Lucía: Facing Demons

By Edwin R. Galdámez

In a world of predator versus prey, Lucía Calderón knows that women are always on the losing side. Violence against women destroys lives, leaving physical and psychological scars that even the fearless cannot avoid. To avenge centuries of abuse, Lucía must be intelligent and tough.

When a deranged man she met years earlier comes for her once again, startling events come to light. Lucía tries desperately to unlock hidden answers but realizes that the key to this mystery is not in the present but in her past. However, uncovering a criminal she can barely recall is a dangerous game as she refuses to sit and wait.

She does not fight only for herself, though; she fights for all women. As Lucía gets closer to the truth, she descends into a darkened world where madness rules and evil waits in shadow. With her life now hanging in the balance, Lucía relies on her cleverness and determination—the only weapons that can keep her alive and keep her loved ones safe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532062445

Edwin R. Galdámez

Edwin R. Galdámez is a family man and terminal manager of a transportation company. He is thankful to every group that fights against violence toward women and hopes that science will one day cure all severe mental disorders. Galdámez currently lives in Miami, Florida.

Book preview

FACING DEMONS

LUCÍA

EDWIN R. GALDÁMEZ

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Lucía

Facing Demons

Copyright © 2018 Edwin R. Galdámez.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-6243-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-6244-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018914132

iUniverse rev. date: 10/01/2019

CONTENTS

1 In the Beginning

2 Dark and Long

The Web

His Urge

Her Work

His Delirium

Principles

3 The Website

Admonition

4 The Address

Hector and the Clinic

Uncertainty

5 Night

Hector and Nicholas

6 Sleepover

A Second Time

Unexpected

7 Suspicion

8 Findings

9 The Unexpected

10 Saint Lucía

11 Defiance

Taken

12 The Hive

In the House

Still Empty

The Shed

13 Bees

Caught

14 The Phone

15 The Folder

16 Inside the Devil’s Cage

Sergeant Dakota Hearts

The Scalpel

17 Safe

John and Hector

Dr. Raúl Ignacio Flores

A Camaro in the Dark

Reliving

18 Sunday

The Hotel

Software and More

The Beating

19 Remember

Protection

20 Revelation

Hell’s Gate

Analysis

Pictures

The Page

Monday

Reflections

Offerings

The Bait

Finally His

Possibilities

The Stakeout

The Just Was, Still Is, and Will Always Be the Hope

Reasons

Her Radiant Glow

Afterword

Mio nome è la mia identità.

My name is my identity.

–Angelo Benedetto

To my wife, Janet, thank

you for the opportunity and the space to write. You are a gem I am lucky to have.

To my daughter, Elaine, who can be more intrepid and at the same time more fragile than you?

To my mother, Marta, your kindness and tenderness are a blessing.

To my sister, Gloria, you are always so thoughtful.

I love you all. This book is for you.

1

IN THE BEGINNING

Determined to inflict pain, to damage, and to show who was in command, the man released a vicious slap that cut through the air with a savage rage. He crushed the woman’s face with a mutated force, a male gene that had finally transformed after centuries in the making. The woman felt his fury. When the world twisted along with her neck, she knew that he was eagerly unleashing it. Cruelty had changed him forever. Another violent slap, and she was no more.

Lucía Calderón had heard a very dry sound, and the meaning had been clear: punishment. A whimpering voice and a terrified pleading had followed. Barbaric anger in the second slap had frozen her in her tracks and had created a ruthless vision of the unseen scene. Then the begging had suddenly stopped. Immediately after, an impenetrable wall that halted the poignant and disturbing images always followed. It was a mental block that created a familiar lapse of unnerving silence, where troubling memories dissolved into upsetting reality.

She looked down to her hands, into the beads of the rosary her mother had given her. The luminous crystals rotated under her fingertips, shining like small lustrous diamonds with every move of her thumbs. And even though it was Advent time, when all the faithful rejoiced, for the Lord had come to all at Christmas, lately she had been experiencing a different feeling. She had been reciting the Sorrowful Mysteries. The Lord had suffered. The Virgin Mary had suffered. They understood the subject. And she would have been done by then if not for the unsettling flash. Applying a little more pressure and feeling the sorrow of the mysteries more personally, she clasped the crucifix and resumed her personal talk with the divine. Once she said the last prayer, she hung the rosary on the wall by her bed and focused on something else, something distant from the dreadful images.

