The Beginning Game: The Upcountry Series

By R.M. Doyon

Nicholas ‘Nicky Nick’ Wells truly believes he is a changed man. He is smarter. He is patient. And he is reverential to those in a position of authority. But is it all just a dangerous ruse? Only days after he is released from one of America’s most infamous prisons, Wells—now a martial arts expert—begins to execute his life’s new mission. Befriending a vulnerable woman to suit his needs, he begins to exact retribution against the most unlikely of targets—an elderly man afflicted with crippling terminal diseases. But is his target really a feeble old man? Or is it simply the beginning of a campaign aimed at those he thinks are responsible for the twelve-hundred and seventy-seven days he spent in a prison cell?

In the third and final episode of a saga that began in 2010, R.M. Doyon returns his readers to upstate New York and the fateful Schumacher family. This is where we meet many of the characters that Doyon richly introduced in Upcountry and Thou Torturest Me. They include the family patriarch, Hubie, a Vietnam veteran who doesn’t believe he’ll make it to his seventy-fifth birthday. Rejoining the narrative, too, is his devoted daughter, Joanne, herself the victim of an abusive husband but has now created a happier life. Then there is the bruising county sheriff, Brian Boychuk, with decades-long links to the Schumacher clan, who at last begins to see that seemingly random acts of harassment are not so random after all. And, once again, we are drawn to the lives of a virtuous young man, who was born into an Amish life, and the ‘English’ girl he never stopped loving.

In this gripping, page-turner of a novel, Doyon deftly brings to a conclusion the story of how one American family beset with cruelty, violence and heartbreak can ultimately experience closure and renewal.   

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.M. Doyon
• Release date: Nov 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536869309

R.M. Doyon

ABOUT THE AUTHOR R.M. Doyon has been a journalist, speechwriter, public relations executive and author for nearly four decades.  A graduate of The University of Western Ontario and Carleton University’s School of Journalism, he began his career with the Ottawa Citizen before becoming a political reporter and Parliamentary Bureau Chief for United Press International. After UPI, Doyon wrote for The Vancouver Province, Maclean’s, and The Financial Post before serving as a speechwriter and communications advisor for two Canadian government departments. He is the co-founder of High Road Communications, a successful public relations firm. Inspired by true events, Upcountry, his debut novel and a story of love, revenge and redemption, was released in October, 2010. Set entirely in Upstate New York, Upcountry has received rave reviews from around the world. His 2013 sequel, Thou Torturest Me, continues the narrative of the tragic Schumacher family, introducing the struggle between an Amish man and an ‘English’ girl, setting in motion a bigotry-driven clash of cultures and violence.  His third and final installment in his Upcountry Series, The Beginning Game, was published in November, 2016.  It recounts the mission of a bitter young man, first introduced in Thou Torturest Me, exacting revenge on those he feels responsible for the twelve-hundred-and-seventy-seven days he spent in an upstate New York prison. A father of two and grandfather to four, he and his wife, Shelley, split their time between the Thousand Islands of the St. Lawrence River and the California desert.

Book preview

To my readers, who have so loyally followed this saga over the past six years.

ONE

AS THE LATE WESTERN SUN was setting on Seward Avenue, Hubie Schumacher peered through the window of his garage and across a broad span of his lawn to the edge of his property. There, standing still as a statue, was a dark and shadowy figure of a man. His back was to the fading light, creating a near halo effect. A dog, sitting motionless as well, was heeling beside him. Both were gazing in his direction.

Not again, he sighed.

Not another hallucination...

He breathed deeply. When will these damned things end? he muttered to himself. When they put me in a box?

This was deeply unsettling to the retired postmaster. Especially since he’d spent such a pleasant couple of hours in his garage. A dusting of spring snow had fallen, with the threat of even more to come. But he had stayed warm and comfortable and content, thanks to the wood-burning stove he had installed more than a decade earlier.

This had been one of his better days, though now the bad ones usually out-numbered the good. For his seventy-fourth birthday, back in September, his daughter Joanne had given him one of those fancy radios that was linked to some satellite service. You can tune into any program anywhere, she had said. Any sports network in the world if you want.

