"I know that Vince Carroll," Gale says. "He and my brother played high school football together. Carroll used to be a deputy sheriff. Pretty nice guy. So now he's working for the Goddess . . ." She shrugs. "Go figure."
We talk some more. When Gale excuses herself to make up my bed, Hank offers to show me his den. He leads the way down to the cellar, through his woodwork shop, then to a padlocked door. He unlocks it, beckons me into a windowless room.
Here one wall is lined with books on the Vietnam War, the other with his collection of war souvenirs—photos of his fellow Lurp mission buddies, a captured Viet Cong flag, assorted VC arms and a half-dozen assault weapons including, he tells me, an M-79 grenade launcher.
"Some of this stuff's illegal," he says. "So, see, I don't take just anyone down here." He pauses. "You told me some of your secrets, so it's only right I show you some of mine."
"There's more?" I ask.
Hank grins. "Grenades, ammo, explosive materiel. After ranger training they sent me to demolition school. That was the best part of it over there—blowing stuff up."
In the morning we drive to Jackson State Forest, hike in, find my bike and bedroll just where I left them. I ride the bike out, wait for Hank in the parking lot. He loads it into the back of his truck, then we drive back into Fort Bragg. I insist we stop at a print shop on the way to make him a copy of the G.G.C. map. We spread the map open, copy it in sections, then tape them together. Back in the truck, Hank studies it with the intensity of a pro.
"Yeah," he says, "uh-huh . . . um, interesting. They got themselves a sweet setup all right . . . but nothin' that can't be penetrated. Tell the truth, in military terms their security sucks. Like these sentry positions. I see about six different ways past. Army officer did it this way he'd get court-martialed after the attack. But course they're not expecting a real assault." He laughs. "They just wanna keep poachers out, and anyone who's heard rumors about their goings-on and gets too curious for his own good. But one guy equipped right, he could do damage in there. Create some real havoc, Kay. Wipe the whole damn Goddess off the map he had a mind to."
We return my rental bike; then he takes me to the bus stop, waits with me until my bus arrives.
"Got three pump-outs to do today," he tells me, "at a hundred per. Get paid per job, not the hour. Nasty work, but the compensation's good."
When the bus comes, he hugs me tight.
"Let me know, Kay, when you decide what you're gonna do," he whispers. "It'll be my pleasure to help you out. Two of us could have a helluva time in there. Get you some good payback while we're at it."
CHAPTER 4: THE BEE
My first couple of days hack, I'm filled rage, so irritable and angry I'm impossible to be with . . . and know it too.
"We're going to get you through this," Sasha says. "We'll do it together. Talk about it, open yourself up, don't be afraid to cry."
Waking up at his place, suddenly, in the middle of the night, I take him at his word, grasp hold of him, sob against his chest.
"I hate being a crybaby," I tell him in the morning.
"Don't think about it. Let yourself grieve."
And so I do, grieve for my loss of control, for allowing myself to be humiliated and abused.
"You didn't 'allow' it," Sasha says. "They drugged you, forced you."
"I hate them for their power, hate myself for giving in to it. I shouldn't have accepted their water, should have fought them from the start. I hate myself for being afraid of their guns."
I know that what I'm feeling is crazy, that my game plan, if caught, was always to play fearful, submissive, dumb. But I still can't forgive myself for being captured, even though I know if I'd fought them, banged up as I was, I'd have probably gotten shot.
I turn up for aikido class midafternoon and again in the evening. Rita notices. "Training tough," she comments. "Committing to going for your shodan."
I neither nod nor shake my head, just show her an enigmatic smile.
"Good, Kay!" she says. "Keep your own counsel." Then she smiles to herself. I know what she's thinking: Two can play the enigma game.
Sore as I am, I start slamming my practice partners hard. They don't like it, and when their turn comes to be the nage, those who are skilled treat me the same way. Which is exactly what I want—to hurt, have my face smashed into the mat. Throw and be thrown, slam and be slammed—harsh training purges me, the pain releases me from the anger I hate carrying around.
