Miracle
in
By
Larry
Buege
Eric Kampe awoke from a deep sleep, and peered into the darkness
searching for demons lurking within the shadows. His shoulder muscles tensed. His heart heaved forcefully against his ribs,
seemingly filling the confines of his chest cavity to capacity. A patina of sweat spread across his
palms. His mouth became dry. Had it been a bad dream? He waited for the sensation to pass. Gradually his rapid pulse regressed toward
normal, and his muscles began to relax.
He wiped his sweaty palms on his pajamas, but his palms remained moist
and clammy. This wasn’t the first time
he had awakened in a panic attack. Five
years of maximum-security had turned him into a light sleeper. Even the
slightest noise instantly transformed his slumbering body into a defensive
posture. In prison that had been a
necessity—a matter of survival. Fight or
flight. He wondered if that would
continue now that he was on parole. He
lay quietly in bed listening for unusual sounds. The silence of the room only
magnified the sound of his breathing.
His bedroom furnishings, illuminated by the dim light from the digital
clock on his dresser, cast faint shadows on the bedroom walls. He had been home just over a week. Unlike the first few nights, the shadows were
now catalogued and committed to memory.
A cursory exam revealed all shadows present and accounted for. None was out of place. Perhaps a passing car had awakened him. Eric relaxed his taunt muscles. He needed to get his emotions under control
before he began searching for gremlins under his bed like a common grade-school
boy. He looked at his clock: it was just
past two-thirty.
False alarm. Eric closed his eyes and forced his body to
relax. He was descending into that
twilight zone between lucidity and somnolence when a scratching noise reclaimed
his attention. The duration was too
short for his senses to fully analyze, but it came from outside by the bushes
in front of the house. Perhaps a raccoon
or skunk was digging for grubs beside the foundation, or the wind could be
scraping a branch against the house.
Either way it offered no harm.
He fluffed his pillow and turned on his side. Adjusting to life outside of prison was
proving more difficult than he had anticipated.
Unpleasant as it might be, prison offered security. Once his cell door was locked for the night,
not only was he locked in, but predators were locked out. Without his cell walls, he felt vulnerable.
Eric debated the merits of investigating the noise. It would be a waste of time, an exercise in
futility; but then, it might assuage his anxiety and allow some sleep. That in itself would
make the task worthwhile. The sound of
breaking glass emanating from the front room terminated further debate; someone
was in his house! His heart again
throbbed within his chest while survival instincts honed by years of prison
life took hold. He began searching for a
weapon, any weapon. In his closet he
found a baseball bat he hadn’t used since Little League. His team was the Black Panthers, and he had
painted it black to conform to their black shirts and caps. They must have returned the bat to his
parents after the trial. A cardboard tag
was still attached to the bat. He knew
what the tag would say: Exhibit Eight. The bat would have to do.
Eric edged toward the front of the house. Judging from the noise, the intruder must
have entered through the front door, although he was sure he had locked the
door before retiring. He didn’t bother
with lights. His eyes were accustomed to
the darkness, and it was his house. He
knew where all the shadows were lurking, giving him an advantage over any
intruder. He wasn’t looking for a fair
fight. Those who fight fairly don’t
always win.
He advanced toward the living room, keeping his center of gravity low
in case he had to spring at the assailant or perhaps make a hasty retreat. He had to be prepared for the unknown. The unknown was the unpredictable variable so
frequently responsible for one’s demise.
Inching along the edge of the hallway, he blended his silhouette with
the wall, pausing occasionally to listen for noise. He scanned the hallway for unusual
shadows. When he found none, he
proceeded into the darkened living room.
A draft of cold air blew against his cheek. Any other time it would have been
imperceptible, but with his remaining senses diminished by darkness, the draft
was immediately obvious. He searched for
its source and found the curtain by the picture window waving in the
breeze. Shards of broken glass under his
bare feet confirmed his suspicions. Eric
backed away. He didn’t need cut
feet. A weathered brick sat on top of
the broken glass. He reached down and picked up the brick. It was rusty brown with smooth, fire-glazed
edges, a popular style for warehouses built in the 1920’s. An envelope was strapped to the back of the
brick with duct tape. Throwing a brick
through his window was hardly a friendly gesture, but neither did it present
eminent danger.
Eric turned on the lights and waited for his eyes to adjust to the
light. There were no markings on the
envelope. He opened the envelope and
held the single sheet of paper up to the light.
The writing was computer generated and printed in a large, bold font.
Rapist, get out of
There was little Eric could do before morning. As he turned toward his bedroom, a sledge
hammer slammed into his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. Simultaneously a wave of hot gas seared
across his skin, singeing his eyebrows and curling the hair on his upper
forehead. Eric couldn’t remember if he
had been thrown to the ground before or after the sound of the blast reached
his ears; he only remembered the excruciating pain in his ears.
