Introduction:
To Walker Calero, blood had become synonymous with a job well done many years ago.
Somewhere along the way, he’d forgotten why.
I haven’t.
I remember sitting in that courtroom as a little boy, watching the man who raised me smile while he claimed a grudge older than time itself had driven him to murder twelve people over the last fifteen years.
Most people left that courtroom believing my father was insane.
I left wondering if he was telling the truth.
Ten years later, with only days remaining before his execution, I still don’t understand half of what happened.
I only know one thing for certain.
My father shouldn’t exist.
I don’t just mean that his fingerprints and Social Security number belong to no discernible identity.
I mean the man himself.
The monster capable of turning twelve lives into evidence bags and newspaper headlines.
Those people had names.
So do I.
My name is Alan Calero.
Around Calavera, Tennessee...
I’m known as The Son of the Devil.
