Oct 7 Protagonist Background Story

He was cold. The rain had been falling for the last hour, but he distained running for the warmth of his car. He wanted – needed - to be at the tree line. For six months, he and his operatives have been tracking the disappearances of several teenage girls. And all signs have led him to this place. A wonderful summer time cabin in the Adirondacks. A place where innocence should be celebrated, not taken away.

Sheridan Lockwood had been contacted in February by several scared and angry parents. Three girls had left for school Valentine’s Day but failed to show. The police had causally told them that the children had merely run away together, and they would show up when ran out of money. Lost on the law officers: four more teenage girls were taken from their homes over a two-month period. As Sheridan and his fellow Beverwyck Detective Agency operatives dug into the situation, the angrier he became. All those girls missing and the police just played it off, if these were just spoiled children who just wanted more attention.

A lightening flash brilliantly illuminated the stormy sky. If someone had been looking, his face would have been seen. But no one was; he was well hidden. His eyes stayed focus on the house. He did not its lone occupant to escape.

His heart was beating faster, his grip on the semi-automatic revolver tightened as the solitary light was extinguished and the back door opened. Another flash turned the sky to bright midday. Instinctively, the private investigator stepped back into the conifers and into the safety of the dark evergreens as the man left the back porch and treaded lightly over the puddles and mud. A loud rumble of thunder echoed through the trees and off the house as the detective stepped out of the cover.

For six months, he had been following leads, clues, and rumors across Upstate New York and New England. In May, he thought he had tracked down the girls, having received a tip that eight girls were living in an apartment in Springfield, MA, with most of them fitting the description of a few missing girls. It turned out to be a group of college coeds.

In June, he received a credible tip that a registered pedophile had been living in the area. The deviant had been released at the time the first girl disappeared. As he looked further into this tip, the angrier Lockwood had become. Simple police work would have brought them to the man. But it was neglected. And because of this, six more had gone missing.

He stood in the open; the rain betting heavy on his already drenched overcoat. His hat - a Fedora a gift from his sister - was long ruined but kept some water from his face. He was still unseen by his prey. And that was a good thing.

Though he had been a licensed private investigator for ten years, Sheridan Lockwood had never been placed in a life-or-death situation. That unfortunate circumstance had been placed upon his other operatives. And he’s never felt the urge to raise his gun in anger. Not until now.

The man, Joel Williams, had entered his car and had turned over the engine as Sheridan began to run. He was not going to let this man escape from justice. He pulled out the revolver and hoped the safety was off. The investigator had no time to check. His high school and college sports background helped him cover the 50-yard distance in less than seven seconds. Williams had no time to react.

Earlier that month, Lockwood was given a credible tip. And he wished it were just another false lead. Outside the state capital of Albany, in a barn, two teenagers, only there to have some fun making out, found a box. Being curious, they opened it. And had wished they hadn’t.

“How many bodies do you suspect are here?” he asked the county coroner. The medical examiner gave an estimate of ten. Three more girls had died three unknown to him. His anger was intensifying. And it grew to another level when a search of the ownership found that a Joshua Williams, Joel Williams’ father, owned the farm.

“Turn of the car, you son of a bitch!” Lockwood demanded, his Glock 22 pointed at the man’s temple. Williams, his eyes wide as he was caught off-guard, raised his hands. Tears began to fall from his eyes; Williams began to plead for his life.

“I didn’t mean to do it,” the pedophile cried. “Please, don’t kill me. I don’t deserve to die. I have a sickness. I can’t help myself.”

Under different circumstances, Lockwood might have felt sorry for Williams. But this was not one of them. Another lightning bolt illuminated the sky and the scene was bathed in an iridescent white glow. Sheridan saw fear in the man’s eyes. He saw someone that was afraid to die.

“Why should I show you pity? You showed none when you took those innocents.” Lockwood spat out his words. More tears flowed from Williams as the private investigator pressed the end of the revolver to his head. Another rumble echoed off the house and into Sheridan’s ears.

He swore vengeance upon Joel Williams.

“Don’t, please,” Williams plead again as he sobbed uncontrollably. Lockwood closed his eyes and slowly pulled the trigger back.

The crash of thunder ripped through this little piece of the Adirondacks as a solitary figure walked out of the woods, the barrel of a revolving smoked in the falling rain. Sheridan Lockwood threw the gun into the back seat of the car and drove away.