"Sir?"
"You still here?” he barked.
"Sir, may I ask you a question?"
"Will it get your bony ass out of here any faster?"
"I was just wondering, sir, do you love Agent Ross?"
"Excuse me?"
"Caitlyn Ross,” she arched her diminutive back against the sudden storm behind his eyes. “Do you have feelings for her?"
Luke leaned over his desk, fingers on the blotter like he was going to leap across and devour her whole. “What on god's green earth would ever lead you to such an asinine, absurd and nonsensical conclusion?"
"Women's intuition, I guess. For what it's worth, she loves you, too."
His heart felt like someone was pressing down on it with a bowling ball. “Why do you say that? Did she tell you that?"
"No, sir. I just ... know."
He pointed to the door indicating where she should take her speculations. “Good day, Renfrew. Have a nice life."
"You, too, sir. And thank you again for everything."
Luke waited till she was gone before pulling out the scotch bottle again. Was the whole fucking world going insane?
For a moment, things started to spin. He looked to pin something down, to make something into an axis, due north round which to hang everything else. Too many characters in his life, too much water under the bridge, the nasty residue of a twenty-two year career—just a few years too long by anyone's standards.
Burnout is what the law enforcement shrinks called it. PTSD. Its origins were simple: Cops experience as a way of life the fears most people experience once or twice in a lifetime. For them the dark underbelly of humanity is the only reality and after a while it becomes impossible to look into any face, to witness any human transaction and not think of the hidden cheats, the buried crimes, the primal sins.
A good cop in his whole career maybe makes two or three really great busts he can feel good about. The rest is gray and muddy as hell. What was his own black and white-his moment in the sun? And what could he leave behind him by way of proof he'd made the world one iota better to live in for the average citizen?
For some reason the face of Anton Draco popped into his mind. Long faced and thin nosed, dark, fierce eyes, stone killing eyes, long, pony tailed hair; the vain bastard son of a bitch who'd raped Caitlyn and raped her some more. Who'd hired men to rape her and taken money from still other men to rape her on top of those rapes, and then, on top of that, had beaten and whipped and treated her like a dog just for the pure sadistic thrill. The idea that a man like him was taking up residence just a few miles from where Cait breathed, from where anyone breathed, this was just incredible and unacceptable.
It was at that point in his thinking he pulled out the pistol from the leather shoulder holster. It was black and squared, cold and metal, semi-automatic, heavy in his hand. For a split second he thought about putting the gun to his temple and squeezing off a round, neat and clean.
But then he had a better idea. One way or the other, regardless of the cost to his own freedom, or even at the risk of his very life he must find a way to get in to see Anton Draco, face to face, no plastic barrier between them, and then he must get close enough and kill him. Dead. With one shot, preferably, or else one stab of a knife or with his bare hands if need be.
And he must do this soon. If possible before Caitlyn Ross laid her head down for another night of trouble filled, nightmare prone sleep.
* * * *
Cait tried her best to finish the rum. It wasn't sitting right in her stomach and when the bartender asked if he could give her anything else or maybe lend her a listening ear, she knew she couldn't be in this place anymore. It reminded her of Luke too much, and out of the corner of her eye she could see the very booth where he'd touched her that last night, getting her revved up and ready to go into the alley to be whipped and ass fucked.
Luke had been doing her a favor, though neither one knew it at the time. He was getting her in the right frame of mind, breaking her in for what lay ahead.
"Thank you,” she smiled to the crew-cutted young man in the apron who was probably trying to pick her up. “But I should be going."
Her heels clacked on the wooden floor. How different the bar was during the day, with only a few patrons, old men, half soused on whisky and memories, chased by beer.
"Come again,” the young man called out and she could hear the old men kidding him about striking out.
She would be chalked up as a bitch, she was quite sure. Women who didn't spread their legs on command usually were. The ones who did, on the other hand, were whores.
What was she doing here, anyway? Not on this sidewalk, but in this city, this city full of people, doing business, walking, to and fro, in a hurry, holding secrets in their heads, none of them hers. Were they all walking time bombs the way she felt? Why didn't somebody, anybody, just stand out there in that street and scream, “enough"? Didn't anybody else get the picture-or was this some mutually agreed upon conspiracy? Nobody mention that we're hip deep in blood, nobody talk about the wolf in the back of every human brain that would tear every other brain to shreds if given half a chance.
And nobody talk about the women and how they are the ones, always the ones who are raped and kicked and beaten. Beaten by the winners and by the losers, by the crooks and the straights, the ups and the downs. Any excuse, any at all.
And fuck if they didn't like it, some of them, some of the time, getting fantasies fulfilled of being at the feet of strong men, of being objects of pure lust, so totally desired by a man that he will kill for you, do anything to steal you and keep you and fuck you again and again.
Was there no one to explain this psychology? Not the fucking shrinks and therapists, they were ball-less wonders and repressed cunts. She respected none of them, no more than they respected the world of the cop who has to sort out good and evil down the end of a gun barrel, with a few seconds in which to decide who lives or dies, him or herself included.
