She Is Risen (She Is Risen: The Gun Control Case Studies)

by Adams Irish, Travis

  “We need to get rid of the girlfriend; he needs to be alone…” Lorabell suggests to Maxwell, raising her eyebrows as if to ask for feedback. “Our job is to make him feel so alone that all he has left… is his pistol.”

  “Whatever you say, boss.” Maxwell responds with slight irritation. “I’m sure you know what’s best.”

  “Tell Agent Rogers that we need to recruit another asset in Texas… ASAP!” Lorabell orders with increased arrogance, due partially to her exhaustion, bad cramps, and the new position of authority.

  JULIA WELHEIM:

  “Awesome Mom!” Julia reads aloud, gazing down with her piercing brown eyes at a faded bumper sticker on the back of her dusty, white minivan.

  She leans against the back of the van, picking up dust on the front of her light blue sweatshirt, consumed by the desperation to hug something…to be close to anything. Julia is swarmed by a torrent of emotions, tearing at her as though a tornado is swirling inside her head. After a few moments of this empty embrace, she stands up tall in her white cargo shorts, pushing away from the van. Her face is pale and wrinkled, more than most Florida residents, and she is thin for a woman of forty-six.

  The anger soon fades in a jovial instant of psychosis, and she has a sudden spark of optimism. With an unhealthy, happy smile, she walks quickly back through the side door into her small home from the garage. Her pink running shoes make neat tracks across the tiles as she strides with purpose through the kitchen.

  “I need to do my hair.” Julia announces to herself, grabbing at the mess of brown locks pulled up into a chaotic bun. “John’s not going to like me if my hair is a mess.”

  She steps lively over the faded kitchen tiles, surfing on a high of intense assumptions. Her face bears a grin of anticipation as she looks at the small digital clock on her way through the living room to the soft, carpeted stairs.

  “It’s five-thirty,” she says with a lighthearted grin, “John will be home in an hour. Time to start making dinner, but first I need to fix my hair.”

  Her heart rises with each stair step toward their cozy bedroom, the gentle ascent torturing her soul with pleasant memories. Julia looks at the sunlight coming through the home with immense affection, knowing exactly the angle of the light beams when John would return home with Sammy. She puts her hand on the smooth cedar railing leading up to the bedroom, excited by the thought of John’s strong hands caressing her body, leading up to a warm embrace.

  When she reaches the top of the stairs, Julia freezes in place. Her eyes are fixed on a television cart with an old twenty-seven inch, tube TV on top, and a DVD player on the shelf below. She squeezes her eyes somewhat, squinting at a small yellow note taped to the front of the cart that reads: ‘A message from John.’

  As she reads the note, Julia smiles wide, showing off exposed, receding gums and a few missing teeth. She turns on the power to the television and the DVD player, listening to the slight static flicker and watching the small green LEDs shining from the control panels of each. The DVD player is flashing 12:00 pm as Julia presses the play button and waits for John’s message to play with humble enthusiasm.

  Her smile is immediately wiped away as she sees an older man sitting at a fancy, wooden desk on the television screen. He is dressed in a gray suit with a simple red tie and white button-down shirt. The man is mostly bald save for a ring of gray hair around his head. He smiles wide with his portly face, peering lovingly at the camera from his blue eyes with his hands clasped together on the desk in front of him. Julia bears a look of confusion and betrayal, listening intently as the man begins to speak.

  “Hello, Julia, I’m Doctor Wellsly, your therapist,” the man begins in a comforting manner that makes Julia eerily uncomfortable, “this video is here to help you with a technique called repetitive assimilation. I know you’re probably watching this thinking that John is going to be home soon… You probably thought this video was some type of romantic message from him. Let me explain what is happening in your mind, and what has been happening for years… Julia, first, you are a very sweet lady, and you deserve so much warmth and compassion in your life, so please know that- with the things I am about to tell you. Julia… a long time ago, when you were twenty-five-years-old, your neighbor was peeping through your windows while you were getting dressed in the bedroom. You had been diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic at the time, but treatment was going well.”

