The Bloody List

Book summary

After losing his family, Charlie's grief fuels a vendetta against those who've wronged him. Guided by "The Bloody List" and with Detective Martinez as his silent witness, he pursues each target in eerie towns along a dark path of revenge. But as his sanity slips, so does his control.

Excerpt from The Bloody List

Chapter 1: Pen Pals

Friday, April 9, 2010

Detective, you can call me Charlie. I wonder whether you ever had an imaginary friend? One that talked to you and played with you when you didn’t have anyone else? Did you have someone like that - the most amazing friend you ever had? Well, I did. His name was Whiro, but I just called him Whir.

Besides being my best friend, he was my only friend. The things he showed me were unique and wonderful. That is, until they weren’t… I will tell you more about that later.

When I was young, he was the best friend anyone could ever have had. I remember lying on my bed, listening to his beautiful tales. I never watched much television. I was before the generation of children whose parents felt guilty for what they didn’t have, and they overcompensated with multiple televisions in the home. I’m sure that is one cause for the family unit breaking up nowadays. Kids can be like - If I don’t like what is playing on the television in the living room, I can go to my own room and watch whatever I want.

Some of the stories he told me involved things I would only come to understand later, but one tale I remember that set the stage for my life was about a scorpion and a frog. I’m sure you’ve heard it. Here goes if not.

A scorpion wants to cross a river but cannot swim, so it asks a frog to carry it across. The frog hesitates, afraid that the scorpion might sting it. Still, the scorpion promises not to, pointing out that it would drown if it killed the frog in the middle of the river. The frog considers this and agrees to transport the scorpion. Midway across the river, the scorpion stings the frog, thus dooming both. The dying frog asks the scorpion why it stung, despite knowing the consequence, to which the scorpion replies: “I’m sorry, but I couldn't resist the urge. It's in my nature.”

I didn’t understand then, but I responded to his story, “I’m a Scorpion.” I was unable to stop myself from whistling through my teeth. I’d lost a couple of my baby teeth that summer. He nodded his head, pretending to wince at the sound - that high-pitched tone that happened whenever I said a word with an ‘s.’

“I know so many things about you, Charlie. I know you were born in November, which makes you a Scorpio, not a Scorpion, but I get your point, and I am happy to be your friend because I know all the wonderfully delicious things you will do.”

He sat beside me while I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The house’s previous owner had painted a beautiful design around the light, with red, blue, black, and yellow swirls. Something from the 1960s, my mother had told me.

“Want to hear another one?” my imaginary friend asked, and thus, as he told me stories and as I tried to understand some of his references, another night passed.

When I first started school, I assumed that everyone had a special friend that only they could see and hear. Luckily, he told me before I started school that not everyone had a friend like him. He also said Santa wasn’t real for some kids. “For you, he’s real, and I’ve talked him out of giving you coal this year. Although in the past, some of my friends would have thought coal a wonderful gift – fuel for heat. Your world has changed, Charlie, in so many unfortunate ways.”

He often threw around clues and information about his past. When I’d mention him to my parents, they‘d laugh a funny little laugh and tell me to get cleaned up for dinner or to get ready for school, changing the subject, as if having an imaginary friend like him was wrong.

But this friend’s stories were amazing and he taught me a lot about the world and its corruption and all of the vile people, like my childhood nemesis, an evil boy named Johnny Fagan. Nobody called him by his given name; everyone called him ‘The Fatman,’ and unlike most kids who were overweight, he loved the title. Johnny Fagan thought of it as a royal title. He used his weight to his advantage when he played basketball, got into fights, or just tried to get his way by going belly first into a situation. He would pat his belly while talking to you just to let you know that if you messed with him, he would slam you against the wall with his belly first, and then he’d pull your hair and ears or punch you in the stomach which would make you double over feeling like you had to puke.

Whir watched me as I got ready for school. “He’s got older siblings. That’s the only way he would have this much training in torture. You know, I could have used someone like him in bygone days, but remember, Charlie, today is the day.”

I looked at him, knowing what he meant, but I wasn’t sure if I was ready. He scowled at me and added, “You’ll take that knife with you to school today… don’t put it in your backpack; your Mom will find it. Put it in your sock, but be sure you can get to it quickly.”

