The Beast of 1977 (Book 1)

With the phone tucked securely underneath his right armpit, Mr. Mercer anxiously paced from the living room and back to the hallway, totally forgetting that the phone's cord wasn't as long as he would have wished it could have been while fussing with the police over the line.

Adorned in his all blue janitor's jumpsuit, Mercer looked at the clock that was nailed to the wall in the living room and realized that heading into work would be futile at that point in the day.

"I don't understand why no one can give me any information about my own son!" The man irately yelled. "He's out there somewhere, for God's sake!"

He dragged the phone back into the living room where he just happened to look out the front window to see a police cruiser parked right in front of the house. Without saying a simple "goodbye", Mr. Mercer hung up the phone, and with quivering knees, stepped across the floor and to the door, opening it before the detectives could even get out of their car.

He stood at the doorway watching and waiting with bated breath for the two men to make their way to him. Over and over again he kept on replaying the worst scene in his head. As cold as it was outside, his palms couldn't stop sweating. His knees were ready to collapse right where he stood; the stiff, unrelenting wind splashed into his sweaty face like a bucket of ice cold water.

Just then, the law officers opened their doors, climbed out and began their march towards the home. Mercer gritted his teeth to the point where they started to hurt the closer they approached.

"Good afternoon, sir. I'm Detective Linus—

"Is my boy dead?" Mercer impulsively jumped in.

Taken aback by the very question, both Bruin and Fitzpatrick blushed. Bruin then glanced over at his partner and then back again at Mercer who was shuddering, not from the cold air, but from heartbreaking fear.

"Uh, sir, we aren't quite sure yet." Bruin slowly uttered. "Can we come in and talk for a moment, please?"

Steadily, Mr. Mercer moved aside to allow the men into his warm home. The moment he shut the door behind him, Mercer crossed his arms and asked, "Okay, where's my son at?"

"You are Charles Mercer, right?" Fitzpatrick questioned.

"That's me." He intolerantly sighed. "Now, where's my son?"

I'm Detective Fitzpatrick. I don't know if you are aware of this or not, but we

all

"Well, sir, your son Isaac was last

twice their original size. He dropped his arms to his side and slowly stuttered, "What...was

said that your car seemed to be having trouble. That was when your son accepted

clue?"

we arrived at

"Well, maybe he escaped and went back to this diner to get

"Sir, the car was still at the diner this morning." Fitzpatrick continued on. "Some of our people are

"I don't give a damn about

"Sir, please calm down."

dead or waiting for someone to come and rescue

manner that would have suggested that they had nothing left to say at that

has a son...he's two years old. He's got a

"Our witness

that Isaac was asking for directions at the diner." Linus

never did have a good sense of direction." Mr. Mercer dropped his hands. "But that still doesn't explain why he

possibly go? Other places he would hide out? Because for all we know, he

Lynn's house, then I don't have a

this Lynn?" Linus questioned, taking out a pen and

Blvd. I tried calling her a while ago, but her line was busy." Mercer exhaled before reaching over to the mantle and pulling out a photo of Isaac. "Here's his picture, if

thank you, sir." Linus replied, taking the photo and slipping it into his pocket. "I assure you, Mr. Mercer, we are doing everything in our power to find your son. It's been a long, trying day for us all. Hopefully Isaac