  Doctor Wellsly reaches up and scratches his bald head with his left hand, showing a look of regret before he continues. “Unfortunately… the neighbor was a very creepy person, and he sent you over the edge into a psychotic episode, rendering you in a primal state… where you picked up a kitchen knife to defend yourself. Although you were justified in defending your privacy, all that the neighbors saw was an angry, naked woman chasing her neighbor with a carving knife. This… caused some problems between you and John… and it led to a more severe episode… that required hospitalization.”

  Julia begins to cry as she listens to the doctor, looking confused and destroyed as his words pour down on her like a cruel hailstorm. She leans against the cedar railing, feeling a swath of angry emotions digging at her; a veritable hornet’s nest of stinging memories coming to the surface.

  “You tried to kill yourself, Julia, and Sammy was in the home at the time. What happened next is beyond me… and perhaps I should leave this part out, but you need to hear it from someone who cares about you. Sweet lady, Julia… John married your younger sister Evelyn, and they moved away to Baltimore over ten years ago…”

  Julia puts her right hand over her mouth in a panicked silence, staring with wide brown eyes at the horrible message coming from the television.

  “It’s a lie!” Julia declares, glaring defiantly into the television. “He gave me the sticker that says awesome mom...” Tears emerge quickly on her cheeks, and a small stream of drool drips toward the floor as the renewed pain enters her consciousness. “Evelyn stole my husband and my baby… My little Sammy! Please, God, why are you doing this to me!? WHY DO YOU HAVE TO TEST ME SO HARD!? I PROMISE NOT TO GET NAKED WHERE ANYONE CAN SEE ME! I SWEAR TO YOU, GOD, I WON’T LET ANYONE SEE ME! Just give me my Sammy back…”

  Julia crouches to the floor, holding her left hand against her forehead and rocking spastically, sobbing with intense agony.

  “So the reason why you keep forgetting these things, Julia, is that you have a hard time making new memories since your suicide attempt.” The doctor continues on the television as if someone is calmly listening to him. “In your mind, you and John made love the night before, and you are waiting for him to come home and cook dinner, but your sister stopped by… and told you about the affair because John was too much of a coward. This triggered your suicide attempt, and it’s created a loop of thoughts and emotions that has been running through your mind ever since. Please call me at 555-333-2444 so that we can talk about this. I am always here to help you! Again, my number is 555-333-2444. I am Doctor Wellsly; a friend who has been helping you for years. Please give me a call, sweet lady, or go to the emergency room if you are in severe need… I’m so sorry, Julia, please call me so that I can help 555-333-2444.”

  The video ends in a black screen with the phone number displayed in white text. Julia grabs the railing to pull herself up from the floor; she has a deep sadness about her now as she shuffles to the master bedroom. Once she steps into her old room, the memories of John are still fresh, making the sting of betrayal that much more intimate. Julia is embattled with suffocating thoughts as she steps over to the bed and sits down on the soft, padded mattress. She looks at the shiny white phone on the nightstand near her, remembering the number from the television screen. Without hesitation, her hand darts out to the cold, plastic phone, pulling it from the cradle and turning it over to punch in the number, before placing the receiver delicately against her ear.

  After a few seconds of silence, there are three tones that grow louder as they play and a monotone, female voice says, “we’re sorry,
but the number you have dialed is not in service.”

  “No… No! No!” Julia hangs up the phone and frantically dials again, feeling the desperate need to connect with another person.

  “We’re sorry, but the number you have dialed is not in service.” The cold, robotic voice repeats.

  Julia drops the phone on the floor, allowing it to screech in rhythmic, electric pulses on the carpet. She lies back on the bed in an almost catatonic state, waiting for the nightmare to pass and bring forth a new tomorrow from yesterday.