This evening, when I'm particularly rough on Phil, a third kyu blue belt, a golden-boy type with the shag-cut locks of a Greek god, Rita intervenes.
"You're getting to be one mean aikido bitch," she tells me. "So let's see how big a badass you really are."
She orders me to come at her. I attack with all my might. She throws me down so hard the breath's knocked out of me, and the bruises, from the banging I took in the forest, are reinflamed. Out of pride and to show her how little effect her slam has on me, I spring up and go at her violently again. Again she slams me down, again, again . . . and again. Soon others in the class stop training to watch us, aware something serious is going on. A battle of wills between student and sensei. There can be only one ending to that.
Rita goes about her task methodically, half-amused expression on her face. Okay, her body language says, you want to train with emotion, I'll show you real aikido power.
She throws me, then tiger-walks around my fallen form. After the sixth very hard throw, I'm no longer able to spring up. When I do regain my feet, I'm angry, dizzy, hurting, panting hard. But the angrier and hotter I get, the cooler she becomes. Her wrist-holds turn painful. Even when I signal submission, she applies extra pain before granting release.
Now the entire class has stopped practice, spellbound by our show. No way I, a mere first kyu brown belt, can successfully attack a fifth-degree black belt. But still I try, reveling in the futility of my effort, eagerly plunging toward my inevitable defeat.
Suddenly, understanding me better than I understand myself, Rita changes tactics. She starts putting me down gently, after which she softly pats the top of my head. I can't bear such kindness. It's her tenderness that finally breaks me. When I start to weep, she pulls me up, embraces me.
"It's all right," she whispers. "You're through it now. It's over."
She releases me, calls the class into position, assigns a new exercise, then sends me to the side of the mat to do ki-flow exercises to regain stability.
After training she calls me into her office.
"Sit down, girlfriend. Tell me what's going on. Where's all this anger coming from?"
I tell her the essence of what happened up in Mendocino. I don't go into detail, just tell her I was caught someplace I wasn't supposed to be, was drugged, stripped and taunted.
"Soon as they figured out I was squeamish about guns, they ran one all over my body. They wanted to terrorize me." I look down. "I just wish—"
"What, Kay?"
"I don't know. Maybe, if I can get over that fear, I can start to deal with my anger."
She gives me an intense look. "How 'bout learning to shoot?"
The thought never entered my head. But the moment she verbalizes it, I feel it's something I must do. It's as if she knows instinctively what I need.
"I have a friend who specializes in teaching women how to use a gun. We served together in the Marines, taught together in Quantico. She's a master of weaponcraft and a terrific instructor. Now, like me, she's got her own school."
Rita writes out her friend's name, telephone number, an address in Nevada County, then hands me the slip of paper.
"Dakota Kass—is the name for real?"
"Oh. Dakota's definitely for real. Think it over. If you really want to get over your fear of guns, her classes are good as it gets."
I call Dad at his bakery, ask if he's free for dinner.
"Sure, darlin'. Want to do Chinese?"
We agree to meet tomorrow night at the Tan Yuet on upper California near where
he lives.
In the darkroom, I print up enlargements of the shots I took of Vince Carroll at the traffic light the day Sasha and I tracked him in his car. After the prints are washed, I squeegee them, then study them as they dry.
Carroll has a pleasant, clean-shaven, all-American face—clear eyes, even features, the face of a respectable thirty-something member of the community. He could be a shopkeeper, small-businessman, even a deputy sheriff or security director at a private club. No hint of menace or of the tomcatting aspect his sister referred to when I phoned. Still, I can see why women might find him attractive. There's an intensity in his gaze, a willfulness in the set of his mouth. I also note the way his biceps bulge in his sleeves, and the tufts of light chest hair that show in the open V-neck of his shirt.
My savior or my nemesis? He rescued me from Chipper and Buckoboy, but thought nothing of dumping me, however gently, in the woods. He's in awe of Ramsey Carson, does his bidding, won't fire Chipper and Buckoboy because Carson likes them. The Capp Street apartment is listed in his name, and he was on the G.G.C. firing range when Chap Fontaine was killed.