With tons of homework to do, finals coming soon, and her laptop waiting downstairs on the dining table, she descended the stairs. Her parents’ portrait appeared in the spacious living room. She avoided their glance as a tear trembled in her big dark eyes. The images and the tormenting feelings threatened to return, eating at the blocking-wall boundaries. She concentrated on the present. She wanted something more recent, more cheerful, but in her state, what came was grief, her best friend’s grief and their last conversation.

Consider your life a fortunate one, Lucía had told Anastasia, a twenty-three-year-old Swedish redhead with green eyes and freckles. Anastasia had sniffled and brushed off escaping tears with her fingertips. In a world where abuse, broken marriages, bastard siblings, and hate are daily rising statistics, love from parents of a stable home provided you with a thick bed of feathers over thorns. Many don’t and won’t have anything close to that, she added, containing upsetting emotions underneath her own skin for her friend’s sake. And as Lucía had hoped, Anastasia’s grief mildly subsided.

I wish I had known my father better, Anastasia replied.

Lucía had learned to expect Anastasia’s heartache. When the anniversary of her father’s death came near, Anastasia always met it with sorrow. She had her father’s red hair, which constantly reminded her of him, and still wore the wristwatch he had given her. Tell me about it. Fathers are difficult to decipher, especially if they are omnipotent and creators of everything. I should know, Lucía said with bitterness in her tone, as her own father had come to mind. For years, a disgusting sensation of being forced and manipulated sometimes had poured over the rim in buckets, spreading on her skin an unwanted brand. Mine is no exception, she continued, managing to sound comforting to nurture her friend’s wound while disregarding her own. He’s still alive, and there’s a lot I don’t understand about him.

At least you spend time together. He takes you wherever he travels.

To places where girls shouldn’t go, to business meetings that stink of alcohol and betrayal, where abuse and hate make a perfect couple, Lucía quickly argued with distaste, spilling emotions to release some of the pressure. He takes me behind shabby walls and glamorous places where business is a treacherous world. Don’t be fooled. It’s a rough environment, she warned.

Do you question your dad’s integrity? Anastasia asked.

Lucía had known for some time that Anastasia looked at her as the fortunate one and not the other way around. It had been a matter of perception. I believe he’s proven his, she answered. I can’t say the same about some of the people we meet.

One day your dad’s going to leave you with more than memories, Anastasia said.

Lucía understood the meaning of Anastasia’s remark. She referred to a thriving company and a social and economic status she had been trying to attain. Anastasia had known a good life. Her family had been financially sound until her father’s death had put an end to a steady source of income. Since then, the only things on her side had been her dad’s generous life insurance and bank account, which her mother had been using to pay for school and living expenses. Although not that of a multimillionaire, Anastasia’s background hadn’t been one of poverty either. But to Anastasia, Coral Gables represented elegance, grace, and luxury. And through a good education, she wanted to reach that kind of living.

Tell me about it, Lucía repeated, that time with less sympathy. He’s going to leave me with some contacts whose uncontrollable hunger for power and crude, intimate lives make me sick. My dad exposed me to these things, while yours shielded you from them. Your dad was different.

But yours is still alive, Anastasia interjected.

Anastasia was a complainer, an opinionated scaredy-cat, and many other exasperating things, but she was also the best friend one could ever wish for. From her, friendship was unconditional. It carried support and trust never to be betrayed, which were qualities people sometimes wanted to take advantage of. That, and losing her dad so young, provided reasons for Anastasia’s annoying attitude, which served as a shield to avoid being played like a fool and as a personal resentment against life. Lucía had known Anastasia for a few years already. Sometimes she was able to read what the imaginative, but most of all outspoken, redhead thought. When Anastasia tilted her head pensively, Lucía recognized that her friend was feeling melancholic, recollecting some of those imaginary adventures with her father, in their garden, inside a tent, and among stars, as Anastasia had sometimes mentioned.

True. I know nothing can bring yours back. But the real difference is in what you remember.

You’re right, Anastasia conceded. We don’t have the same experiences. Maybe your father wanted you to endure what he took you through to make you stronger. I don’t know. What I know is that the only memories I have of mine are childhood stories. Nothing more.

