The Criminal Intentions books are collections of short stories, some short some nearly novel length that I have combined together in this collection for you to enjoy, Dell.
In this collection are the following short stories: PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS – A GOOD PLAN – BLACKNESS OF THE SOUL – THE LAST TAXI RIDE – DELLO GREEN – THE ACCIDENT – THE MAN WHO NEARLY TOOK MY LIFE – THE STORY OF THE MEXICAN – WHEN THEY TRIED TO KILL ME
An excerpt from the short story The Accident:
I lay breathing heavy, trying to calm my racing heart. The dream had been so vivid, so real. I had held her and it had felt so good so real so right. She had turned to me and I had opened my eyes and really seen her. Seen what I was holding. A rotting corpse. She was coming closer, holding me, her hands suddenly clutching harder, trying to drag me down into the grave she stank of.
I was covered with sweat, but my heart slowed and I got myself up and made it to the shower.
The Criminal Intentions series are collected short crime fiction in each book that I have gathered together to present to the reader, Dell.
Short Stories in this collection:
HAPPY HOLIDAYS – THE TALE OF LIV – THE TRIP – HOOD RATS – THE PHONE CALL – CHEATING AND DEATH – SANTOS – HARROWS
An excerpt from the short story: The Story of Liv
For fifteen long minutes, Liv stood outside in the chilly, pre-dawn rain. Fifteen minutes felt like an eternity when the craving hit. Time stretched endlessly, with every clock and watch in the world ticking away the moments. Finally, she began testing the doors. The front and back doors were locked. She hadn’t considered the garage door, but eventually decided to try it. To her surprise, it was unlocked, although the lock was badly damaged, causing her to hesitate.
The dust swirled around my worn boots, a miniature desert storm kicked up by the frantic thump of my own heart. The air hung thick and heavy, the scent of dry earth and something else… something metallic and sickeningly sweet, clinging to the back of my throat. It was the smell of blood. Old blood. New blood. The kind that stains the soul as deeply as it stains the earth. I’d been clean for six months, six agonizing months of sweat-soaked nights and gnawing cravings, a testament to a willpower I never knew I possessed. Six months of staring at the cracked pavement, avoiding the shadowed corners where my past lurked like a hungry ghost. But tonight, the ghost had found me.
John Rourke is a private detective with contacts and a license to practice from New York to Arizona. He has the resources he needs across the country to find the information he needs to crack the toughest cases. Ex-cops, ex-Cons, snitches, stoolies, drug addicts, criminals, drug dealers and any kind of scum of the earth you can imagine or care to name. He knows the seedy side of life and to some people that makes him indispensable…
Book one:
The chipped paint on my beat-up Ford Falcon was flaking like old skin. The smell of stale coffee clung to the interior like a cheap perfume, a constant, bitter reminder of the long hours ahead. Across the street, Paul Fields’ two-story colonial loomed, a picture of suburban perfection, a stark contrast to the cramped discomfort of my temporary office. The relentless hum of traffic on Hemlock Drive was a dull, throbbing ache in my skull, a soundtrack to this tedious ballet of surveillance. My gut churned, not from the coffee, but from the gnawing feeling that I was hemorrhaging money, bleeding my retainer dry on this seemingly pointless stakeout…
Private Investigations 2: A John Rourke detective Story (Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Stories) Kindle Edition Book 2 of 3: Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Storiesby W. W. Watson(Author)Format: Kindle Edition J Book 2 of 3: Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Stories John Rourke is a private detective with contacts and a license to practice from New York to Arizona. He has the resources he needs across the country to find the information he needs to crack the toughest cases. Ex-cops, ex-Cons, snitches, stoolies, drug addicts, criminals, drug dealers and any kind of scum of the earth you can imagine or care to name. He knows the seedy side of life and to some people that makes him indispensable…
Book two:
My apartment, usually a sanctuary of quiet solitude, became a temporary forensic lab. The dining table transformed into a command center, littered with maps, photographs, financial records, and transcripts of intercepted phone calls. The air hung heavy with the scent of stale coffee and the lingering aroma of cheap takeout containers. Days bled into nights as I painstakingly organized the evidence, meticulously documenting every detail, creating a comprehensive narrative that would stand up to the scrutiny of the legal system… #BookWorm #Readers #KindleUnlimited #WWWatson #Crime #Noir #Mystery #PrivateEye
John Rourke is a private detective with contacts and a license to practice from New York to Arizona. He has the resources he needs across the country to find the information he needs to crack the toughest cases. Ex-cops, ex-Cons, snitches, stoolies, drug addicts, criminals, drug dealers and any kind of scum of the earth you can imagine or care to name. He knows the seedy side of life and to some people that makes him indispensable…
Book three:
The silence was broken by the distant screech of a hawk, its cry sharp and piercing against the vast silence of the desert. It was a lonely sound, a perfect metaphor for the state of my own soul. I was tired, bone-deep tired. Sleep was a luxury I couldn’t afford, nightmares a constant companion. The faces of the victims, the ones I’d found along Rieser’s trail, haunted my dreams. Each one a testament to the brutal efficiency of a man who knew how to erase his tracks… #BookWorm #Readers #KindleUnlimited #WWWatson #Crime #Noir #Mystery #PrivateEye
The Criminal Intentions books are collections of short stories, some short some nearly novel length that I have combined together in this collection for you to enjoy, Dell.
In this collection are the following short stories: PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS – A GOOD PLAN – BLACKNESS OF THE SOUL – THE LAST TAXI RIDE – DELLO GREEN – THE ACCIDENT – THE MAN WHO NEARLY TOOK MY LIFE – THE STORY OF THE MEXICAN – WHEN THEY TRIED TO KILL ME
An excerpt from the short story The Accident:
I lay breathing heavy, trying to calm my racing heart. The dream had been so vivid, so real. I had held her and it had felt so good so real so right. She had turned to me and I had opened my eyes and really seen her. Seen what I was holding. A rotting corpse. She was coming closer, holding me, her hands suddenly clutching harder, trying to drag me down into the grave she stank of.
I was covered with sweat, but my heart slowed and I got myself up and made it to the shower.
The Criminal Intentions series are collected short crime fiction in each book that I have gathered together to present to the reader, Dell.
Short Stories in this collection:
HAPPY HOLIDAYS – THE TALE OF LIV – THE TRIP – HOOD RATS – THE PHONE CALL – CHEATING AND DEATH – SANTOS – HARROWS
An excerpt from the short story: The Story of Liv
For fifteen long minutes, Liv stood outside in the chilly, pre-dawn rain. Fifteen minutes felt like an eternity when the craving hit. Time stretched endlessly, with every clock and watch in the world ticking away the moments. Finally, she began testing the doors. The front and back doors were locked. She hadn’t considered the garage door, but eventually decided to try it. To her surprise, it was unlocked, although the lock was badly damaged, causing her to hesitate.
