Predator Ch 07

She found an absent father, a controlling and sexually abusive mother, alcohol and drug abuse a constant throughout his life. One neighbor recalled how the boy had enjoyed capturing dogs and cats, blinding them with sewing needles, then setting them loose on crowded streets and watching them get hit by passing cars. Another recalled stories she'd heard from neighborhood children, of how he'd brought girls home from school and tied them up in the garage behind his house, then how he'd painted them with red paint, cutting off their hair with pruning shears before releasing them.

His father was long gone by the time of his arrest, but she ran across his mother -- and almost be accident. She'd been living in homeless shelters for years but had recently fallen ill, been transported to St Luke's and diagnosed with tuberculosis. She was terminal, in an isolation ward when Rutherford interviewed the woman, and the event was transformative for Rutherford. What emerged was a portrait not of evil, or even simple weakness, but a cycle of victimization. Of sexual abuse, first by her father, then by her husband -- who particularly enjoyed sodomizing her with a broomstick -- yet when told of her son's peculiar needs the woman only smiled.

"That's all he ever wanted to do," she told Rutherford. "He worshipped girls, from the first. When I took him to church he liked to sit behind attractive women in the pews, and when we kneeled to pray he would reach out and play with their shoes, then he would sniff his fingers. When we walked home he would confess these little sins to me, and I would beat him, then let him play with my shoes, smell my feet."

"What role did the church play in his life?"

"We went several nights a week, because he seemed to enjoy it so."

"What about your parents? Did your father play with you, with your feet?" Rutherford asked, and the woman had simply looked away.

Look away. Turn away. Let your impulses control you -- never take control of them. Let other people control you, until there was nothing left of your life to control. That was the universal constant she found in that instant, and it reinforced all her earlier thinking.

So his crime had been part of a cycle, but Anne now suspected cycles like these were always involved. Sniffing feet, like a dog or any other predator might, was too obvious, too full of unexplored irony, but cycles of inverted lust weren't that obvious, and control for control's sake wasn't ironic, and she saw this man's love, his seriously perverted love, had developed in a youth spent surrounded by the trappings of religious order, yet such order was little more than delusion absent real understanding of both the self and the institutional order's purpose. His mother's serialized abuse helped create a new, unholy trinity, but what interested Rutherford most was how seemingly 'normal' the man's upbringing was -- from a distance, anyway. She had been on the street long enough to realize his upbringing was far from unusual, and that just a few key differences in his mother's behavior might have changed the outcomes of an endless stream of broken lives. But because she was just part of a longer cycle playing out over time, she'd never been aware of her own role in the drama.

She returned to Washington after that and began a graduate program in psychology at Georgetown, more intent than ever of understanding the dynamics of these cycles, to unearth key differences between what might be 'normal' and what led to criminal psychopathology, yet her professors seemed resolutely uninterested in her line of study.

Try Sociology, one of them told her, and so she had.

When she wasn't working on cases, she went to prisons and interviewed inmates. She went to seminaries and interviewed seminarians. She went to her husband's clubs and participated in their minor, acted-out predations, yet she did so from then on as more of an observer, as someone interested in questions she perceived in these activities, not just the answers intuited in the needs and counter needs of play-acted passion. Yet in the end she saw, in all these settings, women and children as victims of a peculiar, predatory lust -- and she saw no way out of this dilemma going forward. Nothing would change for women and children if the status quo remained, because everything was locked in ancient cycles of need and lust. A lust defined by men. A broken need that had become a self-perpetuating cycle of broken dreams and endless despair.

And yet, she soon discovered she was not alone in this thinking. She met other women running up against the same hard wall. Too often victims, and often enough, the women who helped victims. She kept note of these contacts, and over the years she was staggered to tally just how many she had met. Then she began to reach out, to discuss the framework of an idea...

So, as like-minded women, they met for years and discussed these issues, and in time they met and planned ways they might change the system. Physicians, nurses and social workers. Women in Congress, women in law enforcement and the military, women in academia and journalism. They met and planned at retreats in the country, and at more mundane political gatherings, where like minded adherents were first identified, then courted. An initial network of less than a hundred mushroomed into thousands, then the tens of thousands, and still they planned.