Whatever, he responded, unimpressed. His ancient General Electric set, with its plastic yellow casing, cracked in a few spots from dropping it on the concrete floor, and knobs for tuners, worked just fine thank you very much.

His garage was his lair, his sanctuary. It was always where he found solace. Where he could spend some time caring for his guns, maybe drink a few beers, read the newspaper. The Times wasn’t a bad rag for these parts, though much of its coverage was consumed by the Republican race for president. Talking heads on Fox yesterday said there could be as many as fifteen candidates going for the prize: governors, senators and God knows who else.

But there was not a Ronald Reagan among the whole sad lot, he figured. That man was a giant among men, one of our greatest leaders. Now there was speculation that that bombastic reality show host, the New York casino owner with the lemony comb-over, would throw his hat into the ring. What makes him think he was qualified for president? The world’s a mess, he thought, thanks to Bush’s wars, the root cause of all the mayhem around the globe today. The promise of terrorism was now permanent, making everyone afraid of their shadows. Good thing I’m an old man, he thought. Won’t be around to face the real music.

He was proud of his gun collection, an assortment of cannons that he had once aimed at moose, deer, game-birds and the odd black bear. Of course, they were padlocked safely to a rack he had found in Canada about twenty years back. Well, not all of them were in the garage; he always kept a Glock in his den or—if need be—stuffed in the glove box of his truck. Just in case.

Not that he had much need for these firecrackers of late. Last summer, when he was given his death sentence—he called himself a ‘dead man walking’—his daughter and his sister and everyone else had ganged up on him. Didn’t want him to play with guns any more. Who did they think he was? Some kid with his first pellet gun? He had, after all, owned muskets of many kinds for nearly fifty years, and knew how to use them. His first came when he was sixteen, saving enough money from his job as a stock boy in the Alleghenies to buy it. When things made sense in this idiotic world.

An old fool. That’s what they all think of me now.

He scanned his yard once again, and rubbed his eyes. The man was still there. Staring back. What is he doing on my property? If he’s even real, that is. Had to be all those damned drugs he was taking for his dementia, or whatever the disease was called. Apparently it was named after some German doctor who discovered the problem over a hundred years ago, but he couldn’t remember the guy’s name. Nor did he care. At his age, what did it matter? What did matter, now, was that he had come to dread nightfall. Like now. Because that’s when ‘they’ got worse. They, meaning the illusions or hallucinations or whatever they were. When his imagination ran wild.  

Often, it started with dead or famous people. Not just any member of the deceased, mind you, but the likes of the once-famous, like Lyndon Johnson. In one recurring vision, the president seemed to be speaking to him about Vietnam—and to him only. Young man, the son of a bitch would say, y’all gotta go back there and help me out! We’re losin’—badly! Help coming from a Texan sounded like ‘hep’. Of course, LBJ was referring to the jungles of Vietnam, as if a couple of tours in the Sixties for the former Army sergeant wasn’t enough service to the nation. Damned strange things happening, but he tried not to tell anyone. Because when he did, they considered him crazy.

But, mostly, it was dead people he once knew. A common visitor was Denny Lowry, his son-in-law, the septic tank scrubber. Denny would arrive not just at night when Hubie was slumped in his chair, but anytime during the day. When he was plowing snow, or walking his dog. But mostly at night. All the bastard did was yell at him, and for what? For causing that mess next door a few years back?

Don’t blame me for what happened to you, pal! Talking to himself was now a common occurrence. You deserved everything you got. Should’ve put you away myself! Then he realized what he was doing. So what else is new?

The other person who visited often was Jane, his beautifully difficult daughter, the girl who loved to argue. Her words seemed to reverberate around his thick skull like pinballs under glass. He knew why she visited him. It was to make him relive the events of that fall. What was that? Eight years ago? Or nine? All he knew it was that Thanksgiving Day, and he was out in this same garage when she showed her face in Morgantown. For the first time in years. Since she was eighteen, she had created a different life for herself—in journalism and politics—without family. But she had surprised everyone by showing up on that holiday. To make amends. Before she died.