He died when you were a kid. Look. I know the date when he passed away is near and you miss him. But if a smile comes to your face when you remember him—trust me—you had a great dad.

Look at you, Anastasia pointed out. You’re so mentally strong, and I’m not.

That much was true, Lucía agreed. Her father had taken care of it. To transcend what the largest but weaker percentage of the world’s population expected to ever accomplish, she had to be. I guess I can thank my father for his personal training in the family business, Lucía replied, wishing he had spared her from those meetings and those people.

Let me tell you something, Lucía had warned. Being my father’s daughter isn’t easy. My expensive education expands my horizon beyond ordinary aspirations. I’m thankful for that. The price, my price, is that he expects me to reach the top. And the scary thing is that I actually want to. Lucía had understood that prepared and successful women, many of whom had sat in powerful chairs that demanded execution of very critical decisions, had confronted tough hurdles and had delivered implacable verdicts. Groomed like them, Lucía had felt the impulse to enhance their legacy in every way she could.

It had only been a day earlier that Lucía had tried to cheer up Anastasia. Putting her friend’s sadness aside for the moment, alone in her house, she struggled to find something to smile about. Although determined to stay composed, she felt a revolting, nauseating sensation in her gut. Stay, the commanding voice said. Don’t move. Prompting a stormy state of mind, repugnant visions she had once endured and forgotten were resurrecting. As a seven-year-old, she had been unable to understand them; as a woman conscious of the escalating brutality in the world, though, their interpretation had become repulsive.

Let’s play. A boy’s friendly voice echoed. Let’s play. Through hideous flashes of repressed memories, her life tasted sour.

She walked into the dining room and sat at the end of the long table, facing her laptop. There, a need to know the reason for the voices and the images pressed her deep into her subconscious. She had to unearth what remained buried. Lost in the murkiness of childhood recollections, she looked right through the computer and traveled back in time to uncover the missing visions and explain her sickening gut feelings of physical abuse and psychological torture.

A thin rim of light delineating a barn’s door straight ahead and a faint buzzing of bees had created a sinister property. To the right, going deep like a malevolent forest, a cluster of pine trees that grew immensely high blocked all celestial light from view. To the left, between the house and the barn, scattered trees with crooked claws for branches accentuated an ominous pitch-black night. As she had drawn closer to a woman’s aching voice, seven-year-old Lucía Calderón had sensed lurking shadows and menacing silhouettes watching her under a starless sky. She hunched over. With head slightly submerged in dreadful expectation, she crossed her arms to clutch herself tight, to shrink away from the staring shadows, to gather strength.

Stupid bitch, a man yelled. The fury of a violent slap traveled through the air.

Bold as always, Lucía took one step, then another. Her eyes enlarged to capture every detail. The agonizing and frightening weeping ahead sounded like some awful wailing from a victim who had been condemned to eternal suffering. Lucía could have stayed put and listened to the bellowing beyond, but fear had never deterred her. She had to find out the reason for the suffering and the wicked.

When Lucía stood at the door, the tormented woman cried out, Stop, please!

The instant Lucía had pulled the door open, the raging man in his madness had grabbed the woman by the arm, viciously slapped her with the big palm of his hand, and furiously ejected the flimsy body away. Like a rag doll with torn clothes and flying hair, the woman had fallen hard on the ground, sprawled and motionless, face distorted and twisted in agony. That’s when the jerk Lucía had dreaded happened. As if everything had converged into that moment in time, a hand had covered her mouth, and she had been taken away into darkness amid a loud sound of bees buzzing harshly in her head.

Twenty-four-year-old Lucía shuddered on the chair’s edge, one hand over her mouth. Those unnerving and never-shared images had come back. It bothered her not to know exactly why, because each time they repeated, a revolting feeling inside sickened her.

She stood, walked to the french doors facing the back of the house, and stared at the garden—colorful, diverse, and beautiful. Her mom’s presence radiated in the warmth of every placid detail of the house, as well as in every stage of her life, influencing each decision. Thank God, because without her mom’s feminine touch, life under her father’s scrutiny felt too demanding, too tough, too unyielding.

She looked at her reflection in the glass, at her rough beauty, at her kind and fiery big dark eyes. Whether she liked it or not, she embodied her mother’s delicate looks and her father’s raw strength, both in genes and training.