I found myself sitting in a prison counseling session, grappling with the memories of my past when the topic turned to a particularly haunting incident. I had touched on it earlier in the book, but now, in the sterile environment of the counseling room, it felt as if the shadows of that day were creeping back into my consciousness. It began while I was in the dayroom at a maximum-security prison—Clinton Correctional, a facility notorious for its hardened inmates and grim atmosphere.
To be honest, I couldn’t recall exactly why I had chosen to spend my time there. I had always hated the TV rooms; they were breeding grounds for conflict. I had my own cell and a personal television, which allowed me to escape the chaos that often erupted over the flickering screen. I had seen too many fights break out over what to watch, and even worse, I had witnessed guys getting stabbed over trivial arguments about television shows. So, it baffled me that I found myself in the dayroom that particular day, surrounded by the cacophony of voices and the flicker of the TV.
As I sat there, lost in thought, the atmosphere shifted. News broke that the State Police had arrested a man—a man who had committed dozens of heinous murders. He was a monster, preying on young men, kidnapping them, subjecting them to unspeakable horrors, and then brutally murdering them. The details were chilling, and the gravity of the situation weighed heavily on everyone in the room.
Then, as if the universe conspired to bring the past crashing back into my present, I looked up and locked eyes with a figure across the room. My heart stopped. There he was—the very man who had tried to take my life all those years ago. The realization hit me like a freight train, and for a moment, time seemed to freeze. I was rendered speechless, my mind racing as I grappled with the flood of emotions surging through me.
Memories of that fateful day rushed back, vivid and raw. I could feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, the terror of facing someone who had once held my fate in his hands. The man who had once haunted my nightmares was now mere feet away from me, a living reminder of the darkness I had fought so hard to escape.
In that moment, a whirlwind of thoughts swirled in my mind. How had it come to this? How had I ended up in the same room as my would-be killer, in a place designed for rehabilitation? The irony was almost too much to bear. I felt a mix of anger, fear, and disbelief wash over me, and I struggled to maintain my composure.
As I sat there, I realized that this encounter was more than just a coincidence; it was a twisted intersection of our lives, a moment that had the potential to redefine both of our narratives. I had survived, and he was still trapped in a cycle of violence and horror.
The counselors continued to speak, their voices a distant hum as I remained locked in this surreal confrontation. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a pivotal moment, a chance to confront the past and reclaim my narrative. I had endured so much, and now, faced with the man who had once sought to destroy me, I felt a spark of defiance igniting within me.
In the weeks that followed, I would grapple with the emotions stirred by that encounter. It forced me to confront not only my past but also the choices I had made and the person I had become. I was determined to emerge from this experience stronger, to take control of my life, and to ensure that the darkness of my past would not dictate my future.
As I navigated through the complexities of my emotions, I realized that this encounter had the potential to be a turning point—a moment that could propel me toward healing and empowerment. I vowed to harness the strength I had gained from my struggles and to use it as a foundation for the life I wanted to build. The man who nearly took my life had become a catalyst for my transformation, and I was ready to embrace the next chapter of my journey.
I finally snapped back to reality and realized that the counselor was speaking directly to me. I had been so lost in my thoughts that I hadn’t even registered her words until that moment. I always made it a point to pay attention during these sessions; after all, I recognized the importance of the time I was investing in myself. Sincerely, I thought to myself, when in hell would I ever get this kind of opportunity to focus on my own growth again? The answer was clear: never.
I understood, just like anyone who has spent time in the game, that if I didn’t take serious action now, I would inevitably walk out of prison and fall right back into the same destructive patterns. What kind of safety net did I have to keep me from slipping back into that life? I had no woman in my life who might disapprove of my choices and help steer me away from the temptation to return to the streets. I had no legitimate job waiting for me on the outside. The reality was stark: counseling was crucial for me, and I was determined to make the most of it.
I committed myself fully to the process, investing genuine time and effort into my sessions. I answered questions with honesty—real honesty, not the kind of fabricated truth I had grown accustomed to in the game, where I would twist my words and recycle the same lies I had told before. This was actual, raw honesty, and it was tough to do. It felt like peeling back layers of myself I had long buried, exposing vulnerabilities I had spent years trying to shield from others.
As I engaged with the counselor, I could feel her probing deeper into my psyche. She was relentless but compassionate, and I found myself apologizing for having drifted off during the session. The focus of our conversation shifted to that incident—the one that had haunted me for so long. I could see that she was genuinely interested, and I wasn’t the only one. About six other convicts leaned forward, eager to hear my story. Some of them were likely hoping that my confession might somehow benefit their own situations, a potential “get out of jail free card” depending on how the narrative unfolded.
I had faced a similar dynamic in the past when I shared my life experiences with Christian inmates whom I genuinely wanted to help. More than once, I had seen someone make a beeline for their lawyer after a Christian fellowship or an AA meeting where I had spoken. I had grown accustomed to this environment and, honestly, I didn’t care. What mattered to me was the opportunity to confront my past and share my truth, regardless of the motivations of those listening.
So, I took a deep breath and plunged into the story, laying bare the details of that fateful day—the fear, the chaos, the moments of clarity that followed. I spoke about the man who had nearly taken my life and the impact that encounter had on my journey. As I recounted my experience, I could feel the weight of the past lifting, piece by piece. It was liberating to share my truth, to confront the demons that had haunted me for so long.
The atmosphere in the room shifted as I spoke; the other inmates hung on my every word, some nodding in understanding, others with expressions of empathy. I realized that my story wasn’t just mine—it resonated with their struggles, their own pasts, and the battles they faced daily. It was a reminder that we were all in this together, navigating the complexities of our lives, trying to find a way out of the darkness.
By the time I finished, I felt a sense of catharsis wash over me. It wasn’t just about recounting my story; it was about taking ownership of it. I was no longer a passive participant in my life. I was actively shaping my narrative, and that realization empowered me in ways I had never anticipated. Counseling had become more than just a requirement—it was a lifeline, a chance for redemption, and an opportunity to reclaim my future.
As the session came to a close, I felt a flicker of hope igniting within me. I was on a path toward transformation, and I was ready to embrace whatever came next.
WHAT WENT DOWN
I found myself standing in the shadow of a doorway on Lyell Avenue, watching the traffic roll by in a hazy blur. The air was thick with the scent of rain, and I could feel the droplets slowly transforming into snowflakes, creating a thin layer of white on the pavement. I was high—mixed with speed and booze, I was pretty well shot. My mind felt like it was drifting in and out of focus, and I knew all too well the unspoken rules we lived by on the streets if we wanted to stay alive. One of the most important was simple: if you were messed up, don’t go for rides.