  The OBDAT - Chicago

  “Can we claim that 333 phone number?” Lorabell asks with a stoic resentment that is directed up toward the LCD monitors as she watches Julia in her frozen state of anguish.

  “Why? What are you going to do to her?” Maxwell admonishes with suspicion, looking at Lorabell like a young girl who has been allowed to play with a bag of deadly fireworks, lacking vital adult supervision.

  “We’re going to study her… that’s our fucking job!” Lorabell declares with exhausted frustration and a disappointed glare. “I have every intention of helping this woman,” she continues, “but we can’t get funding to help them until the study is complete. Henri promised that we’ll be able to help all of these people later.”

  “Right,” Maxwell replies with a smirk, “Henri’s promises… And if Henri were the Tooth Fairy, every child would wake up with dog shit under their pillow.”

  “Whatever… I don’t have time…” Lorabell sighs dismissively before regaining her clout. “I need a gift basket put together, and an agent on standby. Also, we need to get that DVD… It’s keeping her somewhat stable.”

  “This is stable!?” Maxwell asks incredulously, pointing at the screen with a face full of doubt. “How the hell is that stable?”

  “Look, I need you to help with tech; psychology is my department, and you’ll just have to trust me.” She retorts with dignified fury.

  “That works for me,” Maxwell states, “whatever happens to them… is on you! Now, what other assets do you need?”

  Maxwell’s words hit Lorabell broadside like a reckless pickup truck stampeding through midday traffic.

  “What happened with the doctor?” Lorabell asks, pretending not to hear his last comment.

  “Doctor Wellsly went on a fishing trip a few years ago and has not been found.” Maxwell declares with a smirk. “They’re still trying to wrap up the investigation. That’s why we started watching her in the first place.”

  “We need contact info for the husband and son…” Lorabell says with a short pause as Maxwell begins to shake his head. “Yes,” she states with bold reassurance, “we are going to go there!”

  X. Cartel Exodus

  Large drops of tropical rain slam down repeatedly on the clay Spanish tiles of Miguel Horatio’s estate in Costa Rica. The rain has been coming down for only ten minutes this evening, and large puddles are already starting to form on the grounds below. The day is almost finished, and the sun is moving lower as if to be extinguished by the waters of The Pacific Ocean. At the southwest corner of the grounds, a solitary watchtower rises up from the earth over seventy-five feet. There are three guards on the top floor of the tower, each monitoring different aspects of the business. An internal, steel staircase leads down to the ground floor below where two other guards are sleeping in cots on the concrete foundation, waiting for the next shift to begin. They are resting peacefully, barely moving despite the constant rain and thunder.

  At the top of the control tower, one guard watches a radar screen, monitors the weather, and listens to radio alerts coming from the Costa Rican Government. There is a desk to his immediate right where another man is watching video feeds from over twenty-four cameras throughout the home and grounds. On the far left, the eldest guard is monitoring distribution traffic on the cartel’s secure radio band. As he looks out at the deluge pouring down on the estate, the eldest guard solemnly shakes his head, not remembering a fiercer storm during his lifetime.

  Inside the estate, Miguel Horatio is too busy handling an issue with a business associate to care about the rain. He projects a frozen stare toward Jose Lecroix, his deep blue eyes indulging a swath of hatred not seen since The Holocaust. His graying hair is slicked back except for a few tufts out of place on the right side of his head. The two men are meeting in the game room; Jose is seated in one of the hand-carved, blue leather chairs, and Miguel is standing just a few feet away. The room is ominous with the sounds of the rain outside, and the only lighting shines from blue and yellow neon signs at the bar, along with a bright beam shone from the reading lamp that is next to Jose on the small, round end table.

  “So you haven’t told anyone about our drop off location?” Miguel asks with stern conviction as he struts fiercely to the bar, leaning over with his muscular frame to grab a beer. As he reaches across to the fridge on the opposite side, his black shirt pulls tight against the bar, exposing a silver, Desert Eagle tucked down the back of his dark gray pants. “Would you like a cerveza?” Miguel asks quickly, still leaning over the bar.