2

DARK AND LONG

Mist rose from the dull water of a large pond, intensifying the mystery of his presence. Wherever he went, people always wondered about the inexplicable events he left behind. Who’d caused them, and why? Nobody ever imagined the answer, even if it was staring them in the face. Made of better and much different clay, he was above everybody else. Drifting mist spread and mixed with air from incoming rain. He inhaled deeply through dilated nostrils, and the woman’s fragrance within the mix shook him feverishly with a desire for flesh. His body was thirsty once more. And as his hands turned into fists, his glossy leather gloves stretched and shone where his knuckles protruded. The woman’s smell, her beauty, her whole being lingered in his mind and enthralled him like nobody else’s. That was a sign of a renewed beginning.

He examined his surroundings. Behind him across the pond, the houses were quiet. Ahead and to his right, a straight line of continuous painted wood and concrete delineated the rear portion of the block where she lived. All around the pond, Florida gama grass covered a large green area. Thanks to a few indifferent residents who let their dogs walk freely, people rarely walked that particular green zone between the fences and the pond. It was a scattered minefield of dog turds.

He glanced at his watch. It was time. Dressed in black, including a ski mask over his head, he took quick steps, eyes set to the nearest corner of her house, the right corner. He curled his fingers around a baluster and a rail, grabbing the ball and the metal so tight that pure upper body and leg strength proved sufficient to raise him over the fence. He moved behind a six-foot-tall row of hibiscus until a clearing through the branches provided an ideal angle of approach. To the right of the house, there was a long wall with two windows, then french doors behind the patio, and then the kitchen, with a window that let daylight in. With trained moves, he fished out a small pair of binoculars and adjusted the image. Beyond the garden, the cast iron furniture on the patio, and the french doors, she finally came into focus. Accentuating his need, instant satisfaction delivered a clutching chill to his skin and a familiar burning to his penetrating eyes. He fingered the instruments inside his waist pouch and thought about their specific purpose. All he needed was at hand. Soon, he thought.

The Web

Inside, Lucía concentrated. She stared at the laptop. News about the winter solstice in the northern hemisphere caught her attention. It was a time of darkness, and not everybody was aware of it. She grabbed her smartphone and dialed. When the voice answered, she asked, What is the fastest way to reach society these days?

What are you talking about? Anastasia inquired.

What crosses international boundaries faster than anything else? Lucía asked, hoping her best friend would come up with the obvious answer.

"What is this? A Who Wants to Be a Millionaire training camp?" Anastasia answered.

The aggravated tone meant that Anastasia’s redhead temper was rising already.

I’m talking about the internet.

Oh. Well, that explains it, Anastasia said.

As expected, sarcasm came on cue. Lucía’s Swedish friend had a way to irritate even the most peaceful person. It was probably her mixture of Spanish blood and redhead easy-to-boil temper. But Lucía also knew that deep inside, Anastasia was a difficult-to-find loyal friend and a sweetheart. I’m staring at my laptop and realized that I can’t communicate with our awareness group. I mean, there is no way for an outsider to know that we exist.

Okay, Anastasia said slowly.

Now that she had finally awakened Anastasia’s curious nature, Lucía had to explain. The group needs a website. We need a way to persuade people to join us and to educate them.

It’s an idea. But who’s going to work on it. You’re the only one I know with some computer skills. And I don’t think you have the time to work on it right now. Finals are coming, remember?

Lucía liked computers. They weren’t the center of her life. But she had taken advantage of their functionality in something other than games or mail, especially after a worm had invaded her contact list and had spread a message under her name. It had been so irritating and embarrassing to explain the incident that she had decided to learn everything about that worm and web pages. Her skills weren’t the best for the complicated website she had in mind, but she knew enough to start. A plain website wouldn’t be difficult to come up with. Yet, influenced by her father’s philosophy, she understood that effort and a thought process were vital to come up with a quality product. She said, I have the perfect person for the job.

Your Salvadorean acquaintance? Anastasia asked.

He’s really good. If I ask, he might help.

I bet he will, with something more than the website, Anastasia commented.

What do you mean?

Anastasia had been hinting and wanted Lucía to confess that Max was after romance.

Nothing, Anastasia said, trailing the word. So, you’re going to ask him?

We don’t have many options here. Unless we pay another professional, Lucía stated.

With what money? The group doesn’t have any.

