“Agent Thompson, what are you doing? You have orders to leave the premises.” Lorabell instructs boldly through his headset.
Ted ignores her instructions, and moves over to the corner of the home where he can peer into the window. As he looks inside the bedroom, he sees that May is on the floor in a nearly catatonic state, punching the scarred portion of her face with her left hand, and smashing her head against the door every thirty seconds. Her right hand grips the blanket tightly around her body while her left hand continues to do damage.
He takes a few steps backward from the window, shaking his head and clenching his fists in shame from what he has done.
“Agent Thompson, the damage is done!” Lorabell exclaims into his headset. “There is nothing you can do to help her now, other than leave…”
“You’re a piece of dog shit, lady.” Agent Thompson responds back with a warrior’s fury. “Mark my words, the venom of this snake is going to come back and bite you; I’ve been in the field long enough to know… Tell Henri I’ll never work with you again, and to reassign me to something else… Something that helps our country!”
“You’ve got it, Agent Thompson. Thanks for your cooperation!” Lorabell says robotically, staying focused on the LCD monitors as she carefully watches May in her state of emotional shock on the bedroom floor.
After forty-five minutes of emotionally draining hurt and self-destruction, May gets up from the floor, letting the blanket fall from her naked body. She walks through the house like a ghost, disconnected by some of the best and worst feelings of her life during the past few hours. Her left bicep is sore, along with the scarred side of her face. May steps slowly to the bathroom, feeling dehydrated; her legs still sore from a session of intense sex, and a night of unmistakable betrayal.
She looks in the mirror at the swollen, bleeding mass of scar tissue from all of the time she spent hitting her own face. With a sudden cry of terror that is immediately muffled, she lurches forward and vomits into the sink. The red wine comes up with a nasty, fruitful texture, feeling acidic in her throat as she watches small pieces of grape washing down the drain. May watches with distracted interest as drops of blood from her face mix with the wine in the white marble sink, and the writer inside her sees something poetic in all of this, but cannot fathom it at this moment.
The exhausted young woman grabs a towel and soaks it with cool water, using the soft fabric to carefully treat the wounds on her face. She stops looking into the mirror, trudging forward with heavy feet, the soaked towel wrapped loosely around her head. As she enters the living room, May walks over to check the front door, ensuring that it is locked, and there will be no more visitors this evening. Her next instinct is to return to the bedroom, but as she is walking, an object catches her attention on the island at the edge of the kitchen. May moves toward the island with curiosity, wondering if her mentally-abusive lover was kind enough to leave a goodbye note.
She freezes in her tracks, focusing on a small postcard of Mount Rushmore placed strategically for her to find. May reaches out with her left hand and lifts the postcard from the smooth tiles, her arm shaking a bit as she turns it over to read the back. A tear immediately streams down her cheek as she lets the postcard drop to floor, watching it spin end over end as though it just tore all hope away from her.
May stomps clumsily back to the bathroom, hovering her head over the sink to vomit once more. As the card falls on the kitchen floor with the message side up, anyone could clearly see that it reads: ‘Thanks for a freaky evening. I would offer you a ride on my hog, but I already won the hundred bucks.’
In the bathroom, May has stopped vomiting, and is resting against the cupboards near the floor, sobbing like a woman who just walked out of a Category 5 Hurricane.
“What did I do to you? What DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS!?” May asks, screaming at the ceiling.
The OBDAT - Chicago
“You didn’t do anything, sweetheart…” Maxwell says to the LCD screen as his eyes begin to water. “You didn’t do anything; just some sick bitch screwing with your life.”
“That’s enough!” Henri says with authority, looking a bit disturbed himself by what he just witnessed. “Lorabell is the expert here, and we will trust her judgment.”
“You wanted me to push these people over the edge?” Lorabell asks, looking at Henri and Maxwell as she gestures up at the screen. “This is what it takes. That woman is too strong to ever break and go on a rampage unless we push her to this level. You want a crime of passion? Well guess what; it takes one to make one!”
“Point taken,” Henri says, feeling sick to his stomach as he straightens his body, “let’s move on to the next case.”
PHILLIP & LETISHA BELFORT
‘There is nothing that destroys a man faster than a woman,’ Phillip thinks to himself as he sits on the steps of his concrete porch in Anaheim, California. Immediately after thinking this, he places his hand atop his smooth, bald head, regretting that it ever crossed his mind. The young ex-marine stares out at the street, considering what a peaceful and chaotic place it can be sometimes. Living near Los Angeles, many people get used to the idea that one block can make them, and another can break them. Phillip closes his eyes for a moment, flirting with old habits, deciding whether he should light the cigarette in his hand or not. The story that Letisha told the other day was incredible by any standard, and he wonders if her episodes will become bad enough to have her committed to a hospital.