He might have asked Luke, if not in words, then at least through lovemaking. That would have been some link, some way to connect male desire and crime with her own female needs. He was an animal like all the rest, but a principled one, one with self imposed limits. But there was no more talking to Luke Dumont or fucking him. He was a great big closed door in her life, slammed shut. Like they said, though, for every closed door another opens and that got her thinking, which door might open now, and who, knowing enough about her, could answer some of these questions or at least listen with some degree of integrity and experience to make it worth her opening her fucking mouth.
Draco was probably the best in this regard, wasn't he? He sure as hell was in no position to judge and if he didn't keep his mouth shut, she could shut it for him. He was looking at life, life after life in jail and he'd sit with her, he'd have to, and they could just wring their hands together and say, where did it all go wrong, why aren't we on the road somewhere, raising dust and raising Cain, a modern Bonnie and Clyde-her nude and collared in the passenger side, holding the shotgun between her legs.
Anton Draco, yes, he was the one to see. And she didn't even need an appointment because he was sure to be in when she came to call.
* * * *
Caitlyn was seated before the prisoner arrived. There was a counter in front of her and a plexiglass divider. On the other side, he would sit, when they brought him in. There were separate doors on either end of the room for both of them and guards were generally posted at all four corners. In this case Caitlyn had requested a private interview, claiming there would be sensitive information involved with regard to ongoing investigations.
Draco had been offered the chance for a lawyer to be present, but had declined, apparently as anxious, or curious as she was for the chance to speak directly.
There were no investigations, of course. It was all a matter of Caitlyn's own interests. The need for closure as the spineless, unimaginative therapists might put it. But it wasn't really closure at all beca
use seeing him would only open things. Her belly, her spleen, and hopefully her mind as well.
She tried not to startle as the metal door opened and the man appeared. It would not do well to show fear, even now, when he seemed so beaten. Anton Draco had lost weight already. And he had scars, from wounds that must have happened after his arrest. She had lost track of him when the paratroops came in and her world went temporarily black. A lot had changed since then. Where she was naked before, now he was in an orange jump suit. Where it was she who wore the collar before, now it was Draco in the chains, ankle and wrist cuffs, of gleaming steel, linked by a connecting chain, also fresh and shiny.
He walked with a shuffled step the way a man with shackles is required. A pair of guards, stone faced in baseball caps and gold-buttoned uniforms seated him in the chair and stepped back, closing the door behind them.
"Ten minutes, Agent Ross,” called a voice over the PA.
It was Draco who spoke first. “I hadn't expected to see you again."
"Trust me, it wasn't easy. Not like this, when I can't kill you outright."
"Is that what you want to do, Agent Ross? Kill me?"
"If you mean would I off you so quickly before a lengthy torture, no."
"This is not how you talked to me before,” he pointed out. “Once you showed me respect."
She felt her blood heating up just a bit. “Yes, well I was at a bit of a psychological disadvantage then, wasn't I?"
He regarded her for a moment, not exactly as an object, but not really as a person either. “Do you really hate me all that much, or is it yourself you blame?"
Wham. He'd just managed a bull's eye through her careful defenses. “What are you, my fucking head doctor now?"
"I'm your lover, Caitlyn. Doesn't that mean a good deal more?"
"Lover?” She could scarce believe a man like this was even pronouncing the word much less wrapping his mind round the idea. “You don't even have a clue what that is."
"You came for me, again and again,” he reasoned. “In the end, you moaned out my name, begging to die with me rather than live. And I stood also with you, ready to die. What more to love could there be?"
Caitlyn shook her head, trying to block him out. “You twist everything, you always have."
"Have I? Then why did you come here today?"
"No reason. I mean, I shouldn't have. There's nothing more to say.” She pushed back her chair.
"I forbid you to leave, Caitlyn."
She waited for the punch line. “You must be joking? You can't think at this point I could possibly—"
"Silence,” he commanded. “Were you given permission to speak, girl?"
His face had become a mask of steel, of discipline, putting her right back there in Parecia, on her knees, on her belly. “N-no...” she conceded.
"Then you will remain silent, and you will obey. I want to see your breasts, Caitlyn, open your blouse and show to me what is mine."
She felt like an automaton, her eyes locked on his, that fierce stare controlling her completely as her fingers moved like someone else's down the front of her blouse, button by button.
"You will come to see me regularly, Caitlyn,” he was saying, his lips spinning their venom, words snapping through the air like lazy, seductive whips. “You will dedicate your life to freeing me. You will even marry me so that we may have visits where I can fuck you."
Her breathing was quick and shallow. Did he have any idea she would wear a front clasp bra? More to the point, had she chosen it at some level so that something like this could happen? Parting the halves of the blouse, she flicked open the front of the bra. Was there a camera? she wondered.
A little shudder passed through her as the material fell away, bearing her delicate nipples, the soft mounds that would always mark her female no matter how hard she trained like a man.
"Push them to the glass, Cait, as if to my mouth."
She looked around nervously. “But they may be watching."
"Must I repeat a command?"
"No, master."
There, the word had slipped from her throat. It was too late now. There was no turning back.
"Against the glass, slave, hurry, we haven't time."