It was a hard lesson learned through experience. If you had to move, you needed to keep some of your fellow street people close. If you decided to get into a car, you made sure they parked it and stepped out first. It was a way to minimize risk; if they wanted to do something harmful, they could. If they wouldn’t or didn’t want to, then you had to cut your losses and move on. It was a harsh existence, but it was the reality we faced each day.
As I stood there, watching the rain slowly turn into snow and pile up on the street, my mind began to wander. I was lost in thought when I noticed a car pass by twice—a Plymouth Fury. The sight of that car sent a jolt of recognition through me. It was the same kind of vehicle that the cops drove back then, and it had a familiar, ominous presence. My instincts kicked in, and I felt an uneasy knot form in my stomach.
When the car stopped abruptly, and the driver motioned for me to come over, my heart raced. I could see from my vantage point that it looked like a cop car on the inside, too. The dashboard glowed with the telltale lights and equipment that screamed authority. I could hear the crackle of police radio squawking in the background, dispatch chatter filling the air with a sense of urgency. A CB radio was also on, adding to the chaotic noise that reverberated through the vehicle.
I took a cautious step forward, my mind racing with thoughts of what might happen next. The driver was an unkempt man with a rough exterior, his face partially obscured by the shadows. There was a thermos in the cup holder that I assumed was filled with coffee, and next to it sat a large cooler. I didn’t give the cooler a second thought at the moment; my focus was solely on the driver and the situation unfolding before me.
As I approached, I felt the cold air biting into my skin, heightening my awareness of the potential danger. My instincts screamed at me to be careful, to remember the rules I had lived by for so long. The streets were unforgiving, and I had seen too many people get caught off guard, their lives turned upside down in an instant.
“Hey, you looking for a ride?” the driver called out, his voice gruff and edged with something I couldn’t quite place—was it desperation or something more sinister? I hesitated for a moment, weighing my options. I wanted to say no, to turn around and walk away, but the allure of escape tugged at me. I was tired of standing in the cold, tired of the uncertainty that surrounded my every move.
But the rules were clear, and I had to think fast. I glanced around, making sure no one else was watching. The streets were mostly empty, the snowfall creating an eerie silence that settled over everything. My heart pounded in my chest as I took a step closer to the car, trying to read the situation.
“Look, man, I need to get somewhere fast,” the driver insisted, his impatience evident. I could see the tension in his posture, an urgency that made me even more wary. I wanted to ask him questions, to probe deeper into his intentions, but I didn’t want to show any signs of weakness.
“Where you headed?” I finally asked, trying to maintain a casual demeanor while my mind raced with possible outcomes.
“In a hurry, man, just get in,” he replied, waving me over again, the impatience in his voice growing.
I stood there, torn between the desire for warmth and safety and the instinct to protect myself. I could feel the weight of my choices pressing down on me, the realization that I was on a precipice. If I went forward, I could be stepping into a trap. If I walked away, I faced the cold isolation of the streets.
In that moment, I knew I had to make a decision. It was the age-old gamble of street life—a choice that could either lead to freedom or further entrapment. As the snow continued to fall around me, I took a deep breath, preparing myself to either walk away or step into the unknown. The stakes were high, and I had to trust my instincts to guide me through the uncertainty.
I made the choice to get in. My mind was in a fog, and I couldn’t make sense of what he had said to me. The truth was, I had decided that he was a cop. It was a gut instinct, one that told me if I didn’t comply with whatever he wanted, he would find a way to mess with me for a long time. I couldn’t afford to take chances like that; I had to think about my survival on the streets after this night.
“Grab a beer if you want to,” he said, motioning toward the cooler that sat between us. I hesitated for a moment, unsure if I wanted to accept anything from this man, but curiosity got the better of me. I opened the cooler—or maybe he did; the details were hazy in my mind. Sure enough, I was met with a jumble of ice cubes, water, and beer cans bobbing around like little islands in a sea of cold liquid.
I remember shaking my head and turning him down. “No thanks,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, but it didn’t seem to matter much. The heat radiating from the car’s interior was overwhelming, wrapping around me like a thick blanket. It made my head spin, and I felt lightheaded as the warmth seeped into my bones.
As I sat there, I could feel my eyelids growing heavy. I tried to focus on what he was saying, but his words were muffled and indistinct, swirling together in a haze that I couldn’t quite grasp. The combination of the warmth inside the car and the alcohol still lingering in my system was starting to take its toll. I could feel myself slipping away, my thoughts drifting into a fog.
In a matter of seconds, the world around me started to fade. I closed my eyes, and I wasn’t sure if I was falling asleep or losing consciousness altogether. It felt like I was floating between two worlds—the chaotic reality of the street and the creeping comfort of oblivion. The last thing I remember was the sound of his voice, distant and echoing, as I succumbed to the darkness that enveloped me.
In that moment, I felt a strange mixture of fear and relief. Fear of the unknown, fear of what might happen next, but also a sense of relief that I could finally escape the relentless grip of reality, even if just for a moment. The car became a cocoon, shielding me from the cold and the chaos outside. I had no idea what lay ahead, but for now, I was adrift in a sea of blackness, unaware of the choices that would shape the course of my life.
As I drifted deeper into that void, I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that I had made a grave mistake by getting into that car. But it was too late to turn back now; I was trapped in a situation I couldn’t fully comprehend. Whatever awaited me in the depths of my unconsciousness was a mystery, one that I would have to face when I finally emerged from this stupor. Whatever the outcome, the night was far from over, and my journey had just begun.
When he picked me up, it was early evening, the sky painted with hues of orange and purple as the sun made its descent. I remember the warmth of the car enveloping me, but that comfort quickly faded into a hazy oblivion. When I finally came to, it was early morning, and the world outside the window had transformed. We were stuck in traffic, ensnared in the grip of a snowstorm that had brought everything to a halt. The muffled sounds of honking horns and frustrated drivers created an eerie symphony of chaos, but inside the car, an unsettling silence loomed.
I blinked a few times, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep, and that’s when I noticed him. He was positioned in the driver’s seat, his attention focused on something I couldn’t quite decipher. It took a few moments for my mind to clear, but within seconds, I realized with growing dread that he was trying to tie my hands. Panic surged through me as I began to assess the situation. We were stopped in traffic, surrounded by cars, but no one could see what was happening inside our vehicle.
Instinct kicked in, and I attempted to move my feet, only to discover that they were already tied. The realization hit me like a jolt of electricity. I had been so disoriented that I hadn’t even sensed the restraints. In a moment of desperation, I braced one leg against the seat and quickly lifted the other, aiming to knee him in the face. My mind raced from confusion to clarity in an instant, a shift from “What the hell is happening?” to “Oh, no—this is really bad.”