But now, years later, she was making a few return visits. Only they weren’t exactly pleasant. She was there to lecture him. About Denny, and why he never did anything to save Joanne from his abuse. Just yesterday, he thought he saw her again. Not as a grown-up but as a little girl, perhaps only nine years old. Her long dark hair was parted down the middle, the way she wore it as a kid. She was standing on his lawn—come to think of it, not far from where this guy was standing now. But all she was wearing was a thin nightshirt that fell to her knees. In this cool, late-April weather, she must’ve been freezing. There she was, just staring at him, not saying a word, her pretty face expressionless. Then, after giving his head a shake, she was gone. She had disappeared.

So, now, were his eyes playing games with him again? Seeing people who weren’t there?

Maybe not this time, he thought. This man was no apparition.

He was not going away.

From this distance, he appeared to be dressed in a black leather bomber jacket and matching dark jeans, his neck protected from the elements with a thick woolen scarf. The dog at this feet was smaller than Griz and obviously much younger. Like his owner, this dog was staring in his direction, too. Instinctively, Hubie jerked his head backwards to the rear of the garage. Good, he thought, his Labrador was still asleep on his favorite blanket next to the stove. As old as he was, Hubie knew that Griz still felt the need to protect his master and his property from intruders. He worried that his old dog would awaken and come looking for him.

Hubie decided to walk towards his latest phantom figure, who, to his surprise was not fading from view. Now they were only about fifteen feet away, with Hubie gaining a better look at this broad-shouldered young man, his long blonde hair banded neatly in a ponytail. Above his right eye was evidence of a deep scar, perhaps two inches in length, as if he had been slashed with a shard of glass. On his hands were a pair of weightlifters’ gloves, the ones where the fingers were exposed.

Can I help you? Hubie asked, tentatively. Though on a short leash, the dog beside him let out a few menacing growls. But the younger man cut that short.

Tucker! he hissed. That’s enough! The dog, charcoal black save for a tan chest and matching paws, ceased making sounds. But his dark, dead eyes remained glued to the older man.

The man offered Hubie a calculating smile but not his hand.

Just out walking my dog, sir.

Hubie, squinting into the light, attempted to move a step or two to the left to avoid being blinded by the sun. But the man had noticed and shifted as well. He would maintain his advantage.

You better hold tight to that leash, kid.

I have him under control.

His answer was insufficient in Hubie’s mind. He would issue a warning. This is my property. That makes you a trespasser.

Not really, he replied, pointing to the nearby woods. Public domain, sir.

Wrong, Hubie declared. You’re in my yard.

Just then, the older man heard a yelp from the direction of his garage. Griz had risen from his nap and was now walking briskly towards the two men. At least as quickly as an animal his age could do. Oh, good God, Hubie now thought, this is just what I don’t need right now. Worried about a possible canine confrontation, he stopped and returned his attention towards the man in black.

You’ll have to leave now, and not come back.

I’ll be moving on, sir, the man replied, continuing to shift his well-built frame to make Hubie’s vision more difficult. This made Hubie even more apprehensive.

You look familiar. Do I know you?

The ponytailed man continued to stare Hubie down.

We might’ve met once or twice before...under different circumstances, the stranger replied.

I can’t place you. What’s your name?

That’s not important, now, sir.

Then what do you want?

Nothing much, he replied, calmly. Just trying to reacquaint myself with this fine town of yours. And its equally fine inhabitants.

Hubie glanced across his lawn and beyond to a car parked in front of Joanne’s vacant lot. It was a Japanese-made clunker, he guessed. It had been parked there yesterday, too, and maybe the day before. He thumb pointed towards the vehicle.

Is that yours?

Might be.

By now, Griz was approaching from the rear. He, too, started to growl at the strange dog sitting nervously at the feet of the young man. Suddenly, Tucker lunged towards Griz with a ferocity that Hubie had never witnessed before. His dog had had his run-ins with others in the past, but he was always able to prevent any potential carnage. Sensing that this was not the time for such a battle, the younger man let out another yell.

Tucker! Knock it off, now! And as quickly as the threatening charge had begun, it was over as the dog obeyed his master. 

As you can see, my dog’s still a youngster and is quite...let me say, exuberant. But he’s learning how to do things the right way.

