What's a sack wall?

  Who am I -?

  Mom's movement has weakened and I feel the sensation of being lifted. She's picking herself up again, facing down the man of the house.

  Stop hurting her! Stop it stop it stop it!

  “GET OUT THEN, YOU WHORE!! YOU AND YOUR RUNT!!”

  No more punches as I float, wheeling. Trying to straighten myself. I feel sick.

  (sick?)

  Mother has trouble moving, that I can feel. She drags herself along, desperate to take us away.

  (BAD FATHER BAAAAD FAAATHEEEER)

  The contractions begin for her. I know because I want out.

  I float, wanting to understand. Wanting to know

  (why?)

  Mother nearly falls, her legs weak. But she doesn't, she stays up for both of us.

  I reach out to her, touching the sack wall, feeling the liquid of my pool. I see nothing, my new eyes glued shut. Mother, get us away from him! Hurry! Please! You can do it!

  “GET OUT NOW, BITCH!! YOU BELONG ON THE STREET!!”

  (bad daddy bad daddy bad)

  (“Casey,” Mommy said)

  What's a MOMMY??

  Again, she tries to fall, but regains her balance. Suddenly, an abrupt shift as she falls against a wall or door jam. I tumble, pressed up against the womb.

  Go, Mother! Get us out! Get us away from him!

  I feel her flex, straining to open the door.

  (she's hurt bad, little buckaroo, someone says, get gone, split, run, hurry)

  OPEN IT, MOMMY, HURRY

  But she stops a moment, her abdomen twisting, spiraling me.

  OPEN THE DOOR, PLEASE MOTHER HUUUUURRRRIIIIEEE -

  “G-God ... help ... y-y-ou, C-Ca-se-sseee...” she tries to finish and cannot. She starts to cough, rough convulsions, jerking me around. She may be coughing blood by now, Daddy hurting her so bad.

  No more from him, wherever he is.

  (GET OUT OF HERE, the voice commands again - who's voice?)

  She gets control of her cough, ready to resume her departure.

  I get soooo angry that I kick out with all my might, connecting with the sack wall, and I know Mommy feels it because she stops again, and I feel her hand touch her belly and press. Fast like, I reach for her hand, my fingers brushing the thick skin of her stomach, and I feel, or think I feel, the outline of her touch.

  Mother!

  Then we're out the door, I know because I hear it slam.

  And I feel Momma react to the cold, her body tensing, her arms cradling her belly. Protecting me.

  At last, I feel her move, and I believe, even within her, that I can hear her crying.

  Chapter 2

  Street Wise

  I feel cold, bitter ice cold on my skin. Skin soaked with blood.

  First, the water breaks, pinning me awkwardly within her tight stomach. I feel at first as if I can't breathe, then Mother tenses up her inner muscles, squeezing and squeezing, giving up her last bit of strength, trying desperately to push me out.

  I remember her screams, and her convulsions. And I remember the umbilical cord

  (umbilical cord?)

  tightening around my throat.

  Get me outta here! I want out!

  I was helpless. The more she tried to push, the more I gagged. I was being forced outward, the umbilical cutting off my air supply.

  Streetlight! Sweet beautiful STREETLIGHT! through my closed eyelids.

  (light?)

  Oxygen-starved, I started to slip through the vaginal opening, feeling the bitter cold for the first time. I started losing consciousness as I slid past her inner thighs, out into the tortuous world of weather, noises, and pain. Blood clogged my throat, pasted my eyes shut. Nostrils flared for air.

  Then I feel hands grasp me, and a sharp, painful tug at my belly. Suddenly the cord around my neck loosens, opening my airway. And before I know it I let out a cry, more of a scream, to the alleyway of the city.

  I knew Mother would die without medical attention. She would bleed to death in the bitter cold in the vacant alley before anyone, even a random street whore, would find her.

  I was free of the umbilical. Somehow she had severed it

  (broken bottle tainted needle her teeth?)

  and I was a free man, ready to freeze to death with her beside that stinking dumpster, naked and wet with her blood, nestled close to her breasts, crying as I sought out her nipple.

