Chapter 1: Steward of Destiny

It was 1 a.m. on Saturday, January 4th, 1992—an hour after his arrest by the Apache Tribal police. They drove through an automatic gate next to a plain block building and parked near a door with a white-lit sign that read ‘Intake.’ After hauling him out of the SUV, they escorted him to the door and pressed a button. After the loud buzz, they opened the door and led him inside and down a short hallway to another door that buzzed as they approached.

They halted before a tall counter in the bright room and removed his cuffs. The passenger had a muffled conversation with an officer behind the plexiglass barrier, speaking through a honeycombed grill. The only words he heard were, “Makin’ trouble on the Rez.” His wallet was slipped through a small partition, and they turned to go. They were halfway back to the exit when a skinny deputy stepped out of a side door and re-cuffed him.

“This way, buddy.”

“When can I get a phone call?” he asked. He was pushed into a transparent cubicle.

“I’m gonna pat you down,” the man said as he removed the cuffs again. “Got anything in your pockets? Weapons? Knives? Firearms?”

Peter rubbed his wrists and gazed at the cop in disgust. “When will someone tell me what is going on?” he retorted. He was shoved face-first against the plexiglass and ordered to spread his legs. “Jesus, dude,” he snapped. “Take it easy!”

The deputy felt along his arms and shoulders and patted down his waist, taking a moment to remove his belt and toss it aside. Things got interesting when he groped down his legs and came to the abrupt end of his fleshy appendages.

The young deputy surprised him when he shouted in shock and bolted upright. He smashed the metallic red button on the wall with his palm. Instantly, a door burst open on the far side of the cubicle, and two more officers rushed in.

Peter heard the kid shout, “He’s packing!” before he was knocked to the floor and crushed beneath the heavy bodies of his attackers.

He tried to cry out, “Wait!” before a knee slammed down onto his head, smashing his face into the hard linoleum.

“Shut your face and don’t move!”

Peter felt and heard the metallic thuds as a wooden club hit his titanium ankles.

“Hold him!”

He heard a click before his pants were cut and ripped away.

“They’re prosthetics! I’m an amputee!”

A blow to the back of his head dazed him.

“I said, SHUT UP!”

“Goddamn, kid! This guy has artificial feet! Take them off!” someone laughed, “Jesus, Billy boy, you’re such a pussy!”

A sharp pain shot up his shin and into his knee as they tried to wrench his left prosthetic off by twisting and pulling.

“Ow! Take it easy! Let me do it!”

Another blow to the back of his head knocked him out.

A bucket of cold water shocked him awake. He sputtered and howled in fright and outrage as he blinked the water from his eyes. “What the fuck!” he screamed, struggling to sit up against a wall.

“What’s your name?”

“Where the fuck am I?” he demanded as his head throbbed. “Why are you treating me like this?”

“Answer the fucking question, inmate!”

“Fuck you! You got my wallet. Get me a lawyer!”

A sharp blow to his gut drove the air from his lungs, leaving him gagging and sobbing face down on the floor. As he lay in a fetal position, hacking and wheezing, the question was repeated.

“Pet ... Peter,” he gasped painfully, his eyes tightly closed. “Ship ... ley.”

“Run it,” he heard.

“What’s your address?”

He shook his head and tried to open his watering eyes against the bright overhead lights. “I don’t ... have one,” he moaned. “I’m staying in Whiteriver with a friend.”

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Lenna ... Uglyhorse.”

“Address and phone number.”

“No address. She lives on Eagle Ridge. No phone...” He paused and, in a moment of clarity, gave the man Kathy’s cell number.

“Hey, Sarge,” another voice interrupted. “Check this out.”

Peter was alone in an empty square room. He crawled back against the wall and sat up to hug his knees. He shivered from the damp cold, but the throbbing ache in his head took center stage, so he pressed his forehead into his knees. His prosthetic feet were missing, forcing him to lean further forward.

The door burst open again, and he heard several footsteps enter the room.

“Who the fuck are you?” The Sergeant asked.

“Nobody.”

The other man laughed harshly. “Nobody, eh? Not fucking likely.”

“Get a shirt on him and get him out of here!” His voice faded as he stepped out, “At least we don’t have to clean up this fucking mess...”

“Get up, ‘Nobody.’” the remaining guard grabbed Peter’s arm and pulled him upright. “You walk like that? Or do we have to carry you?”

“I can walk.” At the doorway, an orange sweater was tossed at him.

“Put that on.”

“Where are we going?” he demanded. The sweater fell to his knees.

“I don’t know,” the man replied as he led him back to the Intake reception area. “Someone is coming to get you. After that—not my problem.”

Peter watched as his titanium feet, wallet, and onyx ring were tossed into a stenciled sack and placed by the door.