***
How long had he been unconscious?
He assumed it was seconds, minutes at most. He awoke coughing. His lungs were filled with acrid smoke, his
body ached with pain, and it felt like he had been kicked in the groin. Eric forced himself to his knees. He had to escape. He needed fresh air. He was a dead man, if he remained in the
house. Adrenaline increased his head
pain but provided strength to crawl to the door. He reached up and forced the door open. Sweet air filled his lungs. It had felt like a dream where he was holding
his breath underwater and swimming in slow motion toward the surface. But now he had reached the surface; now he
could breathe. Eric lay hyperventilating
in the doorway until his strength returned.
He climbed to his feet. Apart
from the aching pain, all movable parts were in working order.
Except for the broken window, the front of his house was undamaged, but
black smoke curled upward from the rear of the building—his house was on
fire. Eric ran barefoot toward the back
of the house, assuming the worst. He was
not to be disappointed: Several small fires, insatiable in their hunger, licked
greedily at a gaping hole in his rear entryway.
Fortunately, there was more smoke than fire. But fires grow exponentially. If left un-extinguished, the fire would
consume the house.
Eric found a garden hose attached to a spigot protruding from the
foundation on the east side of the house.
It was the hose his mother had used to water her flowerbeds. He turned the knob and water gurgled through
the hose—at least he had water pressure.
The hose was barely long enough to reach the fire. Eric sprayed the
largest fires first and then worked his way toward the smaller ones. It didn’t take long to extinguish the fires,
but he continued soaking the smoldering wood to ensure it wouldn’t rekindle. The back door had been ripped from its
hinges, the window glass had been blown outward, and tangled debris littered
what remained of the entryway floor.
Only a fair size bomb could have created such extensive damage.
Other than the entryway, which was gutted, there was minimal damage to
the house. It would be livable once
windows were opened and the house aired out.
The lights still worked; the phone was functional. Eric dialed 911.
The fire
department arrived twenty minutes later, one of the middle-of-the-night
drawbacks of an all-volunteer fire department.
Pagers had to be activated. Men
had to dress and drive to the fire station.
Kampe’s Korner was a ten-mile drive from the fire station in
Tamarack. Considering the circumstances,
twenty minutes was a remarkable response time for
The five
firefighters who responded quickly set about their task. They parked the fire truck near the rear of
the building and pulled two black hoses from spools on the truck. With no access to fire hydrants, the only
available water came from the large water tank built into the rear of the fire
truck, seriously limiting the department’s effectiveness in a prolonged fire. The garden hose had essentially extinguished
the fire; still they poked and probed at the structure, squirting water here
and there like dogs marking their scent on trees.
“Mr. Kampe?”
“Yes?” Eric assumed the man in his late forties was
the fire chief; although his uniform bore no insignia that differentiated him
from the others. He wore the traditional
black fire hat without distinguishing mark or rank. The edge of his pajamas protruded from under
his black raincoat; he had not bothered to dress.
“I checked
the house. The fire’s out, but you had a
few live electrical wires. I switched
them off at the panel box. The other
circuits are good. Except for your
entryway, I can’t find any structural damage.
I think it’s safe to stay in the house tonight.” The fire chief walked over to the phone and
lifted the receiver to his ear, listening for a dial tone. “Your phone still works, so you can give us a
call if the fire should rekindle.”
How did the fire chief think he called him the first time, Eric
wondered. And sleeping somewhere else
was out of the question; he had nowhere to go.
“Also,” the
fire chief continued, “we’ll be sending an investigator around in the
morning. We found evidence of arson.”
The entryway
was blown apart, a brick was thrown through his window, and he thinks this may have been arson? Eric was sleepy, his entire body ached with
pain, and his patience was wearing thin.
It wasn’t the fire chief’s fault, he reminded himself. He was only doing his job.
The firemen
were packing their equipment when Eric heard the siren and saw the red and blue
flashing lights coming down the road.
The noise from the siren was sufficient to arouse the hardiest of
sleepers. And there weren’t many of
those. A crowd of bystanders in pajamas
and hair curlers gathered around the house, all straining for a better
view. The gossip mill would be working
overtime by morning.