Adrenaline surged through my veins, sharpening my senses and heightening my awareness. I felt bile rise in my throat, a nauseating mix of fear and instinctual fight-or-flight response. I tugged at my hands, trying to pull them free, but it was no use; the bindings were too tight. In that moment, I realized I had to fight back. I did the only thing I could think of—I headbutted the guy square in the jaw.
The impact wasn’t as powerful as I had hoped, but it was enough to catch him off guard. His grip loosened momentarily, and I took advantage of that split second. I yanked my hands free with a painful rope burn, the friction stinging my skin, but I didn’t care; I needed to escape.
With a surge of determination, I sprang to my feet, my heart racing as I scrambled to undo the bindings on my legs. I could see his surprise morph into anger, but I was already moving. I flung open the passenger door and stumbled out into the chaos of the snowstorm. The ground was slick with slush, and I slipped and slid as I tried to regain my balance.
The biting cold hit me like a slap in the face, but I didn’t have time to think about it. I was fueled by adrenaline and sheer will to survive. Behind me, I could hear him cursing, the sound of the car door slamming shut and the engine revving as he tried to pursue me. I took off, my feet moving instinctively, navigating the treacherous terrain as I darted between the cars that were also stuck in the storm.
With each step, I felt the weight of fear begin to lift, replaced by a fierce determination to get away. The snow continued to fall around me, thick and heavy, but I was focused on one thing: escaping. I could feel the icy wind biting at my skin, but the need to survive drowned out everything else. I was free, and I wasn’t looking back.
It would have been great if that had been the end of the story. In my mind, that’s how I wanted it to play out. I had written about the incident, capturing the essence of that chaotic night, and in my narrative, it felt like a neat conclusion. I hadn’t intended to be evasive or dishonest; I simply expressed what I felt at the time. The way I portrayed it, it seemed like I had managed to escape, to break free from the clutches of that harrowing experience.
After the group session ended, I returned to my cell, a small sanctuary amid the chaos of prison life. I picked up my guitar, letting the familiar strings soothe my frayed nerves. As I strummed out a few chords, the music wrapped around me like a warm blanket, offering a temporary respite from the memories that threatened to resurface. I read a book, losing myself in the words and stories that transported me far away from my reality. The hours passed quietly as I navigated my evening alone, a solitary figure in the dim light of my cell until lockdown settled in.
Truthfully, there was a sense of comfort in the sound of the cell doors slamming shut, a metallic finality that signaled the end of the day. It was a reminder that I was safe, at least for the moment. It took a long time to drift off to sleep that night, my mind replaying fragments of the past, but eventually, exhaustion overtook me, and I slipped into a restless slumber.
The following morning, the day began as it always did, marked by the unmistakable sound of the cell door creaking open with its familiar metallic slam. I was used to this routine; it was a sound that heralded a new day, yet somehow felt like a prison in itself. I could still feel the remnants of the previous night’s turmoil lingering at the edges of my consciousness, but I was determined to push those thoughts aside.
I made my way to the mess hall, my stomach growling in anticipation of the morning meal. As I walked, I felt the weight of the memories begin to slide away, like water trickling off a duck’s back. I focused on the mundane details of daily life in prison, the clatter of trays, the low hum of conversations, and the shuffling of feet across the cold concrete floor.
I was still processing everything, but with each step, I found a little more clarity. The chaos of the night before faded slightly, replaced by the routine of my surroundings. I took a seat at one of the long tables, surrounded by other inmates who were absorbed in their own conversations and struggles. I joined them in the ritual of sharing a meal, the simple act of eating together providing a sense of normalcy that I desperately craved.
As I sat there, I realized that I had the power to reshape my narrative. While the memory of that night would always be a part of me, I didn’t have to let it define who I was moving forward. I could choose to focus on the present, on the small moments of joy and connection that existed even within these walls.
The snowstorm had passed, and a new day was dawning, one filled with possibilities, no matter how small. With that thought in mind, I took a deep breath and embraced the day ahead, ready to face whatever challenges came my way, one step at a time.
The next day arrived without a group session, a welcome relief. I headed to the yard with determination, ready to channel my energy into working out hard. I pushed myself to the limits, lifting weights and running laps until I could feel the burn in my muscles, a physical exhaustion that drove the chaos of the previous days right out of my head. I needed that release, that catharsis that came from the sweat and effort, a way to escape the mental turmoil that had been plaguing me.
But as the sun dipped low on the horizon and the day turned to night, I knew the next day would bring group again. I have to admit, it lingered in my mind as I walked into that room. There was a knot of anxiety twisting in my stomach, but I reminded myself that I shouldn’t have been worried. Group sessions didn’t happen two days in a row; it was someone else’s turn to share their struggles, not mine. I felt a small wave of relief wash over me, allowing me to breathe a little easier.
However, that sense of comfort didn’t last long. Just as the last inmate took her seat, the other female counselor walked in, her expression serious as she shut the door behind her. I felt a chill run through me as she turned to face the group. “So,” she began, her tone clipped and direct, “I understand you had a breakthrough on Monday in group… and I read what you wrote. But we’ve discussed this before and, in that context, this makes no sense at all.”
Confusion washed over me. I had no idea what she was talking about. My mind raced as I scrambled to piece together what she meant. The other counselor I had spoken to earlier chimed in, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “The knife. You’ve told us before that you carried a knife in your boot at all times. Not sometimes… So, tell me, when you got your hands free, why didn’t you stab this guy?”
Her words hit me like a gut punch, leaving me momentarily speechless. I was floored, my mind racing as I tried to process what she was asking. The room fell into an unsettling silence, the weight of her question hanging heavily in the air. No one spoke to fill the void; no fellow inmate attempted to change the subject or rescue me from the spotlight. All eyes were on me, and I felt the pressure mounting.
Finally, with no choice but to respond, I took a deep breath, my heart pounding in my chest. “I… I didn’t think about it,” I stammered, my voice barely audible. “I was just trying to get free. I didn’t have time to think about anything else.”
“But you had a weapon,” she pressed, her gaze unwavering. “You had the means to protect yourself, to fight back. Why didn’t you use it?”
I could feel the heat rushing to my cheeks, a mix of shame and frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “It all happened so fast,” I replied, my voice gaining strength. “I was caught off guard. I didn’t want to believe that it was happening. I thought I could talk my way out of it or find another way. It was like I froze.”
The other inmates shifted in their seats, some nodding in understanding, while others looked on with a mixture of curiosity and judgment. The counselor’s expression softened slightly, but she didn’t relent. “You need to understand that you have power in those moments. You can’t let fear paralyze you. You have to fight back.”
Her words struck a chord deep within me, resonating with the struggles I had faced on the streets and in this prison. I knew she was right; I had to reclaim that sense of agency, that power to defend myself. But the reality of those moments was complicated, laden with fear and confusion.
“I get that now,” I said, my voice steadier. “But in that moment, I just wanted to survive, to get away. I didn’t think about the knife.”