Everyone quieted as the whump-whump-whump of an approaching helicopter vibrated through the floor. A deputy opened the first door and prodded him into the short hallway. The chopper’s roar drowned other noises, but when he turned back, the door had closed. The sack lay nearby. He couldn’t hear the outer door, but it burst open, and two black-clad figures with military-style assault rifles entered, bearing down on him. Dark balaclavas covered their faces.

His fearful shout was lost in the rotor wash and roaring turbines. He was grabbed roughly before and carried toward the dark opening outside. A Blackhawk helicopter occupied the entire parking lot, shattering the night with its roaring engines and spinning rotors. He gaped in terror as he was rushed toward the open door and tossed into its pitch-black interior. He landed hard on metal plating and grunted in pain as his captors followed him in. The loud noise became muffled once the door was shut. He felt himself pressed into the floor as the helicopter lifted off.

He rolled onto his back and peered into the darkness. A small light flared into existence in front of his face. He blinked and saw a dark-featured face inches away behind a ski mask. A hand grabbed his face, turned his head, and released him. The light went out, and a dim red glow filled the cabin. He sat on the floor facing the aircraft’s rear, where four dark figures sat facing him. One was poking around the sack before removing and studying the ring. His feet and wallet were dumped onto the deck.

“Is this Whitaker’s héritier presume?” the figure holding the ring called over the engines and rotors.

“Homme mort qui marche,” another replied in thickly accented French.

“Aye, but with a message, Petré. With a message.”

Peter was defenseless against the black-clad commandos, even with his hands unshackled. He registered the rifle butt just as it appeared in his periphery. Then, his world exploded in blinding white agony before he lost awareness.

It wasn’t an interrogation. This was torture.

Every muscle, bone, and nerve ending screamed as he swung—like a punching bag—from repeated blows to his unprotected naked body. His arms were stretched painfully over his head, and his hands were tightly bound, attached to a cable bolted to the ceiling. His eyes were swollen shut, and his jaw ached from fractures. He had long lost the ability to think clearly as he succumbed to the harsh beating. It had lasted for hours, days ... weeks? He had lost all track of time.

If they sought information, they would have spared his face and jaw, preserving his ability to talk. But this was a message, as he was told repeatedly. The message’s nature was lost on him as he drifted in and out of consciousness. The pain from the blows dulled his traumatized brain. He wasn’t aware when they stopped. A small part of his mind sensed he had ceased swinging and hung helplessly before his tormentor.

Despite the constant ringing in his ears, he heard a lighter scratch and noticed cigarette smoke. It blew into his face, causing him to cough. A sharp pain in his chest from fractured ribs made him groan. Aside from the spasms, he felt a heavy wetness in his lungs, making breathing hard. An excruciating yet familiar pain from a cigarette burn on his left armpit shocked his mind. His swollen jaw and raw throat muffled his shriek. His body jerked involuntarily, and he spun helplessly, oblivious to the cruel laughter from his unknown assailant. His sanity wavered again, and an odd sense of comfort settled over his mind. It was the specter shielding his shattered ego. The pain was still there, and he was acutely aware of the blows and jabs that followed.

He nearly lost consciousness but was revived by a sharp blow to his genitals, causing another scream. He thrashed about involuntarily, his tranquility unraveling momentarily. A harsh voice cursed at him in a language he didn’t understand. Nearby, another laughed mercilessly.

Why? He tried to claw himself back to the present, but the weight of his injuries and mental exhaustion pulled him back down into the abyss of his sub-conscience.

’You are not broken.’

Wha...? He felt and heard the presence. It came from without ... Beyond the physical constraints of his mind/body. Terrible blows landed on his body, driving the Specter’s veil further back.

’Heal yourself and fly away!’

A distant memory resonated ... a vision.

Warmth seeped into his mind/body, driving away the cold and buffering him from the blows that rained upon him beyond the spirit realm. They faded away, as did his pain and suffering.

The drums! He heard them ... so distant, like a faded memory.

The drum’s resonant vibrations could be felt in his bones. Eyes burned from the acrid smoke of the central fire. Shadowy figures danced and chanted in the dead tongue, beseeching the spirits. Boulders lined the clearing, painted blood red from the ceremonial fire. White feathers swirled about, but they seemed attracted to him as he drew close. Wherever they contacted his skin, they were absorbed, causing a cool numbing sensation that spread across his entire body.

Awareness returned abruptly with the sensation of falling. Part of him knew terror and panic for an instant before he struck the cold floor. One of his lungs collapsed, and he struck his head, causing painful flashes behind his sightless eyes. Then the sensation faded away, and he felt numb once again.

Anguished curses cried out, enraged and hateful. They grew distant. No longer consumed by his misery, Peter’s surroundings, environment, and time—ceased to exist. As he lay helpless over the cold surface, his mind grew heavy and slipped into oblivion.