But the near attack had unnerved Hubie, his heart rate quickening as he gasped for breath, with another small burst of pain crossing his chest. He patted his breast pocket in search of his nitroglycerine spray, but it wasn’t there. He had forgotten it on the table next to his chair in the garage.

I’ll say this only once, kid, the former soldier said. I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but get yourself and that dog off of my property, and don’t come back.

Oh, just relax, old man. Immediately, the man realized that he had replied too hastily. He was demonstrating disrespect for his elders, and that was not the way he would behave. I apologize, sir, for my language.

Just leave, Hubie ordered.

The man tugged on his leash, and Tucker was reigned in. As he began walking towards the wooded area, beyond the yard, he turned to address Hubie one last time. His guileful eyes told the story. A warning.

Maybe we’ll meet again...sir?

Before Hubie could respond, the younger man replied to his own question, Oh, I’m sure we will. You take care of yourself now, okay?

Hubie watched as the man and his dog disappeared down the driveway towards his car. Then, motioning to Griz to follow, the two began walking back to his house.

Let’s get inside.

TWO

THE SHERIFF OF MORGAN COUNTY GUIDED his navy-colored Tahoe down the narrow path and cast his eyes towards the attractive seasonal estate that sat handsomely on the shores of the big river before him. Water levels are low, he noticed, maybe two feet below normal. Even with all that snow we got, too. Locals won’t be happy. Might be a dicey boating season.

Brian Boychuk pulled his truck up beside another county cruiser, and gazed over the opulent property. Set on a couple acres, the twin-story, Tudor-styled home, alongside a three-car garage and a casita-like studio close to the water, was less than five years old. It was lovely and secluded. Perhaps too secluded. Its owners, retired teachers with rich pensions and one healthy inheritance, had bought the land, leveled the shack on it and built their dream home.

From the look of the property, now, it was clear they had yet to arrive. Though their yard was lightly blanketed with snow, he could see it strewn with droppings and branches from the nearby cedars and hemlocks and willows, victims of the high winds that pounded this river all winter. The ice had disappeared weeks ago but their beach contained driftwood and other debris, including large chunks of pressure-treated lumber. Another dock would have to be repaired, soon, he thought.

He was greeted by his chief deputy, Jim McKelvie. Jim had been a rookie when Boychuk first was elected sheriff, but he had quickly developed some seriously good police smarts.

Another friggin’ break-in? The uniformed sheriff was legendary in this northwestern New York hamlet of Morgantown, an outpost not far from the big hills. It was a community of fewer and fewer souls—maybe seven thousand—now that most of the town had left its youth nearly bereft of opportunity.

He was a large, imposing man. Sporting his brimmed hat, and a half-length windbreaker, Boychuk’s most noticeable feature was his bulbous, cleanly-shaved head atop a six-foot-four frame. In his younger years, he had worn a bushy red-brown mustache that might have been considered trendy at the time. Now that trademark lip hair had morphed into a paper-white goatee that grew close to the knot of his county-issued necktie. He was not yet fifty but the stress of the job made him look years older. He was constantly on television and in the news, making him the most ubiquitous law enforcement officer around.

Yeah, Jim replied.

How did they get in?

The deputy pointed to a window in the rear of the residence.

Take a look at this, the deputy said, pointing to a hole in the window that had been severed cleanly with what likely were glass cutters. The hole was large enough for a fist to enter and unlock the slider below. There was no evidence of any glass whatsoever. It was as if the thief had not only cut the window, neatly, but had carried away the evidence.

These guys are clever, Boychuk said.

Not sure there’s a ‘they’ here, Sheriff, he said. Looks like it could have been a lone perp.

Why?

Because he covered all of his tracks. All we found was this trail away from the house, made by someone, evidently, dragging a bow from a spruce tree. McKelvie pointed to the tree’s needles on the ground. No tire tracks either. He must’ve parked his vehicle up the hill where the snow melted and walked down. All very clean. Our guy took what he knew was of some value. Didn’t trash the joint. Just picked stuff that is easily fence-able.

Like? the senior officer enquired.

Like the usual. A couple of flat screens, for starters. They’re pretty light nowadays. Some jewelry and silverware. These owners have some dough.