  (RED NIPPLES)

  (in the snapper out the crapper)

  Like a beacon, all points awake, I come alive with memory.

  (abuser father sonofabitch)

  (“Come here, bitch,”Daddy screamed outside the sack.)

  Mom struggling, taking punches to her stomach -

  (DADDY HURTING ME WANTING TO ABORT ME WANTING TO KILL ME!)

  I crave her nipple, not wanting to remember, but remembering just the same.

  The sensation of being lifted, the feeling of struggle, the cold draft finding my wet, vulnerable skin.

  Mother is moving me. This powerless, dying woman trying to save her child, not knowing how, knowing only that she must try.

  A screeching. Loud, like chalkboard nails.

  An opening. A door?

  She's putting you in the dumpster, jack.

  (in the snapper out the crapper)

  No! Mother, please!

  (Don't you put me in there you bitch)

  “I...love...you,” I hear Mother say. “Forgive me...G -God.”

  She lowers me down. My feet sink into garbage

  (what is that? you bitch don't leave me here that smell urine food clam sauce puke Mother don't leave me here)

  and my little knees buckle, unable to hold up my weight.

  Don't leave me here! Please stay with me!

  She sits me on my bottom, and pushes me back. She arranges me atop the stinky wetness like a doll between two pillows, pulling other garbage over me, padding it around me

  (trying to warm you no no she's HIDING YOU HIDING YOU UNTIL THE TRUCK COMES AND DUMPS YOU INTO THE COMPACTER)

  You bitch! Get me outta here!

  I cry out, I know I'm making a sound because then I'm thrust deeper, further down into the muck, slimy with food and God knows what and all because Mother's scared and dying

  (you'll never make it out of this alley alive YOU'RE BLEEDING TO DEATH YOU BITCH)

  and still she covers me in newspaper and soiled linen and cardboard and I try to scream and she pushes me deeper where there is no light and I can't feel her hands anymore and the only thing I breathe is garlic and wood and tomato paste and baby shit

  (?my own?)

  and deep down all I want is my Mother but other thoughts start to attack me br />
  (RED NIPPLES )

  (in the snapper out the crapper)

  (“What have you done to that good woman!?” someone yells, male and husky. “Before I run you through tell me WHERE IS SHE?!”)

  (HOT UNBEARABLE FIRE BURNING UP - )

  Then the screeching noise, high above me. Muffled, but I hear it.

  The door! The dumpster door! She's closing you in!

  I kick out, squirming to fight, but it is no use. I try to open my eyes, but the blood's too thick and sticky. My arms spring around, a frantic mind of their own, enabling my tiny hands to reach my face.

  Mother!!

  BANG!! The door slams shut, rattling the large metal box.

  Mother, please!!

  But she is gone, and I am left with a filthy darkness full of smells and ugly sensations. Slimy liquids, pointy cardboard, soggy paper.

  I cry out, sure that I have a voice. My new lungs healthy, I scream and scream and scream. But still Mom is gone.

  Someone else may come! Don't stop!

  I kick and scream.

  Kick and scream.

  KICK AND SCREAM.

  But as I kick and scream I loosen the garbage around me, making it give, making me sink deeper into the box.

  I stop kicking and screaming.

  I would be crying tears if my eyes were open, but now the blood is dry, my lids shut tight. So I stay still, my body shivering uncontrollably, but I stop kicking and screaming because I don't want to sink any deeper, so I lower my shaking arms and reach out to touch my new home, to feel what's around me.

  Mommy, how could you? How could you leave me?

  Easy. Mommy was abused

  (abused? what's abused?)

  and hurt and scared, like me. Mommy was not strong, like me. Mommy was going to die

  (LIKE ME??)

  No. No! I just came out, a newborn. No. I don't wanna die.

  I panic and start to move again and suddenly I slip deeper, my hands trying to stop me, only slipping on wet stuff, stinky stuff, not able to stop me. But I do stop, my bare feet resting square on something thick and hard. I lay on something thick and wet, something that smells like food.