As I spoke, I felt a flicker of determination igniting within me. I recognized that this conversation was part of my journey, a necessary step toward healing and reclaiming my narrative. It wasn’t just about the knife or the escape; it was about acknowledging my fears, my past, and learning how to face them head-on.
“I didn’t finish the story…” I began, my voice tinged with hesitation. “I left it hanging because I didn’t want to delve into the details. And honestly, it’s complicated. I mean, I’m in prison now. If I had stabbed that guy, I could be facing charges. I might never see the outside world again.”
For a moment, the room fell silent, the weight of my words hanging in the air. The first counselor looked at me, her expression unreadable, while the second counselor finally spoke up. “But you were defending yourself,” she said, her tone firm yet compassionate. “You had every right to act. You woke up to this guy tying you up, likely intending to rape or kill you…”
“Get it out,” the first counselor urged, her voice steady, pushing me gently but firmly to confront the memories I had been avoiding.
It was one of those moments in therapy where I found myself caught in a struggle, questioning whether I was being played or genuinely helped. After a moment of internal debate, I decided to embrace the discomfort and let it all spill out. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the memories that were about to resurface.
“He got me,” I confessed, the words tumbling out. “He lunged across the seat and grabbed me. I was in a state of panic while he seemed completely calm, almost unfazed by the chaos. He held me there, and then he gunned the engine, speeding right into one of those turnarounds where the cops park on the interstate to catch people speeding. That was when it hit me—we were on the interstate. That realization sent a wave of dread crashing over me as he drove into the turnaround, and the highway disappeared behind us, swallowed by the night.”
I could feel the tension in the room as I recounted the details, the other inmates listening intently. “That’s when I finally started to fight back,” I continued, my voice stronger now, fueled by adrenaline and the memory of that night. “But he was stronger than I anticipated. I managed to get the door open, and we both spilled out onto the slush-covered turnaround, throwing punches and slipping around like we were on ice. It was chaotic.”
I paused for a moment, allowing myself to relive the struggle. “I don’t know if he had a weapon, but I assumed he did. My gut instinct told me that he was reaching into his jacket for something. That thought shot through my mind like a bolt of lightning, and as he came at me, I remembered that I did have a weapon—I had a knife hidden in my boot.”
The words hung in the air, and I could see the counselors processing what I had just revealed. It felt liberating to finally voice the fear, the uncertainty, and the desperation of that moment. I was no longer just a victim in my own story; I was reclaiming my narrative, confronting the reality of that night and the choices I had made.
“It was like a switch flipped in my mind,” I said, my heart racing at the recollection. “In that moment, I was no longer just trying to survive. I was ready to fight back, to take control of the situation. I reached down, pulled out the knife, and prepared myself for whatever came next.”
The counselors nodded, their expressions a mix of empathy and encouragement. I could see that they understood the gravity of what I was sharing. This wasn’t just a story; it was a pivotal moment in my life, one that had shaped who I was and how I viewed the world.
I stabbed him. I’m absolutely sure of it. I felt the blade connect with his jacket, and I’m convinced it penetrated deep enough to reach his upper chest or shoulder area. The moment the knife made contact, it was as if time slowed. I could see the shock in his eyes, and he was gone just that fast. Whatever was concealed in his jacket remained there, untouched, but he didn’t react as if I had injured him. Instead, he backed off, his demeanor shifting as the realization hit him.
I took a step back, my heart racing, and watched as he turned and climbed back into that car, which had looked so much like a cop car in the dim light of the night. A wave of uncertainty crashed over me, but I knew I had to act quickly. I turned my back on him and bolted into the woods that separated the two sides of the interstate highway.
Once I was among the trees, I felt a mix of adrenaline and fear coursing through my veins. It seemed like I spent hours wandering through those woods, though I couldn’t be sure how much time had passed. I kept moving, heading in what I hoped was either south or north, desperate to put distance between myself and that nightmare. Each step took me further from the chaos, but the weight of what had just happened pressed heavily on my mind.
When daylight finally broke, I stumbled out of the thicket and found myself back on the side of the interstate. The scene was eerily still; traffic was stalled, and the slush from the snowstorm had turned into a heavy, icy mess. I felt frozen, both physically and emotionally, as I surveyed my surroundings. The world felt surreal, like I was watching it unfold from a distance, disconnected from reality.
But then I spotted a diner just off the interstate, its neon sign flickering invitingly. A mix of dread and hope washed over me. What if he was there? What if he had followed me? The thought sent a chill down my spine, but I quickly reasoned with myself. If I had truly injured him, he wouldn’t be lurking in a diner; he’d be somewhere getting patched up, nursing his wounds.
Despite my fear, I knew I had to take the chance. I couldn’t remain out in the cold, exposed and vulnerable. I steeled myself, took a deep breath, and approached the diner. Each step felt like a leap into the unknown, a step toward reclaiming my life after the chaos of the night before. As I crossed the threshold of the diner, the warmth enveloped me, a stark contrast to the icy grip of the world outside.
Inside, I scanned the room, looking for any sign of him. The familiar sounds of sizzling food and clinking dishes surrounded me, and I took a moment to gather my thoughts. I was alive, and I had fought back. Whatever lay ahead, I was determined to face it head-on. It was time to confront the aftermath of my actions and figure out what my next steps would be in this tumultuous journey of survival.
As I stumbled through the trees, a sense of paranoia gripped me, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I kept seeing that car creeping along the interstate. Every rustle of leaves and snap of twigs made my heart race. I don’t know if it was a figment of my imagination or if it was truly there, lurking just out of sight, but the thought of it sent chills down my spine. The woods felt suffocating, and I couldn’t help but glance over my shoulder as I hurried forward.
Eventually, I found my way back to the interstate and spotted the diner just off the highway. It was a refuge in the chaos—a place where stranded travelers sought warmth and comfort. Inside, there were truckers and all sorts of people, each with their own stories of being caught in the storm. I settled into a booth, nursing cup after cup of strong coffee, trying to gather my thoughts and regain some semblance of composure. Time seemed to stretch endlessly as I sat there, staring out the window at the snow-covered road, the world outside feeling both familiar and alien.
The waitress, a kind woman with a concerned look, approached my table more than once, her eyes searching mine for answers. She must have sensed that something was off, that I had that look—the look of someone who had been through something traumatic. But I said nothing. I offered her a weak smile and turned my gaze back to the window, hoping to blend into the background, invisible and safe.
At some point, exhaustion washed over me, and I drifted off to sleep right there in the diner, the noise of clattering dishes and murmurs of conversation fading into a distant hum. I felt utterly drained, as if I had been shot out of a cannon and landed in a whirlwind of chaos. When I finally woke, the diner was bustling, and the waitress was chatting with another staff member.