I study his face, seeking some glimmer of pity, some little corner of contrition. I want to find a suggestion of the shared humanity I see in Dad and the faces of the many cops I've known, but all I can find are blank good looks.
So, who is he, I wonder—friend or enemy? Enemy, I decide, but one I may just be able to use.
I finish drying the prints, choose the most engaging one, turn it over, pick up a black grease pencil, write a note on the back in big block letters:
HI VINCE! NICE OF YOU TO GIVE ME BACK MY CAMERA. REAL CONSIDERATE ACT. IN RETURN HERE'S A SHOT I TOOK OF YOU THE OTHER DAY. I'LL BE IN TOUCH. YOUR SECRET ADMIRER.
I reread my message, decide the tone's just right—brazen, sarcastic, slightly threatening too. Best of all, it sends a message: "I know who you are and where you live, which is more than you know about me. You're vulnerable, pal, so watch your back."
I scribble his name and North Ridge Drive address on the front of an eight-by-ten envelope, slip the photo inside, seal it, then drop the packet in the mailbox across the street.
I struggle to remember my ordeal in the gun room—what was said, done, what I saw and heard. My recollections are fragmentary, little bits and pieces as I slipped in and out of consciousness: metallic men and women writhing in erotic embrace; my tormentors' laughter; the smell of gun oil; the chill of the gun barrel as it grazed my flesh; flashes of steel blinding my eyes; a bee buzzing in my ear.
Sasha tells me that Rohypnol distorts perceptions, suppressing, exaggerating, creating a surreal nightmare world. As in a German expressionist film, he says, or a painting by Magritte. But still I feel there's something I saw, felt or learned in that room that imparted an important message, a secret hidden in my unconscious which I must drag out.
THE GUN / FIND THE GUN / WHERE'S THE GUN?
Maddy's words are now mine too. Find the gun, trace the gun, discover the meaning of the gun . . . then, maybe, my confusion will resolve.
I know that Ramsey Carson collects rare erotic guns, and that I, bound to the pool table, was taunted with exactly that kind of weapon. And that because I was in a drugged state, the characters engraved into the metal came alive, moved, screwed, even beckoned me into their orgy, and the glade in which their revelries took place became real as well. I smelled sweet air, heard whispering grass, saw butterflies flit, birds alight, was dive-bombed by a bee. Gun oil became sweat, gun grease became secretions, cocks swelled, labia opened and, throughout my ordeal, the bee hummed a message into my ear.
Follow me, it droned. Follow me and l shall lead you to the honey.
I phone Dakota Kass. Her voicemail message is no-nonsense. I leave my name and number. An hour later she calls back.
"Rita told me about you," she says, "that you're uptight around guns. I've had other students with that problem, cured most of them of it pretty well."
"Can you teach me how to shoot?"
"That's what I do, Kay. That and how to handle yourself in self-defense combat situations. Give me your address and I'll send you our brochure."
I ask when her next class cycle begins.
"There's still room in an intensive four-day course weekend after next. We can supply you with a gun and holster if you don't have one. Let me know. Classes fill up pretty quick."
Tan Yuet's one of those Hong Kong-style fish restaurants that look like nothing when viewed from the street. The usual Formica tables, overfilled aquaria, noise and chaos . . . until you sample the food. Then you can't imagine eating anyplace else. Salt-and-pepper fried shrimp, smoked black cod, steamed flounder with black mushrooms and ginger—Dad loves it all.
After we give our order, the owner comes over to say hello. Dad introduces him, a handsome guy with sharp features and precision-cut black hair. His name's Jimmy Sing; he used to be a San Francisco cop. His sister, Soo-Lin, is married to Dad's former partner, Rusty Quinn.
Mr. Sing winks at me. "All very incestuous," he says. "Your dad and I both left S.F.P.D., both found new careers in food and couldn't be happier for the change."
When he moves away, I ask Dad what caused Jimmy to leave the Department.
"Caught with his hand in the cookie jar." Dad laughs. "Jimmy turned out to be a lot better restaurateur than he was a cop."