She lifted herself off the seat and bent forward, all the way, till her nipples were against the hard surface.
"Press them,” he demanded and she had a feeling from the tone of his voice he was on the other side masturbating.
"Yes,” he hissed, “that's it. I see the marks have all healed. We shall have to mark them again. I shall send you to a man, to several men, in fact, who will rectify the matter."
Something about Draco's last statement and its implications caught her attention. For all his supposed power over her, he really couldn't touch her. The best he could do was trick her into going to others to provide abuse in his stead. How pathetic was that?
"Oh, yes,” she moaned, not yet revealing her sudden change of heart. “I want that, master."
Her tits were flat and suctioned. She was giving him quite a show.
"Is that pleasing master? Oh, I hope so, master. May I masturbate for you, sir?"
Yes, yes and yes. The great Draco was no more than a horny schoolboy, drooling, watching her like a pay by the minute stripper behind glass. Was this the secret to all his power? Adolescent libido?
"Ooh, master, I want to come for you,” she said in a little girl voice. “I want to more than anything, except...” and here she hesitated for effect. “Except that you're a revolting, cock sucking pig."
She said the last part in her normal voice. The look of shock and hurt on his face indicated a home run. He wiped it away quick, replacing it with his usual hateful sneer, but it was too late. She'd done her damage.
Could a man like that love her? Please. He loved himself-or an image of himself that had no connection to reality.
"Goodbye, Draco. May you rot in hell."
Quickly buttoning, she blew him a kiss and rose from the chair. With a nice little sashay she went to the door behind her and knocked for the guard. And that was it; just like that she'd broken the man's power over her. There might be wounds left, but now she could start to heal.
It was even better than killing him, because left alive, she could think of him, forever, as a psychologically castrated, worthless occupier of space, filling a cell and a jumpsuit waiting for his one way trip to hell, all expenses paid.
"So does this mean the other one won't be coming?” The sergeant asked at the desk as he returned Caitlyn's pistol to her.
She cocked her head. “What other one?"
"The other agent. We got a man scheduled in at four to conduct an interview with Draco. But now that you're here, we figured maybe he'd be a no-show."
Cait's heart skipped a beat. “Who's the other agent?"
"Dumont. Luke Dumont. He's the FSA agent-in-charge, I believe. He your boss?"
"Yes, yes.” She nodded quickly, like nothing was wrong. “I'm sure he's still coming. You know how the suits are."
The sergeant rolled his eyes. “Tell me about it, sweetheart."
"You have a good day, sergeant."
"You, too, special agent, you, too.” He punched the buzzer letting her through the security door. A few minutes later she was back in the open air with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Like hot blood, dripping from a nose or face wound.
Former Agent-In-Charge Luke Dumont wasn't coming here for any interview with Anton Draco. He was coming to execute him.
* * * *
Luke knew he couldn't carry in the firearm. Especially not having gotten the face-to-face for himself, no partitions. It took a lot of strings to get that agreed to, you could be sure. Luckily the warden was an old friend of a friend, the type who'd back a buddy, no questions asked. It was old school law enforcement. You look the other way when one guy bends or breaks the rules and he'll do the same for you. And together you'll get the maggots off the streets for good. Except Warden Jones didn't know Luke was re
signing and that the business he had with Draco was strictly personal.
Getting a knife in would be as hard as the gun. And bare hands would be tricky because helpful as the warden wanted to be, even he had to protect their mutual security by having a guard in the room with them.
Luke went over and over the various possibilities on the drive over to the jail. It was going to have to be done with his brains. There would be a window of five, maybe ten seconds where he could lay hands on the man. Maybe more, depending how quick the guard and his back ups could pull him off. More than enough time for a kill, if a man knew what he was doing. A snap of Draco's neck was probably the best hope, though it was going to be messy, no matter how you sliced it.
He'd get it done, though, because he'd have Caitlyn's face in his mind. And he was fearless, too. The way a man is who has nothing to lose.
* * * *
Cait waited for him in the parking lot. There was only one way into the jail and there was no way to miss him. She only hoped he would listen to reason. And if not reason, than there was always the blatant appeal of a woman in love to fall back on. Because she really was in love with him and whether he wanted to hear it or not she cared about his life, a whole lot more than she cared about whether Draco lived or died, or whether or not he served one more day of the sentence he'd been handed.
Luke was punctual as always, arriving twenty minutes before his appointment time. He looked haggard behind the wheel, unshaven, with dark circles under his eyes. She'd never seen the man like this. She doubted anyone had.
Giving a last feel for her gun under her jacket, and wondering if she'd use it, push came to shove, just to arrest him so he couldn't go in there, Cait approached his sedan.
Seeing her, he scowled deeply, though there were a lot of other emotions in his eyes that were too difficult too read.
"You're getting to be like a bad penny,” he opened his door.
Cait made her stand. “Luke, I know why you're here and I can't let you do it."
He raised himself to his full height, dwarfing her. “Let me do what?"
"Kill Draco. I know you want to avenge me, but this isn't the way. It's not what I want, so if you have any respect for me at all you'll get right back in your car and go home."
Caging Caitlyn Page 12