Phillip sits up suddenly as he gazes at the street again, sticking his chest out in a protective posture as he sees two young gang members throwing signs at him. He immediately gets to his feet and steps across the yard to confront them on the public sidewalk, casting the cigarette aside. His black, USMC polo shirt sways delicately over his powerful muscles as he approaches the two young men. They stop walking as his black running shoes and matching sweat pants touch down on the sidewalk in front of them.
“What’s up, chocolate-raspberry?” The nineteen-year-old gangster asks in a threatening voice as Phillip approaches him.
“I think you’re mistaken, there’s no raspberry-chocolate here… Only dark chocolate!” Phillip replies in a sinister tone, folding his arms with a display of authority and disapproval.
“What’s up, soldier boy? We knows who you is… An’ that fine ass wife uh yours!” The young man continues, laughing with his friend as they fidget nervously in their sagging cargo pants.
“Don’t fuckin’ talk about my wife!” Phillip threatens, grabbing the young man by the throat with his powerful right hand.
“Better back away, cuz…” The other gang member warns from under a blue do-rag. “It gonna’ get messy up in here if you don’t let my boy go!” He stares eye-to-eye with Phillip and pulls up his shirt, showing off a nickel-plated 9 millimeter pistol.
“You find your own bitches; don’t be sniffin’ around my neighborhood again.” Phillip declares, trying to reach them on their own level. “Or next time you won’t be the only one with a gun, and your moms will have a story so sad; it will make Oprah cry.”
“Whatever, soldier boy!” The nineteen-year-old replies with noticeable fear in his dark brown eyes, walking quickly away from Phillip as he throws up a few more gang signs.
The OBDAT - Chicago
“You seriously fucked up!” Lorabell snarls at Maxwell, slamming some papers down at her station and pointing up towards Phillip on the LCD displays.
“What are you talking about?” Maxwell asks. “You said we needed some gang members to approach him and make perverted comments about his wife.”
“Those were Crips, asshole.” She says, rolling her eyes in exhaustion. “His wife was attacked by a gang of Bloods; it severely limits the impact of the threat… Bloods wear red colors and Crips wear blue colors… A Goddamn nine-year-old would know that!”
“Look, what’s done is done!” Henri says in an irritated fit. “Clearly this wasn’t your only play, so whatever comes next we can make an adjustm
ent, right?”
“Yes…” Lorabell admits, glaring down at the servers fifty feet below them; three rows of metal cabinets pushing warm air upward that is causing the bottoms of her legs to sweat.
Two men in suits approach briskly from the rear side of the OBDAT, looking serious as they climb the small set of stairs from the catwalk up to the observation platform.
“Congressman Edwards, we have a situation and need to escort you and your team to the conference room for safety.” The young, black CIA agent reports as he looks at the Congressman with respect and urgency.
“What’s going on, agent Leatherby?” Henri asks calmly, watching the intelligent, ebony security agent and his older white counterpart for signs of alarm.
“There’s been a breach, Sir,” the young agent continues, “Ming’s credentials were used to access the building, which sent up a red flag. Devlin McConnelly may be here.”
“How long ago?” Henri asks, looking around the datacenter with a bit of suspicion.
“About ten minutes.” The agent snaps back immediately. “That’s all I can tell you for now; we need to move your team.”
Maxwell and Lorabell gaze at one another with ambiguous expressions, slowly rising from their seats to follow Henri and the security agents.
“Why weren’t Ming’s credentials disabled after she was killed?” Maxwell asks sarcastically under his breath.
“Because after YOU got her killed,” Henri growls, “I knew that might be a useful piece of cheese to bring our rat back into the wall.”
“He didn’t get in with those credentials,” agent Leatherby says with a stern expression as they make their way through the hall, and down the stairs to the first floor, “a homeless woman was trying to get in with Ming’s ID badge. We’re trying to figure out what the play is here.”
“Make sure that we have all badges accounted for.” Henri orders as they continue their short journey to the large conference room.
Agent Sharpe makes his way down the long corridor in the west wing of the small building. He is a balding man in his early forties with a bit of a beer belly. His black suit and lime green tie are a dead giveaway that he works for the agency. There is a black janitor mopping about fifty feet from his position on the right side of the hallway, and everything else seems clear.
“I’ve got cleaning staff here, but all the doors in this section seem to be secure; checking a few more things, and I’ll be right back.” Agent Sharpe relays into the microphone near his wrist.
The hallway floor is covered in laminated tiles, illuminated on either side by expensive incandescent lights. Agent Sharpe passes several locked doors as he maneuvers through the space, watching for any signs of a break in. He picks up his pace as he gets closer to the janitor, wanting to clear the area and rendezvous with his team again.
“Excuse me, I need to see some ident-“
The tall CIA agent loses his footing on the freshly mopped floor just ten feet from where the janitor is standing. His feet slide quickly on the unusually slick surface, causing him fall hard on his back, continuing the slide even after he falls.