As I pulled the knife out from between my mattress and the box springs, I asked, “Are you sure today’s the day?”

“When have I ever been wrong? Now hurry, Charlie, your Mom’s coming.”

I quickly put the knife in my sock. The type of sock was not like today, not one of these tiny ones people wear. Maybe it didn’t reach above the calf, but it did go halfway up, and the elastic could have leashed an elephant. I stood up, fixed my clothes to eliminate any wrinkles, and fixed my face, making sure not to think of the knife or to look down.

“Hurry, Charlie. I have to take your father his lunch. He forgot it this morning,” Mom yelled up the stairs.

Grabbing my backpack, I fell in line behind her, and we went through our morning routine. My life at home was always routine. There was no real excitement other than what I dreamed up with my friend. I saw Johnny as soon as we arrived at school. He was standing outside with a bunch of his friends. I bet today they would call them a gang, but back then, they were just hooligans.

He gave me the finger as I walked past. Kept it low so that no teachers would see and said under his breath, “You little freak, I’m going to get you today.”

“Johnny, why won’t you leave me alone?” I asked. I was genuinely curious, but his only answer was, “You know why.” Neither my imaginary friend nor I knew. I was sure of this as I saw him shake his head. Both of us were wondering what Johnny was really talking about.

The morning was uneventful. I was still in grade school, and we had the same teacher for the entire morning and then a different one in the afternoon, with the classes separated by recess.

Outside, the sky was a deep blue. Dust from the baseball field was blowing across the playground, making everything hazy. Something felt off, and then behind me, I heard Johnny, “I’m gonna make you pay. I don’t care if my Dad says he will tan my hide if I get into another fight. I’m tired of your bullshit. You shouldn’t have told Miss Strickler about me.”

Now, his saying bullshit was something of a novelty as well. Most of us knew the main curse words then, but Johnny was one of the few students who used them regularly.

“I’m going to hurt you this time, and it’ll be so much worse than the last time. That’s a promise, freak!” Johnny said while he clutched the back of my sweatshirt. As I took a quick step to get away, he kicked my back foot. I fell, luckily catching myself with my hands, but unfortunately, I scraped them on the asphalt.

He leaned down, and I could smell his breath. It always seemed to smell of baloney. He said through his yellow, crooked teeth, “After school, I’m going to catch you as you walk home and beat the shit out of you.” Then he spat in my face.

We had stirred up a little commotion, but not too much. Johnny knew better than to make Miss Strickler have to stand up and walk over. She wasn’t a small woman. Every fourth grader knew their hands would be sore by the time they wrote that they were sorry for whatever they had done five hundred times if she caught them being up to no good. She would even look at the words to make sure that the students hadn’t taped two pencils together to try and make it go a little faster. She wasn’t against cracking the back of their hands with a ruler either, though later, she would claim that she had been aiming for the desk.

I didn’t hold anything against her. If I had to deal with all of the loathsome children she was teaching, I would have been the same. Luckily, I usually didn’t incur her wrath. I’d smile my best smile, and she’d say, “Just be good, okay.” It wasn’t till later that I realized the sadness on her face every time she saw me smile, but that is a story for another letter.

She’d been a teacher at our little country school forever. “When they poured the foundation, I had to move, or they would have gotten concrete on my new dress,” she used to say. Then she’d pat her dress and do a little turn, “See any concrete?”

I picked myself up, dusted off, wiped the spit from my face, and tried not to make eye contact with anyone. Walking over to Miss Strickler, I knew Johnny would be scared I was telling on him, but I didn’t. I simply asked if I could go to the restroom.

I tried my best not to think of the knife in my sock. I started thinking about butterflies and kittens. My imaginary friend had told me, “When trying to get away with something or hide something, don’t think of it. If you think about it, the universe will know, and the universe is a dick and cannot keep a secret.”

At the time, I could barely understand half of the things he said, but this made sense. “You are my star pupil. You’ll show them all someday.”

Whistling through the hole left by my missing teeth, I went into the building, and instead of going to the bathroom, I went to Johnny’s cubby.