The group integrated with sub-groups around the country. Groups that almost always included wealthy, politically connected men. Groups that her husband had once belonged to. Clubs, little play-acting clubs, with play-acted control the goal. And soon she had the means, suddenly, to co-opt larges numbers of politically influential men all around the country. It didn't take long for the group to realize that the same architecture could be applied globally, and so they spent a few years putting a larger network in place.

Then He came along. The latest president. The "pussy grabber," the man who'd allegedly raped a 13 year old girl, then had his thugs threaten her with death when she decided to press civil charges. His election was a galvanic moment for the organization, and things began to move rapidly after that.

So -- one day they decided to act, and they had found a perfect first target. A pedophile mixed up with Mexican drug runners who liked to make snuff videos, who lived in Dallas, Texas, and she decided to commit her protégé to this endeavor. To infiltrate law enforcement at the highest levels of the investigation, to mask the group's activities for as long as possible.

And Genie Delaney had gone to Dallas willingly, had complete access to all the information being developed by the Dallas Police Department. She met with Delaney several times, and a key member of the department was identified for contact. A lanky, motor-jock who had flown for the Air Force, a kid named Ben Acheson.

Delaney was assigned to get as close as she could to him, to gather information that could be used to compromise him -- when and if the time came.

And then some fuck-up shot Delaney, and all their plans started to unravel.

And Anne Rutherford had the last epiphany of her life.

+++++

She was sitting on a patio at a seaside estate in Estoril, a huge stone patio overlooking the sea, and she was looking at two Russian colonels and their mistresses. They looked like whores, and she laughed a little. 'Well, maybe that's because that's exactly what they are,' Rutherford said to herself. 'They're just like me, so who would know better?'

She had her Iridium on the table in front of her, and it chirped once, so she looked at the display, then signed on and took the call.

"Hello," she said -- tentatively.

"Anne?"

"Genie?"

"Yes. I got your message."

"I've found Ben."

"Oh?"

"He's in a Russian POW camp, north of Lisbon."

"What?"

"He's in a make-shift hospital there, and I've heard he has a badly broken leg. I'm trying to get the Russians to let us get it fixed."

"Us?"

"Several network people are here, have been since the election. Anyway, I think I've convinced a colonel to take me with him on an inspection tour of the POW camps north of the city. Do you want me to pass along a message?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Oh?"

"Look, it's bad here. Ben's grandfather is sick...well, what can I say. Cattle are falling over in the fields, too much radiation in the grass, in the rain that's falling, and there's no more fuel so we can't drive into town, and anyway, there's nothing left, even if we could."

"The grocery stores...?"

"Bare shelves. Satellite radio was our last link to the outside, but they went off the air yesterday."

"How are you?"

"I've been vomiting blood all morning. Does that answer your question?"

"Genie, I'm so sorry."

"Sorry? Well, I guess that's something."

"I know."

"Do you? I wonder? Knowing what you know now, if you could go back in time, would you do it all over again?"

"Yes, I think so."

"I knew you'd say that. Funny, I guess."

"Funny? No, that's not the word I'd use. Inevitable is a word that comes to mind. Non-sustainable is another. Maybe we just sped things up a little."

"Wow, you really are a true believer, aren't you?"

"Yes. We could have kept going down the same road, maybe another generation, maybe not, before things fell apart..."

"And you got to make that call?"

"It wasn't just me, was it? I recall you were all for it, too, along with a few thousand like-minded people. Before you fell in love with Ben, anyway."

"I know," Genie said, quietly. "Like any other cult member, I guess. In the end it all comes down to brainwashing, doesn't it?"

"Maybe. But political parties and their handmaidens in the media have been doing that for the last fifty years. We just took it to the next level."

"Inevitable, huh?"

"Yes, I think so. Any idea how long people over there have?"

"In this part of Texas, two weeks. Maybe three. Average exposure in town is now over 300 rem. Last word we had was the major cities in Texas are silent now, but Houston was flattened on day one. Something like four large hydrogen warheads. There was one on the west side of Fort Worth, to take out an aircraft plant there, and San Antonio took a direct hit according to one report, but all our fallout is coming from the west coast. I can't even begin to imagine what happened out there."

"Any snow yet?"

"About two feet on the ground."

"How about power?"

"Ben's grandfather put in solar a few years ago, even a small wind generator. There's enough power to keep the lights on."

"Any news, anything on the internet?"

