The Corruption Within Read online

  The Corruption Within

  The Demontender Series

  Prologue

  ◆◆◆

  I’m no angel, all right? I’ve made my fair share of mistakes. To be honest, I’ve made enough mistakes to count as a few people’s shares. I’ve done some things I’m not proud of: hurt some people, betrayed people I’ve cared about, had more brushes with the law than I care to remember.

  I’ve always thought of myself as a decent person, deep down. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Doesn’t everyone think of themselves as fundamentally good? At least, everyone that pauses long enough to consider the question.

  And before you judge me too harshly, you should consider what I had to work with, you know? I’d bounced between group homes and foster homes since I was five, because my folks preferred needles to their son. Never going to the same school two years in a row. Growing up knowing everything I owned could be carried in two hands.

  No, wait. That isn’t what I wanted to say. Sure, a lot of foster parents look at their kids like a paycheck, but many of them do the best they can. I’m sure it can’t be easy taking care of a bunch of kids with all kinds of emotional baggage, like me. The point is, when you grow up without someone to take care of you, you learn to take care of yourself.

  No, that is not the point.

  What I’m trying to say is that I want to do better. I’m trying to be a good person. The thing is, I’ve just recently learned what it means to be a good person. Or rather, I’ve recently begun to learn what it means. It started when I, for the first time in my life, met someone who was good. Not just nice or friendly, and not just helpful because it was their job. Someone who actually cared enough to sacrifice. Someone willing to risk being beaten, robbed, betrayed, or worse, because they thought people were worth the risk. Someone good.

  So I’m trying to be like them. I’m trying to be good, or at least better. Just don’t expect too much from me.

  Like I said, I’m no angel.

  Chapter 1

  ◆◆◆

  It had been a rough week for me. Well, if I’m being honest, it had been a rough twenty years, but that week had been a particular low. I had been released from jail on Monday morning and was homeless by that afternoon.

  Rockham, Colorado, provides inmates with a bus ticket to anywhere in the city when they are released. I guess it was intended to keep former inmates from harassing the residents and businesses within walking distance of the jail. I took the advice of the guard that handed me the ticket and took the bus to a shelter, since I didn’t have anyone willing to come get me, much less let me stay with them.

  What the guard hadn’t told me was that the shelter was already over capacity. Apparently, the dry summer had led to an extremely dry fall, which, combined with some moronic campers lighting a fire on a windy day, and now like half the state was on fire.

  The poor soul whose job it was to turn people away told me that every shelter in the state, and likely the surrounding states, was filled to capacity with people forced to evacuate due to the brush fire. She said that most of the hotels were booked up too, but that didn’t matter to me as much since I didn’t have money to pay for a room, even if one had been available.

  The few dollars I had went toward two gas station hotdogs and a few packs of those square orange crackers with peanut butter. Those lasted me through breakfast on Wednesday. By Friday, after four nights of sleeping in parks and alleys and two days of hunger, I was feeling significantly less than cheerful.

  I was tempted to break into a car for spare change and whatever I could find that could be pawned, or at the very least to snatch some food from a store. While jail, with its squeaky beds and bland food, was beginning to look like a viable option, I had promised myself I wouldn’t go down that road again, and I wanted to keep that promise for at least a week. Of course, I really wanted to eat too.

  I was wandering the streets of downtown Rockham, hoping to stumble upon a solution to my problems. I turned a corner and found myself stuck behind a middle-aged woman who, along with her five kids, managed to take up the entire sidewalk. Her wild hand gestures and pleas made her look like she was trying to herd feral cats.

  She wore a sky-blue dress with the cut and style of a hotel housekeeper, and when she turned her head to wangle a wandering kitten, I could see deep lines creasing her face as a testament to a hard, tiring life.

  I followed behind the kitten rodeo for a couple of blocks, not bothering to pass them. I had nowhere I was in a hurry to get to and, to be honest, the chaos surrounding the family was soothing for me. The woman’s short rebukes and urges to keep moving, while firm, rang with an undertone of affection that reminded me that in some places, for some people, there existed such a thing as family.

  After crossing the third street, one of the smaller children snuck his hand into his mother’s purse. The mom, who was trying to mediate an escalating disagreement between the two oldest children, did not notice as the boy pulled out a small green-and-red bag of candy. The boy, greedily fixated on his sugary loot, didn’t notice when a folded piece of paper fell from the purse and landed on the sidewalk in a tiny cloud of dust.

  When I reached the spot where the paper had landed, I noticed it was actually an envelope. In the top left-hand corner, in bold print, was the name of a large hotel chain. The bottom right corner had a clear plastic window where I could see a crisp twenty-dollar bill. I picked up the envelope and could tell from the weight and thickness that there was a stack of bills inside. The woman had obviously cashed her paycheck and shoved the money back into the envelope.

  I stared at the envelope for a moment, and my stomach began to growl as I imagined the large, greasy cheeseburger I could buy with the money. The ache in my back intensified at the thought of the possibility of sleeping in a soft, warm bed. I started to turn to walk away, the money already half spent in my mind, but was stopped by the image of five hungry children crying while a desperate and broken woman searched her purse, hoping against hope that she had overlooked the money the previous ten times.