I caught snippets of their conversation, and my heart sank when I overheard her mention that she was thinking of taking me home with her. I imagined that her maternal instincts had kicked in—after all, I was young and vulnerable, a lost soul in need of care. At that moment, the thought of being taken under her wing was both comforting and unsettling. I didn’t want to be a burden, nor did I want to draw attention to myself.
Fortunately, she didn’t approach me with that idea, and once I had gathered my thoughts and regained my composure, I knew I needed to make a plan. I reached for my phone, my fingers trembling slightly as I dialed a number I had memorized, a lifeline in the storm. I made a deal for a ride that turned out to take me about two hundred miles back to the city.
As I waited for my ride to arrive, I glanced around the diner, taking in the faces of the other patrons. Each one seemed to be wrapped in their own world, oblivious to the turmoil I had just escaped. I felt a mix of relief and anxiety as I prepared to leave this temporary sanctuary. I was heading back to the city, back to the life I had known, but nothing would ever be the same again. I had crossed a line, faced my fears, and fought back in a way that changed everything.
When my ride finally pulled up outside the diner, I took a deep breath and stepped out into the cold morning air, feeling the weight of my experiences pressing down on me.
Gus Dyer is a detective no more. Staring into the deep wells of corruption for too many years sent him into a spiral. He tried to use the bottle to find his way out, but that only dragged him in deeper. The road to Redemption is a look at that fall and how hard that fall was. But Gus is determined to stand on his own two feet again. It remains to be seen whether he will ever become a detective again, but he is finding out that being a detective is not about a badge. It isn’t something you take on with the position either. It is in your blood, and if you have it, you cannot help but follow those impulses that flood through your body with that blood when you know something is wrong. Dead wrong…#Detective #Crime #Mystery #Thriller #Suspense #Readers #KU Gus Dyer: The road to redemption – Kindle edition by Watson, W. W., Norton, A L. Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.
Gus Dyer is a hardcore detective in the big city. He knows what crime is, and he has seen the worst of the worst walk her streets and taken those same people down. Some to jail, some to the gates of hell where they belonged in the first place.This time he is on the trail of a hired killer, Jimmy West. West works out of the city. It is his base and fortress, the place where he can roam free among millions of other people unseen, unchallenged and free to continue his crimes. #Detective #Crime #Mystery #Thriller #Suspense #Readers #KU
The dust swirled around my worn boots, a miniature desert storm kicked up by the frantic thump of my own heart. The air hung thick and heavy, the scent of dry earth and something else… something metallic and sickeningly sweet, clinging to the back of my throat. It was the smell of blood. Old blood. New blood. The kind that stains the soul as deeply as it stains the earth. I’d been clean for six months, six agonizing months of sweat-soaked nights and gnawing cravings, a testament to a willpower I never knew I possessed. Six months of staring at the cracked pavement, avoiding the shadowed corners where my past lurked like a hungry ghost. But tonight, the ghost had found me.
I reached the relative safety of the small office and set down the suitcases. The Mexican stood and slowly shook his head as I approached. I looked down and saw that Kat’s shirt had been cut away. One large hole had punched through her upper shoulder leaving a blue-black, bloodless hole. Her eyes blinked rapidly as I knelt beside her.
“Hey,” I said. She looked at me, pulled another breath and then her eyes slipped shut. She had a small smile on her face as if she knew some secret that I could only guess at.
I froze for a moment and then reached down and shook her shoulders.
“She’s okay, Billy,” The Mexican said. “I gave her something… We need to get her somewhere where I can stitch her up… Or you. Listen, I don’t want to sound hard or as if I don’t care, but right now, unless we want to just give up and die, we need to get ourselves in gear. If it wasn’t one of the trucks that blew by us while we were on that dirt road, and we know it wasn’t that red pickup… someone is still out there, and once they get their shit together they’ll come back for us, amigo. And there has to be some locals of some sort around here, eventually one of them is gonna show up. Federales… Maybe locals… What you need to do Billy is get us another truck so we can get back across the border and make that meeting… Put this behind us,” the Mexican said.
I looked around the showroom. “I don’t see any here, which means I’m going to have to go back outside to find one. Which means,” I looked at the Mexican, “I need you to keep watch in front; I’m going out the back door.”
I walked over to a small plywood board to one side of the double doors, and began to search through the key-tags that hung from it. “Hey, take a quick look out front and tell me whether you see a light green Ram out there, about ten years old or so,” I continued to search through the keys as he looked.
“Si, out by the road,” he replied.
“How about a two-tone red and white Chevy?”
“No veda nada… No, not out here.”
“Good,” I said as I dropped the remaining keys in a heap by the board. I had kept two sets out; apparently, there were two green Ram’s, another out back somewhere along with a tu-tone Chevy that had possibilities. “Okay I’m going to get it,” I said as I turned and walked down a hallway in the direction of the back of the building, I turned back. “Kat?” I asked.
“She’s safe, amigo… Go, I’ll keep watch on her.”
I turned and walked down the hallway through a set of double steel doors and into a small garage area. I searched the garage quickly, but no red and white Chevy or green Ram resided in the shadowy interior. I walked to a set of double steel doors set into the back of the garage, pressed the bar handle, and stepped out into the back lot.
I found the Ram first directly behind the rear of the garage checked the stock numbers and after determining, which set of keys went to it opened the door and got in. A low chiming greeted me as I opened the door. The Ram was one of the upper level models; it was also not four-wheel drive. The tires were not much more than passenger tires and when I turned on the ignition to check the gas gauge the needle stopped just above empty.
“Fuck,” I said to myself. “this one isn’t going to do us a hell-of-a-lot-of good.”
I found the other truck farther back in the lot. It was a low end model; built more with a hunter or some other type of sportsman in mind and much better suited to our needs. Plain stark vinyl interior and the gas gauge leveled out at half when I checked it. Not great, but a lot better than the other truck and we didn’t have the time to pick and choose.
“This is her,” I told myself. I started the truck and drove out of the back lot toward the front of the dealership.
I had been tensed, expecting to hear the chatter of machine pistols while I was out back, and when I drove by the glass encased showroom and saw the Mexican crouched by the side of a car on the showroom floor I breathed a sigh of relief. I just caught his waving hands out of the corner of my eye before two men jumped out from behind one of the trucks in the front row and opened fire on me.
Too late, I thought as I realized I had left the machine pistol lying on the front seat instead of keeping it in my right hand where it should have been. I could hear the sound of a machine pistol behind me as the Mexican opened up. I did what I could. I aimed the truck at the two men; levered the door-handle and prepared to jump just as the windshield hit by several of the rounds fired by the two men was blown inward: My world faded to black.