"Nope. It's down. Everywhere, as far as I can tell."

"Yes, it is here, too. Are you sure there's nothing you want me to pass on to Ben?"

"There's no need, Anne. You couldn't tell him anything he doesn't already know."

"Anything I can do for you?"

"I don't know. Can you make it all go away? Like this was all just a bad nightmare?"

"If I could."

And the line went dead a moment later -- though whether intentionally or by happenstance, she had no way of knowing.

+++++

She saw the Gaz Tigr as it turned onto the ramp, as the Russian behind the wheel turned for the C-17, then, as it drove by, she could just see Ben in the passenger's seat.

"You go now," the GRU colonel said to her, shoving her towards the aircraft.

She nodded her head, walked towards the Tigr as it stopped by the aircraft, and when she saw Acheson climb out her heart soared. He was walking, with a cane, but he was walking on his own, and he almost seemed surprised when he saw her walking his way, but in the end he ignored her, walked up to the code panel on the C-17 and entered a code -- and she saw Piskov walking up from behind, a pistol drawn.

"Ben," she called out, "was that stuff you told me about a delayed detonation code for real?"

Acheson turned, saw Piskov, and Rutherford -- and he smiled at her 'head's up.' "Five hour delay, as promised."

"What's this?" Piskov said, clearly not believing what he'd just heard.

"Oh, come on, Leo," Ben said. "We know all you want is access to the birds so you can try and get to Kentucky, but there's no way this aircraft is going to get anywhere near the coast. Besides, just how many more bombs do you think you need to drop?"

"We will stop bombing your country when your country stops bombing ours?"

"Oh? When's the last time our country bombed Russia?"

"We hear there are preparations underway for a massive strike, right here in Europe."

"Oh. I wonder who would spread a rumor like that?"

"Rumor, truth, does not matter now. Duty is all that's left."

"Duty to what, Leo?"

"To the homeland."

"Ah. Well, good luck with that, Leo. Really. Now, are you going to shoot me, or let me load up our injured and get them on their way home?"

"But you just say you will not be allowed to US airspace. You think I am fool? All of us?"

"Why yes, Leo, now that you mention it, I do think you are fools, all of you. All of us, for that matter. And do you know why, Leo? Well, let me tell you anyway, Leo, because I'm pretty sure you're too stupid to wonder why. You're a fool, all of you are fools, for thinking you could win a nuclear war. You're fools for wanting to believe the same old tired propaganda Stalin used to sell fear. You're fools even now for believing that same old bullshit, that we're getting ready to plaster good old mother Russia with another wave of atomic horse manure. You are, in fact, Leo, a race of fools, and it was humanity's misfortune to end up on the same planet with a pack of donkey's asses as stupid and foolish as you."

"Maybe you want me shoot you in face now? Save all the pain?"

"Fine with me, Leo, but there's a quarter kiloton nuclear warhead ticking down right now, and it's going to go off, right here, in just about five hours."

"You bullshit. No such thing, and we know it."

"Yeah, sure Leo, just like you know you can win a nuclear war. But don't take my word for it. Come here, look at the display."

Piskov walked over, looked at the display. "So, countdown timer. Big deal. Could mean anything."

Ben went to the panel, hit the audio annunciator button, and a woman's voice filled the air around the door.

"You now have four hours, fifty-six minutes to self-destruct. The minimum safe distance from this device is fifteen miles."

"What is this mother fucker bullshit!" Piskov screamed.

"Leo, it's not bullshit. It's a point two five kiloton fission warhead, and it's going to go off in a few hours, right here, too. I'd suggest you get in that little jeep of yours and beat feet out of here."

Piskov stepped close, put the Makerov to his forehead. "You disarm now!" he screamed.

"Sorry, Leo. Once it's armed there's no way to stop it. And oh. If you shoot the panel, the bomb goes off. No delay. It just goes off."

"You not shitting on me?"

"Well, let's not go overboard, Leo. After all, we hardly know one another."

"What?"

Acheson was grateful Rutherford turned away, hid her laughter as well as she did.

"Leo, honest Indian. No bullshit. Now, can we get my people loaded. I want to get out of here."

"But, where you go?"

"Well hell, Leo, this is the Marrakech Express. We're going to Morocco, in case you want to come along."

"Open ramp. We load now."