  “No, gracias, Señor Horatio.” Jose replies immediately, putting up his hands with the palms facing out as he sees the Desert Eagle. “And I haven’t told anyone about the drop off location.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to answer that question;” Miguel declares boldly, turning away from the bar with a bottle of Corona Extra in his right hand, “that was a rhetorical question. I already know that you told someone about the drop off tonight, and they paid you twelve million Colóns for that information…”

  A spike of fear drives through Jose from his toes to his chest as though the lightning outside just pierced his flesh. He sits back in the leather, designer chair, sweating a bit in his faded blue jeans and white button-down dress shirt. Jose looks down at his small belly, trying to decide if he should run or attempt to ‘lie’ his way out of this. As an older cartel member, he has seen some atrocious punishments for those who committed far less. He runs his tongue over the back of his teeth as beads of sweat roll out from beneath his short cotton-like hair down to his weathered, dark walnut colored skin.

  “You’ve been helping me for a long time, Jose, but do you know what I’ve learned over the years?” Miguel inquires with a half-smile. “I’ve learned that the young guys get it; they ARE afraid to fuck with me. But you older guys… You’re the ones that grow a pair of big, apricot balls, and treat my business like it’s the running of the bulls. El Toreador, Señor?”

  “Miguel, I don’t know who told you that-“ Jose begins to formulate a lie, but is cut off by the cartel chief.

  “No… No, let’s not do that.” Miguel says gently, holding up his beer. “How about a toast..?” The cartel chief looks around for a moment, as if scripted in a bad soap opera. “Where is my bottle opener?”

  Jose jumps up from his seat and begins to run towards the door, but Miguel easily catches up to him with his muscular legs. The cartel chief grabs the older man by the throat and lowers him down to the floor on his back. Then he stands tall and places his right boot on the man’s throat, pressing down firmly until he begins to choke.

  “I’ve never actually put my boot in a man’s throat.” Miguel states with his wicked, dark eyes locked on Jose’s face. “It feels very good… refreshing. Like a cold beer.”

  “No! No! No!” Jose screams as Miguel kneels down at his side and grips his forehead.

  Once he has a firm grip on Jose’s head, Miguel puts his right knee on his chest to prevent him from moving. His eyes fill with a murky satisfaction as he raises the beer bottle over his right shoulder, holding it by the neck. The cartel chief waits for Jose to start pleading with him, and then swings the beer with tremendous force down at his mouth, hitting his teeth with the broadside of the bottle.

  Jose writhes with incredulous suffering on the dark hardwood flooring of the game room, screaming as many have done at the hands of the brutal cartel chief. After about ninety seconds of hellish punishment, Miguel opens the
older man’s mouth to see how many teeth he has left. Jose’s lips and cheeks are now a swollen mass, and the inside of his mouth is filled with saliva and blood from the beating. The cartel chief is excited to see a pile of broken teeth still sitting at the left side of his mouth, doused in blood.

  “It looks like you have three left on the bottom and four left on the top, Señor.” Miguel reports with satisfaction as if he is doing Jose a favor.

  Jose turns on his side and spits out the broken teeth, a dark dribble of blood flowing from his lips to the floor.

  “By the way,” Miguel admits with dry satisfaction, “I knew they paid you for the drop off location… because it was my money they used to pay you. I don’t like thieves, Jose, but my days of killing experienced men are coming to an end. It is too hard to train someone with your type of loyalty. If you wanted that money, you could have asked me and we may have worked something out.”

  Miguel stops for a minute deep in thought. He steps over to the small, round table and uses the ledge to pry the cap off of his beer bottle, slamming the top with the palm of his left hand. Miguel’s beer immediately shoots foam all over his shirt as the cap is released causing him to giggle a bit. The cartel chief smiles down at Jose, embracing a more positive attitude. He holds up the somewhat bloody beer bottle in a toast to his employee, and then drinks it down with voracious thirst.