Read Online The Light at the End of the Tunnel by James W. Nelson - Free Book Online Page A

six to ten
months, but a year is better, two years better still. You’re both
young people. Two years is nothing, and when you leave here I will
guarantee you’ll have no trouble obtaining a private detective’s
license.”
    So Riley, Tucker and Sheldon would be their
trainers the next day. What of the other two men? The chaplain
wondered but didn’t ask.
    So ended their first indoctrination into the
art of survival.
     
     
    Chapter 14 Murder

    Several months passed. On October 18, Les
Paul reached his second birthday.
    For a late season vacation his foster family
drove from their home in Nebraska to the Grand Canyon National
Park. As they walked along a narrow path with a full view of the
nearby colossal gorge, Les Paul couldn’t get enough of looking out
and seeing the vast distance, especially the vast distance down,
which he couldn’t really see at all, and he kept pulling at his
foster mother’s hand, trying to see down.
    In his growing little mind he kept wanting to
see something fall. But his foster mother of three months kept his
left hand clutched tightly in hers. But he wanted to see something fall ! He stopped and reached for a rock that would fit his
hand.
    “Come on, son—“ his new foster mother had
followed the unofficial tradition of not naming him, but
refused to call him Baby Boy-Doe9, so simply called him ‘son,’ “—Don’t be dallying.” She pulled him back upright,
then looked down and smiled, “We’ll get to the lookout spot
soon.”
    This family had, of course, parents, a boy
nine and a girl seven. As usual, the boy of the family was the
member Les Paul allowed to see his other side, but he never did
anything really bad enough for his new foster brother to report
him. And he certainly didn’t know what the word ‘dally’ meant, so he kept pulling back on his foster mother’s hand and
reaching for a rock when he saw one the right size.
    “Son, now I mean it!” His foster mother
sounded a bit mad at him. When she pulled him up she kind of
jerked, which didn’t make her any positive points with her new
foster son, as when he got straight again he let fly with a kick to
her shin. Les Paul was growing fast, and weighed more and stood
taller than an average two-year-old, so the kick hurt. She stopped
and knelt down, “Son, now that hurt me.” She grasped both his upper
arms. He figured she would hug him. She didn’t. Instead she
tightened her grip on his arms and very lightly shook him, “Now I
want you to follow along like a good boy.” She gave him that light
shake a second time, “Okay, son?”
    “Okay.” Les Paul wasn’t using many words yet,
but he was learning quite a few. He knew what ‘okay’ meant,
and he spoke the word to give him time. Yes, he would now follow
along and not try to pick up any more rocks, but his little mind
kept seeing something falling, and he wanted to see something
really fall...and he did begin seeing something falling, and
that something began to look a lot like his foster mother.
    But, since he knew what ‘okay’ meant,
like a good little boy, he began to follow along, and his foster
mother’s grip on his hand began to loosen. Up ahead—he had no idea
how far—but he saw a fence of some sort, and a few other people
standing, looking, pointing.
    His little mind kept seeing that
something— his foster mother —falling, and his free right hand
began moving on its own, opening and closing. Just as his hands had
carried out the murder of his twin brother while still in the womb,
his hands now began to ready themselves for another murder. That
voice that sometimes entered his head said, She should have let
you throw at least one rock. She brought this on herself.
    The family reached the lookout point and
somehow the mother and Les Paul got separated from the others. The
fence was not high. His foster mother released his hand, and
stepped close to the fence. The fronts of her knees nearly touched
it. The huge gap of open air beyond the