Ben went to the panel and entered another code; lights came on, doors whirred open. Russians frog-marched the ground chief and loadmaster over, took off their hand-cuffs and ankle shackles -- then ran away as fast as they could.

"Chief, go wake up my airplane, would you?"

"Sir, did you really arm that warhead?"

"Yes, Chief, I did. Now, let's hop to!"

"Yessir!"

"So, is no bullshit."

"No bullshit, Leo."

"Hmmph."

"My thoughts, exactly."

"You think you pretty funny, no?"

"No funnier than you, Leo. And you're a very funny man."

The man turned, began walking off and muttered: "Fuck you, and your mother, too."

"No thanks, Leo. Trying to quit. Causes cancer, in case you haven't heard."

Piskov stopped in his tracks, shook his head, then started walking again.

Rutherford walked over and stood beside him, took his hand in hers. "You know, I wonder. Is he really that fucking stupid, or was he acting."

Acheson shrugged, then looked at her. "You have any idea where to go?"

"Yup," she said, grinning, "think so."

Trucks began backing up the loading ramp, then troops helped carry the injured men to the cargo deck -- which was, thankfully, still set up with standard Medevac beds, respirators and IV pumps. The loadmaster came up, asked Acheson if he had any special orders, and Ben told him to make sure the men were strapped in tight, because it was going to be a bumpy ride.

The loadmaster walked away shaking his head, wondering how the hell the pilot knew that.

Acheson walked up the forward steps and then up to the flight deck, and he confirmed entries on the code panel, released a safety -- and only then went to his seat. A minute later someone claiming to be a Marine F-35 pilot came up and asked if he could be of help, and Acheson looked at the man -- who appeared uninjured -- and asked him where he was from.

"Mississippi," the man said.

"Oh? Where'd you go to school?"

"Ole Miss."

"Yeah? How 'bout them Buckeyes?"

"Yeah, they had a good year, didn't they?"

"Better than you, Ivan. Take a hike."

A few minutes later a heavily bandaged pilot came huffing and puffing into the cockpit, and he looked at the overhead panel and sighed. "Someone tells me there's an airedale up here who don't know how to fly real good, and shit, I thought since I'm Naval Aviator and therefore, by definition, a better pilot that any goddamn Air Force puke that ever lived, maybe I ought to come up here and see if I could give away some free airplane flying lessons."

Acheson turned and looked at the man. "They take the training wheels off your Tomcat yet, hot shot?"

"Tomcat? Man, where you been the last twenty years?"

"With your mother, drilling her in the can."

"She gettin' any better at it?"

"Howdy. My name's Acheson. You?"

"Bond. James Bond."

"Right."

"You know, I'm just as fuckin' sorry as I can be, but my grandfather's last name was Bond, and so was my Dad's. And I can't fuckin' help it if they both liked Ian Fucking Fleming. Alright? Any questions?"

"Seriously?"

"Yeah man. Say, what are all them-thar buttons up there for?"

"Oh, those operate the in-seat dildo dispenser. Don't touch them unless you want hemorrhoids."

"Oh, right. Heard about them," Bond said as he tried to slip into the seat. "Yeow. I hurt in places I didn't even know I had."

"What happened?"

"Ejected -- at Mach 1.3."

"Never done that. Is it as fun as I hear?"

"Funner. Man, this looks like an MD-11."

"Kind of, but don't let looks fool you. You flown commercial?"

"Nope."

Acheson heard someone close by, turned and saw Piskov standing in the cockpit door.

"You decide to come along for the ride, hot shot?"

"I come to tell you your men are loaded. You now leave any time you wish."

"Oh, well, I'll come down and see you off."

"As you wish."

"Jimmy? Back in a flash."

Before he left the cockpit, Acheson went into a locker and pulled out a Beretta 92 SB-F and slipped it into his waste-band, then followed Piskov down to the main cargo deck.

"Chief," he said to the ground chief, "I need you to give me a hand with something," and as Piskov turned to the chief Acheson cold-cocked the Russian with the Beretta.

"Sir?" the wide-eyed crewman said.

"Wrap his ass in duct-tape and throw him in the head, would you?"

"Yessir."

He walked aft to a foot locker sized metal box the Russians had placed on the cargo ramp, then he went over and closed the cargo ramp. When it was closed he turned to the loadmaster and smiled: "Help me open this, would you?"