Stealing shit for drugs? Boychuk asked.

Maybe, his deputy replied. But I’m not sure this guy’s a druggie. Too smart for your average crack head.

The same guy then?

Yes, my thinking exactly. This guy needs the dough, but is selective in where he goes and what he takes. Other than the window, there was no damage. None. He’s no vandal. Takes what he can sell and gets the hell out.

Boychuk said nothing, but he tended to agree with Jim’s analysis. This had been the third clean hit in a week. All sizeable private homes that now dotted this river, where two-room cottages or double-wide trailers once stood. Their splendid views of the islands in the distance, and of Canada’s gold coast, were big draws with the moneyed folk in cities like Albany, Syracuse and Rochester.

There were no witnesses, no sightings of any strangers. Just a stealthy individual prowling in the dead of night, preying on the rich for a few bucks. But if he didn’t solve this soon, there would be pressure coming, not only from the county, but from the Troopers as well.

Things had been relatively quiet of late for the career cop. Just routine DUIs, a few domestic squabbles and the usual number of bar fights. Maybe he’d pay a visit to The Paddle and Swigs, later, or tomorrow just to see if any of the bar regulars know anything. Worth a shot.

Well, dust for prints, Jim. I’d be surprised if we get anything, given that he was probably wearing gloves. If he goes to all the trouble to cover up his footprints and tire tracks, I suspect there won’t be any. Which means our man is likely known to us. Has a record.

He also reminded his deputy to make a few calls to the pawn shops down in Watertown, too. Not much to go on, but this guy might’ve slipped up. Doubt it, though.

Will do, Brian, Jim said. I just got off the phone with the owners down in Rome. As you can understand, they feel pretty violated today.

Well, these are just break ‘n enters. Nobody’s dead, the sheriff added. Their windows can be fixed. Their stuff can be replaced.

His mind did a double take. Mentioning that ‘nobody’s dead’ brought a flash back. Why his thoughts immediately returned to the Schumacher homes on Seward Avenue, he didn’t know. They were memories of one of the grisliest events in county history, but that was nearly nine years ago now. A lot of water through that sewer pipe. But, still, probably the highest profile case he’d encountered. Mainly because it was personal, since he and Jane Schumacher were once....

And then there were those events surrounding the Troyer family, a large Amish brood that experienced such tragedy about four years back. All once again involving the Schumacher family.

Poor Hubie, Boychuk now thought. Life has been very cruel to his friend of more than thirty years. How could one man deal with so much loss, and still—his thought process stopped dead in its tracks. He was going to say that Hubie still had his marbles. But that wasn’t true, and Benji Hoggarth had confirmed that to him just the other day. Hubie was seeing imaginary people, regularly. Hearing non-existent music playing, doors knocking with nobody on his porch. Frightening.

The old man was on his last legs, Boychuk concluded, and vowed that a short visit to Seward Avenue was required, perhaps before his day was done.

Now, as he glanced across the still-frigid St. Lawrence, he noticed a freighter churning up river at about eighteen knots. Red with white letters, a Canuck boat; it was strong and long, perhaps a football field in length, and deep in the water, too. Probably full of iron ore from Québec, headed to the steel mills of Canada or Ohio. That’s what was wonderfully attractive about this river, and its seaway. One never tires of such sights. Life goes on and it can be beautiful, he thought.

Hearing Jim wrap up a call on his police radio, Boychuk returned to the task at hand. This guy is more intelligent than the average criminal, Boychuk concluded. What guy would go to all the trouble of covering up footprints and tire tracks? A smart guy, that’s who. He recalled a case across this very river, in Canada, where a high-ranking Army colonel—now doing life for rape and murder—was caught when the cops matched tire tracks in the snow at the crime scenes to his car. Boot tracks, too! He wore the same boots to the police station when he was brought in for questioning.

But my guy, Boychuk told himself, was doing everything to stay out of jail.

At least for now. But he’ll mess up some day.

Guys like him always do.