“Sorry about that,” Devlin says in a whisper as he leans over the agent, “I guess this mixture of soap is bit slippery… You need the right shoes for it!”
Agent Sharpe has only a moment to peer at Devlin’s face, noticing that he has painted it black to make himself look like their African-American janitor. He is wearing a baseball cap with his long, blonde hair tucked beneath the janitor’s blue overalls. The world around Agent Sharpe soon goes dark as Devlin places a large, black garbage bag over his upper torso, and he feels the horrible sting of a mop handle slamming against the left side of his head. After a few heavy blows, the agent feels blood seeping from his head just above the left ear, producing intense ringing before his vision fails.
In the conference room, just twenty yards away, Henri is about to commit a murder of his own, bored and disenchanted as he watches Maxwell and Lorabell fighting for his affection. It has been thirty minutes since an agent came to tell them that a body was located and they were ‘searching the building for the suspect.’ Henri sits at the end of the cherry wood conference table with his arms folded, staring at the vast array of incandescent lights blooming delicate rays within the ceiling of this cement fortress. His feet are resting on the rough, industrial carpet, and he can feel his toes starting to sweat at the discomfort of waiting.
The door opens abruptly and agent Leatherby approaches Henri at the head of the table, causing Lorabell and Maxwell to stop arguing.
“Congressman, it’s safe to move around the facility now,” agent Leatherby says urgently, “there’s something I need to show you!”
“Great!” Congressman Edwards says, drumming his fists on the table as he gets up from his chair and follows the CIA agent out into the hallway.
Henri walks behind the agent and slightly to his right, while Lorabell and Maxwell follow them just a few steps back. After about forty yards, agent Leatherby opens the door to the first floor break room and gestures for everyone to file inside. As they walk through the doors, every member of the party turns a sickly pale color, their eyes glazed over in mortal terror.
Agent Sharpe’s naked corpse is displayed on the break room table; his feet are secured together with gray duct tape, and there are screwdrivers sticking up from the palms of his hands. From their vantage point, the man is in the pose of an upside-down crucifixion, with rolled up documents tucked into his mouth. The screwdrivers have punctured his hands completely, allowing blood to drip slowly through the cherry wood, into multiple, gallon-sized pools on the industrial carpet.
Lorabell places her small, feminine hands over her face, appalled at the sight of a desecrated body where she just had coffee a few hours ago. Maxwell steps closer to the body, feeling uneasy for the first time in his long career. He looks at the side of agent Sharpe’s head where there are signs of internal hemorrhaging, and a distinct trail of blood leading from just above the left ear to the back of the skull. The odors of the body are already wafting through the room, including: various gases from the corpse, the copper scent of fresh blood, and a hint of manufactured chemicals.
“How long ago did he die?” Henri asks a technician that is taking pictures at the far end of the room.
“It looks like about thirty to forty-five minutes.” The man replies as he steps around the body ten degrees at a time, taking digital photos every few feet.
“What are these documents?” Henri asks, pointing to the rolled up papers in agent Sharpe’s mouth.
“I was just about to find out.” Agent Leatherby declares, putting on a pair of blue, latex gloves. “Are you good for me to take the documents, Donald?” He asks of the agent that is shooting photos.
“Let me get two more shots…” The tall, curly-haired man replies from behind the camera. “Yeah… you’re good to go.”
Agent Leatherby steps over to the table and retrieves the rolled up documents from the mouth of the corpse, rolling them open carefully to retain any forensic evidence such as body hair.
“It looks like we’ve got some decoded messages that were written by Maxwell, stamped Henri Edwards North America.” Agent Leatherby announces as he begins to thumb through the documents.
“I told you that your encryption was easy to break!” Henri says with budding dissent as he points his right index finger at Maxwell.
There is a sudden commotion at the far end of the room as Donald falls flat on his face, smashing the digital camera when his body hits the floor.
“Donald! Are you okay!?” Agent Leatherby asks, instinctively drawing his pistol.
Henri looks around the room with a keenly trained eye, knowing Devlin’s jacket back to front, and remembering an attack bearing strong similarity to this one. His ears pick up the sound of fluid being pushed through the coffee maker, and he sees that the coffee pot is filled with a pale yellow liquid.
“Get out of the building! He’s poisoned us!” Henr
i shouts as he starts to run for the door.
Lorabell and Maxwell waste no time in following his lead, but agent Leatherby instead moves rapidly to where Donald has fallen, bending down as he tries to save his fallen colleague. After a few seconds, he too falls to the floor face first and motionless.
“EVERYBODY OUT! Tom, get everybody out of the fucking building! WE’VE HAD A CHEMICAL ATTACK!” Henri shouts at the young security guard as they make their way out of the lobby.
The older Congressman feels his breathing constricted as he makes it to the fresh air outside of the building. His heart is palpitating hard as he lovingly takes in the sweet, natural oxygen.
She Is Risen (She Is Risen: The Gun Control Case Studies) Page 16