John Rourke is a private detective with contacts and a license to practice from New York to Arizona. He has the resources he needs across the country to find the information he needs to crack the toughest cases. Ex-cops, ex-Cons, snitches, stoolies, drug addicts, criminals, drug dealers and any kind of scum of the earth you can imagine or care to name. He knows the seedy side of life and to some people that makes him indispensable…
Book one:
The chipped paint on my beat-up Ford Falcon was flaking like old skin. The smell of stale coffee clung to the interior like a cheap perfume, a constant, bitter reminder of the long hours ahead. Across the street, Paul Fields’ two-story colonial loomed, a picture of suburban perfection, a stark contrast to the cramped discomfort of my temporary office. The relentless hum of traffic on Hemlock Drive was a dull, throbbing ache in my skull, a soundtrack to this tedious ballet of surveillance. My gut churned, not from the coffee, but from the gnawing feeling that I was hemorrhaging money, bleeding my retainer dry on this seemingly pointless stakeout…
A John Rourke detective Story (Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Stories) Kindle Edition Book 2 of 3: Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Storiesby W. W. Watson(Author)Format: Kindle Edition J Book 2 of 3: Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Stories John Rourke is a private detective with contacts and a license to practice from New York to Arizona. He has the resources he needs across the country to find the information he needs to crack the toughest cases. Ex-cops, ex-Cons, snitches, stoolies, drug addicts, criminals, drug dealers and any kind of scum of the earth you can imagine or care to name. He knows the seedy side of life and to some people that makes him indispensable…
Book two:
My apartment, usually a sanctuary of quiet solitude, became a temporary forensic lab. The dining table transformed into a command center, littered with maps, photographs, financial records, and transcripts of intercepted phone calls. The air hung heavy with the scent of stale coffee and the lingering aroma of cheap takeout containers. Days bled into nights as I painstakingly organized the evidence, meticulously documenting every detail, creating a comprehensive narrative that would stand up to the scrutiny of the legal system…
John Rourke is a private detective with contacts and a license to practice from New York to Arizona. He has the resources he needs across the country to find the information he needs to crack the toughest cases. Ex-cops, ex-Cons, snitches, stoolies, drug addicts, criminals, drug dealers and any kind of scum of the earth you can imagine or care to name. He knows the seedy side of life and to some people that makes him indispensable…
Book three:
The silence was broken by the distant screech of a hawk, its cry sharp and piercing against the vast silence of the desert. It was a lonely sound, a perfect metaphor for the state of my own soul. I was tired, bone-deep tired. Sleep was a luxury I couldn’t afford, nightmares a constant companion. The faces of the victims, the ones I’d found along Rieser’s trail, haunted my dreams. Each one a testament to the brutal efficiency of a man who knew how to erase his tracks… #BookWorm #Readers #KindleUnlimited #WWWatson #Crime #Noir #Mystery #PrivateEye
The True: True stories from a small town are true stories from that place. From my childhood up through my adulthood. Some heartfelt, some heart rending, some the horrible truth of the life I lived at that time… #NonFiction #Crime #OrganizedCrime #Childhood #Readers #KU #Amazon
True: True stories from a small town #2
In my younger days I lived my life like there was no tomorrow. I wasn’t thinking about what to do when the check came due, when life changed, when I crossed someone or they crossed me. I wish I had grown up different, but my time on the streets and the lessons that taught me. #NonFiction #Crime #OrganizedCrime #Childhood #Readers #KU #Amazon
True: True stories from a small town #3
In AA they say that addictions will take you to hospitals, Mental Institutions and Prisons. It’s true. They will. I have been in all of those places because of my addictions. But addictions are not responsible for the life I lead entirely, and certainly not responsible for the things I did. #NonFiction #Crime #OrganizedCrime #Childhood #Readers #KU #Amazon
True: True stories from a small town #4
The True: True stories from a small town are true stories from that place. From my childhood up through my adulthood. Some heartfelt, some heart rending, some the horrible truth of the life I lived at that time… (Based on a true story from my life. Names have been changed, but truthfully almost all of them are dead now so it doesn’t matter.) #NonFiction #Crime #OrganizedCrime #Childhood #Readers #KU #Amazon
Free story from book one
THE DAM
It was summer, the trees full and green, the temperatures in the upper seventies. And you could smell the river from where it ran behind the paper mills and factories crowded around it, just beyond the public square; A dead smell, waste from the paper plants.
I think it was John who said something first. “Fuck it,” or something like that,” I’ll be okay.”
“Yeah,” Pete asked?
“Yeah… I think so,” John agreed. His eyes locked on Pete’s, but they didn’t stay. They slipped away and began to wander along the riverbed, the sharp rocks that littered the tops of the cliffs and the distance to the water. I didn’t like it.
Gary just nodded. Gary was the oldest so we pretty much went along with the way he saw things.
“But it’s your Dad,” I said at last. I felt stupid. Defensive. But it really felt to me like he really wasn’t seeing things clearly. I didn’t trust how calm he was, or how he kept looking at the river banks and then down to the water maybe eighty feet are so below.
“I should know,” John said. But his eyes didn’t meet mine at all.
“He should know,” Gary agreed and that was that.
“That’s cool. Let’s go down to the river,” Pete suggested, changing the subject.
“I’m not climbing down there,” I said. I looked down the sheer rock drop off to the water. John was still looking too, and his eyes were glistening, wet, his lips moved slightly as if he was talking to himself. If he was I couldn’t hear. But then he spoke aloud.
“We could make it, I bet,” he said as though it was an afterthought to some other idea. I couldn’t quite see that idea, at least I told myself that later. But I felt some sort of way about it. As if it had feelings of it’s own attached to it.
“No, man,” Gary said. “Pete didn’t mean beginning here… Did you,” he asked?
“No… No, you know, out to Huntingtonville,” Pete said. He leaned forward on his bike, looked at john, followed his eyes down to the river and then back up. John looked at him.
“What!” John asked.
“Nothing, man,” Pete said. “We’ll ride out to Huntingtonville. To the dam. That’d be cool… Wouldn’t it?” You could see the flatness in John’s eye’s. It made Pete nervous. He looked at Gary.
“Yeah,” Gary said. He looked at me.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “That’d be cool.” I spun one pedal on my stingray, scuffed the dirt with the toe of one Ked and then I looked at John again. His eyes were still too shiny, but he shifted on his banana seat, scuffed the ground with one of his own Keds and then said, “Yeah,” kind of under his breath. Again like it was an afterthought to something else. He lifted his head from his close inspection of the ground, or the river, or the rocky banks, or something in some other world for all I knew, and it seemed more like the last to me, but he met all of our eyes with one sliding loop of his own eyes, and even managed to smile.
~
The bike ride out to Huntingtonville was about four miles. It was a beautiful day and we lazed our way along, avoiding the streets, riding beside the railroad tracks that just happened to run out there. The railroad tracks bisected Watertown. They were like our own private road to anywhere we wanted to go. Summer, fall or winter. It didn’t matter. You could hear the trains coming from a long way off. More than enough time to get out of the way.
