Author's note: the following story is purely a work of fiction and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. Some of you will not like the story and that is okay. A few of you will tear it apart with invective ... and not have the courage to sign your name. I still prefer to give you the opportunity to comment but please have the intestinal fortitude to send me a note with a userid so we can correspond. The author wishes to express his gratitude to the very lovely and gracious Copperbutterfly for her editing to make this a better story.
Although the park had a few picnic tables and standing grills, and a playground for kids, it was mostly tall pine trees and scrub undergrowth and a maze of walking trails. Since it was only three long blocks from his house, he used the park almost every weekday evening to take a long walk to maintain his health.
The doctor had prescribed walking as the best form of exercise to keep his heart in shape. No, actually he has said it was the second best form of exercise. The best form of cardio-vascular exercise, according to the doctor who offered magazine articles in support of his statement, was sex.
However, Devin Boswell had lost his wife of 17 years over three years earlier to the ravages of lung cancer. Since that time, he had dated sporadically and even less often had gotten laid by any of the women he dated. So for the most part, he had to settle for the second best exercise. He walked at least five miles every night, but sometimes as much as eight if he was feeling restless.
Tonight his pedometer showed that he had already covered four miles when he started the third time around on his favorite trail. It was one that took him deep into the piney woods and by the gentle coolness of the small pond near the back of the park before winding around and bringing him back to the playground area.
Way back when he had the first episode with his heart and went into therapy following his release from the hospital, he had decided to take up walking. Since Eileen had already been diagnosed with cancer and was undergoing intensive treatment, he usually had to walk alone. On a whim, he had picked up a long stout sapling one day, mostly out of fascination for the almost spiral contour of the stick near one end. He had taken it home and spent time scraping the bark from it and ultimately polishing it into a work of near-art. Since then, he always carried the six-foot long stick, using it as a sort of cane to help himself up the few steep climbs in the trail. In the back of his mind, he also recognized that he thought of it as possible protection against gangs of youths that sometimes roved all parts of the city.
Now nearly a half-mile into the third round of the trail and not far from the little pond, Devin began to hear sounds that were unnatural for such a quiet little park. He became concerned, aware that in the late evening shadows, it had become more difficult to distinguish forms and objects in the near-darkness of dusk.
He walked on in the direction of the sounds, recognizing that the growth made determination of the exact location of their origin difficult to determine. Yet as he moved, the sounds became raucous laughter and taunts. Somewhere, almost covered by the other voices, it seemed like there was a protest being voiced. Devin had a sinking premonition of what was happening.
Moving steadily but warily forward, he came upon a scene that was exactly what he had hoped he would not find. Four youths, all strapping young men, had trapped a woman in a small opening in the trees. As three distracted her, one would make a grab for her clothes, ripping some part from her body. Already her blouse was torn and shredded, leaving her bra in plain sight. When she would turn to the one who made the last grab, one of the others would grab something from behind. The last one had grabbed her skirt and pulled hard enough to pop the waistband apart, leaving the garment hanging from her hips. The group was crowing among themselves and egging each other on.
Stepping into the fading light, Devin called in a strong voice, "Leave her alone!"
The boys all turned, startled.
"Get out of here, old man," growled the tallest of the boys. "This is none of your business."
"I'm making it my business."
"You're going to get more than you bargained for," tall one said.
"I don't think so! Leave or get hurt."
"Let's take him, Ian," said a scar-faced kid.
"Yeah, man. We can always do the woman. She ain't going nowhere," said a fat boy behind the woman.
All four of the boys fanned out and started toward Devin slowly.
"Come on, cowards. Which one of you is going down first?" Devin asked, a wicked smile on his face.
He crouched and flipped the long stick into both hands. His hand-to-hand combat training from the Marines had been more than 20 years earlier but it came back, as entrenched as it had been in his mind back then.
The tall kid stepped forward and pulled back his fists in a boxer's stance. When Devin held his chin up mocking the kid, he pulled back his right hand and threw a haymaker. Devin easily ducked and jammed the stick into the kid's stomach, hearing a whoosh of air leaving the kid's lungs. He dropped to the ground like a sack of flour, gasping for air as if he was dying.
Devin heard the click of a switchblade knife locking into place and turned to see scarface heading toward him with the four-inch blade pointed at his middle. The sapling became a bat, as Devin made a short, choppy stroke that caught scarface on his left cheekbone. Everyone heard a snapping sound followed by scarface's undignified drop to the pine needle covered ground; he lay stretched out, unmoving.
Without pausing, Devin turned to his right, where the fat kid was rushing at him. The cudgel came up from ground level between the kid's legs and he was suddenly on his knees and forehead holding his family jewels, howling in intense pain. Devin looked around for the fourth kid but all he could see was the kid's backside as he ran for the trail.
He turned to the woman and asked if she was all right. She nodded her head but Devin could see that she was shaking too badly to speak. Pulling off the sweater tied around his waist, he helped her into it, covering her near-nakedness.
"Are you hurt?" he asked. "Do you need to go to the hospital?"
"N...no, I'm okay," she managed to stammer.
"Then let's get you to the police station so you can report this."
She took a couple of steps with him holding her arm, then turned and said," Please! No. Let's not go to the police. I'm not hurt, thanks to you. And because I was in the park at night, they will say I asked for it. I don't want to go through that again. It happened to me once before. Please. Could you just take me home."
"Of course. I understand."
Still holding her arm to provide support, he guided the unsteady woman down the trail the quickest way back to the park entrance. When she stumbled, he put his arm around her waist and held her up. She tucked her arm around his shoulder and leaned against him as they walked.
When he could see the silhouette of the playground, he asked, "Where do you live?"
"In the middle of the next block," she said, pointing in the direction of his own house. "The number is 8719."
When they arrived a few minutes later, the house was dark. He helped her up the three steps to the wide front porch. When she fumbled trying to get the key into the lock, he gently took it from her hands, inserted it and opened the door.
"Please come in," she asked.
He found the den and carefully eased her into a recliner.
"Can I fix you a cup of hot tea or coffee?"