  I told myself I was overreacting. I mean, I didn’t know she needed the money. Maybe she had a husband, or boyfriend—or girlfriend—with a good job. Maybe she only worked to make enough money to save for a vacation or a new car. She might not need the money. And I knew I needed it. I was hungry and tired and there was no meal or clean bed in sight for me.

  She probably had family or friends that could help if she needed it, and there were government programs to help feed hungry children. I had no one, and without a place of residence or physical disability, I wasn’t likely to qualify for any type of aid. At least nothing that would help me any time soon.

  Part of me wondered why my conscience was giving me such a hard time. It wasn’t like I had never stolen anything before, and in much less desperate situations. I guess it felt different this time because I had actually seen the woman whose money I was holding. I’d seen the weariness in her slumped shoulders and heard the tenderness in her words to her children. If I had seen the money first, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. In fact, I’d probably be eating a sloppy cheeseburger already. But I had seen her and her children, and it bothered me.

  It felt like an eternity that I stood there trying to decide what I was going to do. I looked up from the envelope to see the chaotic little family had continued walking maybe fifteen feet. My pulse quickened as I realized I wouldn’t even have to run. I could just continue walking, and no one would ever know. The woman probably wouldn’t even realize the money was gone until she got home.

  Then I noticed an old man standing partway between the family and me. He was in front of a store door, keys in his hand, obviously about to open shop for the day. He w
ore faded old blue jeans and a button-up canvas shirt. His close-cropped, gray hair ended in a hairline losing the battle against time, and his dark, leathery skin suggested much of that time was spent outside.

  His eyes are what stood out to me the most though. They were a soft, crystal blue that shone in stark contrast to the harsh, weathered lines of his face. He watched with me with a quiet intensity.

  His eyes held mine for the briefest of moments and then, before I even realized I’d made a decision, I called out, “Ma’am! Ma’am! I think you dropped this!”

  The family stopped and turned around. Seeing me, the woman instinctively pulled her children back, placing herself between them and me. I awkwardly thrust out the envelope and took a few steps forward. Her eyes got wide when she saw the envelope, and she hastily stepped to meet me halfway. She took the money from my hand, mumbled a nervous “thank you,” and turned and ushered her children quickly down the street.

  I stood watching them walk away for a moment, irritation building inside me. I hadn’t expected a tearful hug or anything, but the suspicious and guarded “thank you” was deflating. I tried to tell myself I had done the right thing, that she probably wanted to make a bigger deal of thanking me, and that she was justifiably anxious around the smelly, scruffy stranger holding her money.

  But really, I just felt angry.

  Didn’t she know what a sacrifice I had made? Couldn’t she see how easy it would have been for me to keep the money? Couldn’t she have given me a few bucks as a thank you, enough for a candy bar and a cup of hot coffee?

  I looked toward the old man, hoping for some type of validation, but he had already stepped inside his store, closing the door behind him. Above the door, protruding from the wall, was a thick wooden sign with large, blocky letters reading “GABE’S BAR AND GRILL.” In the window left of the door was a “Help Wanted” sign. As I watched, the weathered old man glanced at me through the window, picked up the sign, and walked away.

  Indignation rose in my chest, and part of me wanted to storm into the restaurant and give the old man a piece of my mind. Who was he to write me off so quickly? He didn’t know me or my life. What gave him the right to decide he knew enough to determine my worth after just a few seconds?

  Then I noticed my reflection in the restaurant window, and my anger faded into shame. My straight, black hair was so oily from not having washed it that it, ironically, looked like I had just stepped out of the shower. It hung down over my face, mostly concealing my brown eyes that looked even darker than usual due to the bags under them. Several days removed from my last substantial meal, my cheeks looked hollow, and my not-quite-six-foot-tall frame looked more gaunt than lean. The red-and-black flannel I wore, along with the worn blue jeans and black sneakers, were stained and smelled of sweat and worse.

  Who was I kidding? The old man had every right to write me off. Just as the cat-herding woman had. Hell, I would have written me off too if I were them.

  Still, I was hungry, broke, and desperate. I swallowed my pride, opened the door, and stepped inside.

  A bell attached to the top of the door jingled as I came in. The old man looked up, giving me a stern glare as he placed the help wanted sign on the bar in front of him. He didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what I wanted to say either, so I stood there, taking in the scene around me.

  The restaurant looked like it had been built to withstand decades of heavy use. The hardwood floors were made of tough, knotty planks meant to hide scrapes and dents. The tables were simple wooden rectangles similar to picnic tables. Each table was surrounded by mismatched chairs and benches, all wood, all with the subtle imperfections of being made by hand.

  Separating the dining area from the kitchen was a high-top bar that ran almost the entire length of the restaurant. It, too, was made of thick wooden planks, the corners encased in rounded brass guards badly in need of polish. A row of backless stools, each scarred and dented in its own way, lined the bar. At the end, near the door, sat a simple push-button register.

  The kitchen, if you want to call it that, was tucked between the bar and far wall. There were mismatched cabinets and refrigerators on either side of a long counter, with spaces cut out for a sink and flat-top grill. A couple of open spaces on the wall above the counter had shelves displaying various chips, liquors, and beers.