We had stripped our shirts off earlier in the morning when we had been crossing the only area of the tracks that we felt were dangerous, a long section of track that was suspended over the Black river on a rail trestle. My heart had beat fast as we had walked tie to tie trying not to look down at the rapids far below. Now we were four skinny, jeans clad boys with our shirts tied around our waists riding our bikes along the sides of those same railroad tracks where they ran through our neighborhood, occasionally bumping over the ties as we went. Gary managed to ride on one of the rails for about 100 feet. No one managed anything better.
Huntingtonville was a small river community just outside of Watertown. It was like the section of town that was so poor it could not simply be across the tracks or on the other side of the river, it had to be removed to the outskirts of the city itself. It was where the poorest of the poor lived, the least desirable races. The blacks. The Indians. Whatever else good, upstanding white Americans felt threatened or insulted by. It was where my father had come from, being both black and Indian.
I didn’t look like my father. I looked like my mother. My mother was Irish and English. About as white as white could be. I guess I was passing. But I was too poor, too much of a dumb kid to even know that back then in 1969.
John’s father was the reason we were all so worried. A few days before we had been playing baseball in the gravel lot of the lumber company across the street from where we lived. The railroad tracks ran behind that lumber company. John was just catching his breath after having hit a home run when his mother called him in side. We all heard later from our own mothers that John’s father had been hurt somehow. Something to do with his head. A stroke. I really didn’t know what a stroke was at that time or understand everything that it meant. I only knew it was bad. It was later in life that I understood how bad. All of us probably. But we did understand that John’s father had nearly died, and would never be his old self again, if he even managed to pull through.
It was a few days after that now. The first time the four of us had gotten back together. We all felt at loose ends. It simply had made no sense for the three of us to try to do much of anything without John. We had tried but all we could think about or talk about was John’s father. Would he be okay? Would they move? That worried me the most. His sister was about the most beautiful girl in the entire world to me. So not only would John move, so would she.
He came back to us today not saying a word about it. And we were worried.
When we reached the dam the water was high. That could mean that either the dam had been running off the excess water, or was about to be. You just had to look at the river and decide.
“We could go to the other side and back,” John suggested.
The dam was about 20 or 30 feet high. Looming over a rock strewn riverbed that had very little water. It was deeper out towards the middle, probably, it looked like it was, but it was all dry river rock along the grassy banks. The top of the Dam stretched about 700 feet across the river.
“I don’t know,” Pete said. “the dam might be about to run. We could get stuck on the other side for awhile.”
No one was concerned about a little wet feet if the dam did suddenly start running as we were crossing it. It didn’t run that fast. And it had caught us before. It was no big deal. Pete’s concern was getting stuck on the little island where the damn ended for an hour or so. Once, john, and myself had been on that island and some kids, older kids, had decided to shoot at us with 22 caliber rifles. Scared us half to death. But that’s not the story I’m trying to tell you today. Maybe I’ll tell you that one some other time. Today I’m trying to tell you about John’s father. And how calm John seemed to be taking it.
John didn’t wait for anyone else to comment. He dumped his bike and started to climb up the side of the concrete abutment to reach the top of the dam and walk across to the island. There was nothing for us to do except fall in behind him. One by one we did.
It all went smoothly. The water began to top the dam, soaking our Keds with its yellow paper mill stink and scummy white foam, just about halfway across. But we all made it to the other side and the island with no trouble. Pete and I climbed down and walked away. To this day I have no idea what words passed between Gary and john, but the next thing I knew they were both climbing back up onto the top of the dam, where the water was flowing faster now. Faster than it had ever flowed when we had attempted to cross the dam. Pete nearly at the top of the concrete wall, Gary several feet behind him.
John didn’t hesitate. He hit the top, stepped into the yellow brown torrent of river water pouring over the falls and began to walk back out to the middle of the river. Gary yelled to him as Pete and I climbed back up to the top of the dam.
I don’t think I was trying to be a hero, but the other thought, the thought he had pulled back from earlier, had just clicked in my head. John was thinking about dying. About killing himself. I could see it on the picture of his face that I held in my head from earlier. I didn’t yell to him, I just stepped into the yellow foam and water, found the top of the dam and began walking.
Behind me and Pete and Gary went ballistic. “Joe, what the fuck are you doing!”
I heard it, but I didn’t hear it. I kept moving. I was scared. Petrified. Water tugged at my feet. There was maybe 6 inches now pouring over the dam and more coming, it seemed a long way down to the river. Sharp, up-tilted slabs of rock seemed to be reaching out for me. Secretly hoping that I would fall and shatter my life upon them.
John stopped in the middle of the dam and turned, looking off toward the rock and the river below. I could see the water swirling fast around his ankles. Rising higher as it went. John looked over at me, but he said nothing.
“John,” I said when I got close enough. He finally spoke.
“No,” was all he said. But tears began to spill from his eyes. Leaking from his cheeks and falling into the foam scummed yellow-brown water that flowed ever faster over his feet.
“Don’t,” I screamed. I knew he meant to do it, and I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Don’t move,” Gary said from behind me. I nearly went over the falls. I hadn’t known he was that close. I looked up and he was right next to me, working his way around me on the slippery surface of the dam. I looked back and Pete was still on the opposite side of the dam. He had climbed up and now he stood on the flat top. Transfixed. Watching us through his thick glasses. Gary had followed John and me across.
I stood still and Gary stepped around me. I have no idea how he did. I’ve thought about it, believe me. There shouldn’t have been enough room, but that was what he did. He stepped right around me and then walked the remaining 20 feet or so to John and grabbed his arm.
“If you jump you kill me too,” Gary said. I heard him perfectly clear above the roar of the dam. He said it like it was nothing. Like it is everything. But mostly he said it like he meant it.
It seemed like they argued and struggled forever, but it was probably less than a minute, maybe two. The waters were rising fast and the whole thing would soon be decided for us. If we didn’t get off the dam quickly we would be swept over by the force of the water.
They almost did go over. So did I. But the three of us got moving and headed back across to the land side where we had dropped our bikes. We climbed down from a dam and watched the water fill the river up. No one spoke.
Eventually john stopped crying. And the afterthought look, as though there some words or thoughts he couldn’t say passed. The dying time had passed.
We waited almost two hours for the river to stop running and then Pete came across…
We only talked about it one other time that summer, and then we never talked about it again. That day was also a beautiful summer day. Sun high in the sky. We were sitting on our bikes watching the dam run.
“I can’t believe you were gonna do it,” Pete said.
“I wasn’t,” John told him. “I only got scared when the water started flowing and froze on the dam… That’s all it was.”
Nobody spoke for a moment and then Gary said, “That’s how it was.”