The police
cruiser pulled up next to the fire truck, and Deputy Sheriff Cory Kramer
stepped out, flashlight in hand. At five
feet five inches, he stood on the short side of average but supported a
slender, muscular frame. Kramer placed a
Smoky-The-Bear hat over his sandy-blond hair, raising his stature another three
inches. All he needed was a pair of
mirrored shades to play the roll of
Kramer
paused to confer with the fire chief before walking past Eric and stepping
uninvited into the shell that had once been Eric’s entryway, leaving little
doubt as to who was in charge. This was
now his investigation; he would decide who needed to be interviewed and when. The pecking order needed to be established. Kramer was a deputy sheriff. Eric was an ex-con, a sex offender at
that. Nothing more needed to be said. Kramer poked through the debris as if Eric
were non-existent. No words were
exchanged. Eric’s presence was neither
needed, nor encouraged.
Eric stood
shivering amongst the debris, not knowing if the shivering was due to nerves or
the cool evening. With heavy dew already
covering the grass, he assumed the latter.
He was barefoot and wearing thin pajamas. The adrenaline rush of earlier was beginning
to wane making the lack of creature comforts more obvious. If he wasn’t needed, he could at least retire
to his bedroom for slippers and a bathrobe.
Eric headed toward his bedroom.
Like the rest of the house, the bedroom had a pungent odor of smoke, but
it was livable. He would air out the
house in the morning when the outside temperature was warmer. Even with his robe, it still felt cool.
Eric walked
to the kitchen and checked the cupboards for coffee. All he had was instant. He might pay dearly for the caffeine this
late at night, but the warmth and stimulation offset any disadvantage. Eric found a mug on the counter, rinsed it
bachelor-clean, and then filled the mug with hot tap water. At least the water heater was functional; he
would need a shower in the morning.
Placing the mug in the microwave, he nuked it for thirty seconds. When the microwave dinged, he retrieved the
mug of steaming-hot water and added a healthy amount of instant coffee,
preferring his coffee black. He took his
coffee into the living room, collapsed into a recliner, and propped his feet on
the glass coffee table. The curtain
still shimmied in the breeze flowing through the broken window. Fixing the window would have to be one of his
higher priorities. He would call a glass
repairman first thing in the morning.
Eric sipped his coffee and stared at the wall. The shock of the evening was wearing off and
reality was setting in. Hopefully, this
wasn’t typical of his future in
“Kampe, did you have any plastic pipe in the rear entryway? Any plumbing fixtures?” Deputy Sheriff Kramer stood at the edge of
the living room, his soot-covered boots firmly planted on the clean
carpet. In his right hand was a mangled
piece of PVC pipe.
“The water from the well comes through the east side of the building,
and there’s no bathrooms or sinks in the back of the house. There shouldn’t be any plumbing back there.”
“Didn’t think so,” Kramer said, well pleased with his find. “It appears it was a pipe bomb. From the smell, I’d say gunpowder.”
“Gun powder? I would’ve expected
something easier to make like a Molotov cocktail.”
“A Molotov cocktail uses gasoline.
If someone had thrown that into your house, you’d have had a nice
bonfire. Gunpowder creates more
explosive force, but not as much fire.”
Eric set his coffee down on the end table. “Who has access to gunpowder? I wouldn’t even know where to buy it.”
“About ten percent of the local population. Sportsmen use it in their muzzleloaders; some
even reload their own rifle shells. The
stuff’s not hard to come by. I’ve got
some back at the house.” Kramer paused
to let his words sink in. “I don’t
suppose I need to tell you why this happened.
Rapist was spray-painted on the side of your house.”
Eric listened in silence, assuming any form of rebuttal would be
counter-productive.
“A lot of people don’t take kindly to having a rapist in the
community. Can’t blame
them. I don’t like your kind
either, not that I condone what they did.
I expect to see more of this until you leave town.”
If this had been a prison conversation, Eric would have thrown the hot
coffee in Kramer’s face. But this wasn’t
prison. He was on parole, and nothing
would please Kramer more than an excuse to send him back to prison. He wouldn’t provide Kramer with that
satisfaction. The truth was Kramer’s
sentiment was hardly a minority view.
There would be others with similar views. He had better get used to it.
“You need to sell this place and move on. There’s nothing for you here anymore—now that
your parents are dead. They were good
people. Hardly the kind I would expect to produce a rapist.”
Eric could tolerate criticism.
He had expected that. But what he
had or hadn’t done had nothing to do with his parents. They had supported him throughout the trial,
a trial that had been as stressful on them as it had been on Eric. They had visited him in prison twice a month
for five years. They had been good parents.
Kramer had no right to criticize them, even if he was a deputy
sheriff. Eric clinched his fist but
suppress his anger.
“Well that’s all we can do for
tonight. Remember, this is a crime
scene. No cleanup or repairs until it’s
cleared. Got that? We’ll have a guy take pictures in the
morning.”