  The walls around the restaurant were filled with pictures of people smiling over beers or standing together in sideways hugs. The entire place looked relaxed and comfortable. Not the comfort of overstuffed seating and fancy lighting, but the comfort that comes from frequency of use and fond memories.

  After several long seconds, the old man’s voice interrupted my observations. “I’m not open quite yet. Bar will be open in about an hour.”

  “Uh, yeah, okay,” I stuttered. “I was, uh, I was wondering if you could tell me if there was a soup kitchen around here anywhere?”

  The man narrowed his eyes, staring at me speculatively for a moment before answering. “Three blocks north and seven west is the only one I know of. They only serve dinner there though, so you’ve got a few hours.”

  I nodded, unsure of what else to say. “Okay, thanks,” I mumbled. I turned to leave, but some nagging thought made me stop. There was a solidity about the old man, a sense of unwavering fortitude, that made me want to prove myself. The bar itself felt like a reflection of the strength showing in the man’s stern face, and I felt an urge to show there was something of substance in me as well. I couldn’t quite meet his eyes when I said, “I gave the money back.”

  “Yeah, I saw,” he said.

  I nodded again and opened the door to leave.

  “Would you have given it back if I hadn’t been there?”

  His words stopped me. I turned back toward him, still refusing to look him in the eye. “I don’t know,” I said quietly. “I wanted to keep it. I’m hungry.”

  “Then why didn’t you? You could’ve run off. She likely wouldn’t have ever known it was you, and I’m old. There’s no way I could’ve caught you.”

  I shrugged. “She had five kids. That’s a lot of mouths to feed.”

  “So you don’t mind stealing, just not from kids?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” I said defensively. “I’m not proud of it, but like I said, I’m hungry.”

  The man’s tough face softened with a weak smile. “I suppose that is an honest enough answer. Park yourself in one of those stools. I’ll warm up the grill.”

  My stomach growled so loud at the thought of hot food I was sure he had heard it. “I don’t have any money.”

  He didn’t even look up as he flipped the switch on the grill. “Didn’t figure you did.”

  A few minutes later, I was sitting in front of a plate with the largest burger I had ever seen. Beside it was a bag of potato chips and a cup of Coca-Cola. I ate it all so quickly I barely tasted it, but the burger was hot, the chips were crispy, and the Coke was ice cold. It was heavenly.

  Neither of us had spoken while the man cooked. He bustled around getting the bar ready to open while I ate, but as I took my last bite he wandered back over.

  “Everyone calls me Gabe,” he said, extending his hand.

  I wiped my face and hands on a napkin. “I’m Wesley. Thank you for the food, Mr. Gabe,” I said, shaking his hand. His hand was tough and calloused, his shake firm but not overbearing.

  “Just Gabe. No mister. Where ya from, Wesley?”

  “A little of everywhere, I guess.” I knew what would be coming before long, and I decided to get it over with. He had already fed me, which was more than most people would have done, and I figured I could put it out there to make it less awkward when he asked me to leave in a few minutes. “Most recently, jail.”

  Gabe didn’t respond, just looked at me seriously for several moments. I stood and looked to gather my things before realizing I didn’t have anything to gather.

  “Do you know how to flip a burger, Wesley?” he asked.

  “
Well enough, I guess.”

  He gestured toward the help wanted sign lying at the end of the bar. “I could use some help around here. I’m getting too old to do it all on my own.” I stared in confusion, unsure of how to respond. Something in the back of my mind screamed that it had to be some kind of trick, but I couldn’t figure out his angle. “It’s a job offer, son. I’m not asking for your kidney or nothing. Do you want the job or not?”

  “You don’t know anything about me!” I exclaimed, a little louder than I intended.

  Gabe smiled. “I know you could have taken that money and ran. I know you were hungry and could have got away scot-free. I know you wanted to take the money but decided to do the right thing. I run a small bar and grill, Wesley. I don’t need a saint, or even a priest, I just need someone that wants to do the right thing. You want the job?”

  “Yeah!” I exclaimed. “I mean yes, sir. I would appreciate it.”

  “Now, I can’t pay a whole lot,” he warned. “But when it’s slow you can cook yourself something to eat. It might help you get on your feet some, and when you’re ready to move on, just let me know. No hard feelings.”

  “That’s it? You’re giving me the job?”

  “First I need to tell you my one rule. It’s a simple rule, but one that is important to me. If you can agree to live by my rule, you’ve got the job.”

  “Okay,” I said, drawing the word out with uncertainty.

  “Always do your very best to take care of the needs of the people that walk through that door,” he said, pointing one thick finger toward the entrance.

  “Uh, okay. I can do that.”

  “Good. Now, it may not necessarily be a rule, but you can’t take care of my customers smelling like that.” He pointed his chin toward a wooden door at the back of the restaurant. “In the back room, there’s a door to the left that leads upstairs. There is a small apartment up there. It’s my old apartment that I still stay in from time to time when I’m too tired to go home. There’s a shower and a washer and dryer up there. Wash your clothes and yourself. Come down ready to work.