THREE

HIS INITIAL MISSION COMPLETE, the first of many to come, Nicholas Wells glanced in his rear-view mirror as he drove the slate gray ’97 Nissan Sentra over the snowy back roads of Morgan County. In the back seat, was his dog, deep in slumber after an eventful night. Into the rearview mirror, he smiled with affection. You handled your first assignment with exception, today, Tuck, he said aloud. We’ll have to find you an adequate reward!

Admittedly, he had cringed when Belle pulled up to the gates of the institution yesterday. This car, he thought, is a miserable piece of rusted steel. Its tires are balloon bald. The muffler is dragging so close to the ground that scrapes could be heard with every bump in the road. Not to mention the trunk; he had to clamp it shut with a chunk of razor wire. But what can you expect for three hundred bucks? Not much. So, he wouldn’t blame her; it was nearly all the money she’d had and she didn’t know any better.

Besides, this broken-down vehicle represented something more important to him.

It meant freedom.

To change his life, for the better. And he would start those improvements immediately, starting with his name. No longer would he respond to Nick. Really, was there any more mundane a moniker than Nick? Or, worse—Nicky! In his previous life, the few friends he’d had always called him Nicky, and it pissed him off. As if he was one of those Dutchess County duds that he’d grown up with. He knew them all; the wops and the krauts and the mics who dropped out of high school by the ninth grade and never ventured beyond a few crummy saloons along the Hudson.

No, he would put an end to all of that. Now he would insist that everyone would know him by a more dignified name, and that was Nicholas. Yes, that’s what people would call him. He’d insist upon it.

Because Nicholas was certainly a more befitting name for the man he now was.

Because Nicholas Wells was a changed man. 

The institution. What a fine description for his former home. With its textured concrete walls, corner turrets and a guard tower topped by a copper-colored cupola, it was one of the most infamous of its kind in the country—or anywhere. Outside, near the entrance, a couple of poles stood proudly; one was flying Old Glory, of course; the other, in royal blue, displayed a coat of arms the state adopted just after the Revolution. On that windless, cloud-filled spring day, both banners had remained flaccid and calm. Almost as if everything was right in the world.

The joint. He never liked the many such derogatory and uncomplimentary names that its inhabitants called it, and especially that one. Why, even the gentlemen whose jobs were to supervise guests like Wells, the same ones who like his friends labeled him ‘Nicky’ from day one, despite his protestations, would have nothing to do with such pejoratives. No, they had consumed the Kool-Aid long ago, and in fact had gone a step further. To them, it was a ‘correctional facility’. Where men like him would arrive jaded, defiant and certainly hardened, but leave rehabilitated.

Right. As if most of those discharged cons were ever corrected. That was not the purpose of the maximum security prison set in the rolling hills of western New York. No, the real reason that fortresses like that existed, as everyone knew, was to inflict as much discipline, punishment and pain as it could upon its guests.

It was that clear. It was that simple.

But that didn’t matter to Nicholas, now. He had paid his dues over the past three-plus years for reckless endangerment and resisting arrest. Yes, the judge in his case hadn’t taken kindly to the fact that he had fired a couple of rounds at that backcountry sheriff a few years back. But he refused to send him away for attempted murder.

Bless his heart. The judge, not the sheriff.

But from the moment he was invited to stay in an eight-by-ten suite, he was determined the institution would not correct him. No, he would correct himself.

Now, as Wells turned down Rathwell Road to the trailer he called home, his mind wandered back to his last day of service. He had celebrated—if that was the correct word, and it was not—three birthdays inside those walls and was closing in on a fourth. But now his life was a renaissance of sorts. He would execute his master plan, one that had consumed every moment of his being over the twelve-hundred and seventy-seven days he had stayed in the facility.

The man who occupied a small corner of C-Block had not made any waves, which the uniforms appreciated. Now twenty-seven with Viking blonde long hair, he had heard the taunts, up close and away. Hey, pretty boy, they would say. Yes, you asshole! You can share my space any time you want. But mostly he had ignored them. Don’t get him wrong, however. He had received some relief from time to time from one his willing neighbors; after all, a man had to do what a man had to do.

But there had been no fights, no gang bangs, no repercussions of any real sort that most might have expected at such a notorious facility. Well, that wasn’t totally accurate. Early in his stay, maybe only a month in, he