Eric watched the deputy drive off into the night. He couldn’t do any more tonight either. He
headed for the bedroom. As tired as he
felt, the caffeine wouldn’t be a problem.
Eric awoke the following morning with little men inside his skull
beating on his brain with sledgehammers like the headache commercials. It was worse than a hangover. His circadian clock had aroused his physical
body before his brain had fully recovered from the previous night’s activities. He looked at the clock on the dresser: it was
It took a moment for his mind to clear.
Once it did, he became aware of sounds coming from the rear of the
house. Some were indecipherable voices;
others were mechanical in nature. Eric
looked out his bedroom window and discovered several police cruisers parked on
his lawn. He threw on a bathrobe, slipped
into some slippers, and headed toward the noise.
“Good, you’re up.” Levi Stone,
county sheriff, gave some verbal instructions to a man taking photos before
returning to Eric. “We need to get your
statement. Kramer didn’t get one last
night because of the lateness of the hour.
Said you looked exhausted.” Stone grabbed the clipboard he had laid on a
ledge. “Do you mind if we step inside?”
Eric led the sheriff into the living room where the sheriff picked an
overly stuffed recliner, but kept it in the upright position to maintain
formality.
“Tell me about last night,” Stone said.
“Not much to say. About two or
two-thirty, I heard some noise. I went
to the front room to investigate and found the window broken and a brick lying
on the floor.” Eric took the note from
his pocket. “This note was attached to
the brick.” He passed the note to the
sheriff.
Stone studied the note for a moment and then stuffed it into his
pocket. “We’ll hang on to this for
you. What happened next?”
“About thirty seconds later, a minute at the most, I heard an explosion
in the back. The back entryway was as
you see it now, except for a lot of smoke and several small fires. I went out the front door, turned on the
garden hose, and put out the fire. Then
I called 911.”
“Did you see or hear anything else, any cars or people? Hear any voices?”
“No, whoever did this was gone by the time I got outside.”
“This doesn’t give us much to go on.”
Chief Stone studied Eric Kampe.
This was the first time he had seen him since the trial. The twenty-three-year-old sitting in front of
him could have passed as an electrical engineer or a medical student. The way he spoke and his confident air gave
the impression of intelligence. He was
the type fathers would enjoy having their daughters bring home. But people
aren’t always as they appear to be. Eric
Kampe was a rapist who almost killed Sara Higgins. That would be enough to tarnish any medical
student’s résumé. But Kampe had served
his time and had a right to clean up his act, if he so chose. It would be the chief’s job to ensure that
right was preserved. The way the county
felt about Kampe, Stone assumed that would be a formidable task.
“Kampe, let me level with you.” Stone paused for emphasis. “I’m not happy with what happened last
night. People can’t take the law into
their own hands…not in my county. You
were responsible for a very repulsive crime.
People are angry. That’s
understandable. But you paid for that
crime as prescribed by law. Not as much
as I would have liked, but that wasn’t my call.
You’re young. If you think you
can straighten yourself out, I’ll see that
“That being said, let me make this perfectly
clear. If you go near or even think
about Sara Higgins, all promises are void.
I will personally see that you are prosecuted—no, make that
persecuted—for any indiscretion no matter how trivial. Because of you, Sara Higgins has suffered far
more than any human should ever have to suffer.
But despite what you did to her, she’s pulled her life together. She worked her way through college, got
herself a teaching degree, and has earned the respect of the community, all
while raising a five-year-old daughter.
You will not cause her any further grief. Do I make myself clear?”
Eric stared at Stone, the hatred in his eyes palpable. The police chief was asking him not to think
about Sara Higgins. That was all he
thought about for five years—five stinking years. Her testimony sent him to prison. Hers and that Cory
Kramer’s. Five
years in maximum-security. This
was about getting even. He would exact
his revenge, but it come at a time and place of his choosing. He was a patient man. He could wait until the timing was right, and
no country sheriff with a clipboard was going to stop him.
Stone stared back at Kampe, unwilling to avert his gaze and show
weakness. What Kampe had done five years
ago was an impulsive crime, an act of sadistic lust, a sign of teenage
immaturity. That had now all
changed. Kampe had graduated from one of
“Do I make myself clear?” Stone
repeated.
“I think you can say we understand each other,” Eric replied, his gaze
unfaltering.
Stone picked up his clipboard from the floor where he had placed it and
returned his pen to his breast pocket.
“I’m serious about finding the people responsible for this,” he said as
he forced himself out of the plush recliner.
“I’ll find my own way out.”
Eric walked him to the door anyway.
The investigators were gone, and only Stone’s police cruiser
remained. He waited at the door until Stone
started his car and backed out of the driveway.