Dad's skeptical when I broach the shooting course, but once he hears my reason, he gives his blessing.
"I could teach you to shoot, darlin', but I think your phobia's best dealt with by someone else." He looks at me. "Why now—if you don't mind my asking?"
I decide not to recount my experience in Mendocino, afraid he'll rush up there and confront Chipper and Buckoboy in a rage. He's always been protective of me, feeling my hurts, identifying with my vision problems, helping me learn to cope. The day Mom killed herself he waited for me outside the Art Institute in the rain, stood out on the sidewalk on Chestnut Street until class broke. Then, when I appeared, he took me in his arms, held me as he told me the sorrowful news.
"Time to get over it," I tell him, "time to face my demons."
Dad nods approval. "You're gutsy, darlin'. Always were." He looks at me closely, lowers his voice. "You seem to have gotten over the Sanchez thing pretty well."
"Thanks to you!"
At the end of the meal I ask if he remembers how he got me Vince Carroll's name.
"Sure, Rusty dug that up."
"Well, turns out Carroll's not in the dope business like you and Rusty thought. He's ex–law enforcement, used to be a deputy sheriff. Do you think Rusty could find out a little more about him?"
"Shouldn't be a problem, darlin'. I'll call him tonight. Rusty loves to snoop around."
The Personal Security Ranch brochure arrives, containing a number of photos of Dakota Kass, a petite woman, about my size and build—blonde, intense, a bundle of coiled energy, decked out in cowgirl clothes: buckskin jacket, western boots, wide-brimmed hat. She looks good in combat stance holding out her gun. The cost of her four-day extended-weekend course is six hundred dollars, ammunition extra, lunches included. There's a special double-occupancy rate for students at a nearby motel, or, for those willing to rough it, free bunk space in an outbuilding at the school plus a moderate surcharge for meals.
I call her, tell her I want to sign up for the course and that the bunkhouse accommodation will be fine. When I mention I'm nervous, she assures me I'll get over it quick.
"You were probably nervous the first time you walked into Rita's dojo," she says. "But once you stepped onto the mat, you were too busy for stress. It'll be the same thing up here."
The bad dreams continue, the partially recollected nightmare of my ordeal. Though determined to crack the code of the gun, find the key to my lost memory, I find myself stymied, the secret still elusive, hovering just beyond my reach.
Sasha, intent on helping me work it out, suggests I try and draw what I saw.
"I'm a photographer," I remind him, "
not a draftsman."
"Surely you took drawing class at art school?"
"Yeah . . . but it's been years."
"Were you good?"
"Not bad."
"Well then, why not try it?"
I shrug. Maybe he's right. Since writing often clarifies my thinking, perhaps drawing will do the same. Then I laugh. "I know why you want me to draw the gun. You want to see what those erotic engravings are about. As if you need any ideas along those lines, Sasha!"
This morning I put on my heavy shades, then walk down to the Art Institute. At the supply store, I buy a sketchbook and a good set of charcoal drawing crayons.
Returning to my apartment, I set to work trying to re-create the scenes on the gun.
My first efforts are pathetic. I draw the people as stick figures. Then, when I try to refine them, the women come out looking like pinup girls and the guys like cartoon hunks. I rip out the sheets and tear them in half. The figures weren't like that at all, they were beautifully, indeed superbly, engraved.
By midafternoon I'm satisfied I've got at least one scene down fairly well: a woman sandwiched between two men, their six legs emerging at divergent angles from the sprawl, while a second nude woman sits beside them tickling their genitals, the focus of the composition.
Having gotten the figures right, I do my best to re-create the setting—trees, grass, a sylvan glade.
Working on these elements, I suddenly remember the setting wasn't woodsy, rather was a clearing in a jungle, with numerous animals—monkey, fox, leopard, gazelle and variety of birds—curiously watching the humans cavort.
Recalling the detailed manner in which the animals were engraved, I try sketching them on separate sheets. There was, I remember, something special about them, a strong particularity and an intensity about their collective gaze.
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