Done then. I’ll start, and Max can take it from there. Can you come and help?

No can do. I have a lot to study, she said. Maybe tomorrow. But call me later and tell me how you’re doing.

Okay, Lucía said, letting a pondering silence linger between them. In a gentle, caring voice, she asked, Are you okay? Lucía didn’t specify her concern in the question, but she knew that Anastasia would understand.

I’m okay. Mom called me from Spain. She’s visiting Grandpa and Grandma. She’s not saying it, but I know she’s feeling lonely. We talked about Dad and comforted each other. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Call me later, okay?

Okay, Lucía said softly and started to work.

While she concentrated, with both hands on her forehead and eyes goggling at the laptop on the table, she inhaled air redolent with rosemary’s fragrance, which stimulated groundbreaking thoughts.

Once the project felt too draining, she counteracted fatigue with a steady consumption of tasty and freshly brewed coffee, which she slowly sipped.

Once she got to the bottom of the coffeepot, a sudden urge to talk tingled in her.

Anastasia said, Lucía, what’s going on? You fell off the bed?

Lucía was already familiar with Anastasia’s habit of disguising matter-of-fact comments as questions. And she also realized that her friend sounded half-asleep. She ignored the comment and the sleepy voice, saying, You said to call you back.

You know how late it is now? Anastasia grunted.

Lucía took a few steps toward the kitchen and stared at the little clock by the window. It was Saturday morning already, two in the morning to be exact. Wow, time went flying. What I’m working on is very exciting, probably the best thing we can do for the group. I think I’ve got it now, at least the main idea. But I’m going to need a lot of help.

You drank coffee late again? You know it doesn’t let you fall asleep. Listen to yourself. Your words are popping up so fast that they’re hitting your lips before your brain has time to process them.

Anastasia was right. Lucía was feeling a light tingling in her face, as if a bunch of ants were crawling up her head. I have something very important to tell you. You have to come tomorrow. Remember that my parents are gone. We’ll have the house for ourselves.

You’re changing the subject. That means I guessed correctly. So I’d better say yes now before you keep me on the phone all night trying to convince me. When you set your mind to something, you never quit. You’re relentless when you’re committed, you know. So, fine. We’ll meet tomorrow. Now I’m going to hang up and fall asleep.

That sarcasm is not healthy, Anastasia. How many times do I need to tell you?

Click, Lucía. Click. That’s the sound of my phone going off the air. I’ll call you when I wake up. Good night. She finally yawned and hung up.

What a friend! Anastasia didn’t even last ten minutes on the phone, Lucía thought. Lightning suddenly burst in the distance, and a low, deep rumble traveled through the sky. Just as the weather forecast predicted, a windy and rainy night, she murmured, eyeing the sky.

His Urge

The man had waited patiently, admiring, watching her walk to the kitchen, pour coffee, and massage her eyelids. Alone in this big house, once asleep, nothing would wake her up. He decided to get closer. He had walked through a pergola and then had weaved his body among marlberry and giant leather ferns, where the shape of a woman had suddenly appeared. The image had been a statue bearing an inscription of Santa Lucía. But in the pitch-black night, the statue had stood perfectly visible, watching. He had dismissed the saint and had continued moving cautiously toward the woman.

He finally squatted between red hibiscus and the kitchen wall, right underneath the window. From his waist pouch, he unrolled a black snake tube camera and shaped it as a periscope. Raising it to the window and aiming from a corner, as soon as he had set eyes on her, the chill had returned. The woman’s natural tanned skin had the proper intensity to produce a caramel color. Saliva spread in his mouth, tasting her, exciting him. Dark hair, white teeth, full, well-delineated lips, gorgeous dark eyes … she was beautiful.

As if a spell had sent him into a trance, his mind bathed in a shower of erotic and savage possibilities. The reason for two different sexes had nothing to do with marriage or sentimentalism as much as desire and procreation.

Then, he saw her grabbing the phone and punching a number. Who had she called at this time?

The conversation hadn’t lasted that long. The man couldn’t tell who the woman had been talking to, but he could see that something strange had happened to her. While she had talked on the phone, her lips had been moving fast. And even with a mug in her hand, she had managed to move it all over without spilling its contents. He had no doubt that she had her wires sparking, and the electrical current she had certainly experienced had dilated her eyes beyond normal. Caffeine