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“He hasn't touched anything? Not even water?” Cindy's fingers rattled on the
top of her dining room table. She glanced at her guests and smiled her
excuses.
A tall, lean man rose.
“I'm sorry, Senator Griffin, but-”
“But nothing, Mrs. VanTur,” he drawled.
“That boy of yours is dangerous, I tell you. I want him put away, and for
good.”
Cindy stared at the man until he flushed and
looked away.
“Isn’t there a rather large voting-block of,
as my subject calls them, the Chicano-ani:, in your state?” Griffin hissed
a “Yes.” Face solemn, she nodded. “Senator, you do realize that if
your daughter is any way involved with my subject, your daughter could be,
shall we say, in double jeopardy. Still want Benny Grey done away with, sir?
La, but I rather thought not.”
With a snarl of rage, the man clamped his hat down
on his head and stalked after her.
She took the stairs down, more to annoy Griffin
than because she wanted the exercise, and breezed into the guard room next
to where she held Benny.
Four monitors showed him from different angles.
Head down, arms draped over his knees. He was unmoving, still in the same
position he had been when she last checked. From time to time a low, wolfish
growl rumbled up to make the guard shift in his seat. His vital signs were
down, but not alarmingly so. They had been lower at times when he was at the
Manse. Only now nothing showed him to be using it.
Damn you, Benny, what are you up to now?
The agent on guard threw Griffin a cautious look.
“Someone should go in-”
“He'd kill you.”
Deep in his throat the agent made a noise of
disbelief.
Behind them, Griffin watched from under lowering
brows. He was taut with anxiety. This was the boy he had seen. The little
bastard was the one that caused him a great deal of embarrassment and
possibly- No, it had been McNary, the fool, who attempted to force the abuse
of rape on his little Nina. Though you can't exactly rape the will, can you.
“Is it him, Senator?”
Griffin gave her a sour look that matched the ache
in his stomach. He nodded and leaned against the door post, his arms folded
on his chest. “I'm fair certain he never touched my daughter, Miz VanTur.”
She gave him a tight smile that made him stiffen.
Griffin offered her a thin smile. “I had her
checked by a competent physician. I’ll have you know she’s untouched.”
Her smile squeezed his heart. “Wise of you,
Senator. But I intend to have her examined by my own physician. Have Nina at
the Walter Reed Hospital at three sharp, tomorrow. Do you hear me?” she
said to his bitter scowl.
Griffin snapped, “What gives you the right-”
“Do it.”
Head lowered, Griffin nodded.
“Ma'am, I really think I should go in-”
“Forget it. Have you ever watched him in
action?” When the guard shook his head Cindy drew from the library several
palm sized laser books. She opened the first and inserted it in the video.
A tall, hulking man-boy came on, and a small dark
child.
“This is one of my favorites. It was taken at
the Wilkes-Barre Children's Home. The man you see is all of sixteen. He was
a mistake on Ms Hylnn's part. Later he became the subject's stepfather, Carl
Ignatius Ivanovitch-Wya.”
The man gasped. “That's Sergeant Ivanovitch? The
Marine spec-agent?” The name was said with no little awe.
Two pair of eyes flicked at him.
“You knew Ivanovitch?”
“Knew him? Hell, lady, he saved my ass.” His
eyes closed for a moment and he added in a slow whisper, “No, I never
actually talked to the guy, but the druggies were terrified of him. I was
out of my head with a fever. The druggies tortured all of us. They . . .
they love that sort of crap.” He glanced away to swallow and blink at
haunting memories of a war. “Ivanovitch was nutty. He would go off at any
mention of the Jivaro del Noche. I got word out to Spec-dot-Comm about a
fort in the Roybal Hills, just before they nailed me. What I heard was they
wouldn’t let him go find it. So he went AWOL. Snuck in just like he was
one of our Anito Indian allies. He destroyed the place.”
The agent wiped a tear from his cheek. “Just one
man, but he said he was doing it for a lady he knew. All by himself.” Lost
in memory, the guard scowled. The drums of the Anito’s throbbed in his
head with an aching clarity.
“Ivanovitch
rescued over a hundred of us. Him and the Anito brought most of us out in
canoes. We could hardly walk. We were so dead from the way they used us. The
Anito, they liked Ivanovitch. They took us in, fed us, healed us until the
choppers came.” A look of cold satisfaction came over the paled, sweating
face. “Then he went back for the rest of the druggies. I . . . I heard he
died there,” the guard finished in a choked-off sob.
“No. He was killed. Died in place of the
subject.”
A look of pure hate came over the agent's face.
Cindy studied it with a veiled interest.
“Who killed him?”
“An accident, as I understand. A deer wandered
out onto route 309, south of Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, and charged the
subject's motorcycle. Ivanovitch speeded up and rammed the buck head-on
first.”
“Christ.” The man regarded Benny with new
eyes. “Yeah, that sounds like Ivanovitch.”
“A great many people would like to use Benny,”
she deliberately used his name, “Such as Hylnn's in-crowd.”
His face contorted into so much hate Cindy had to
stop herself from backing away. The man nodded, a violent motion of his
head. Cindy allowed herself a small, congratulatory smile. Benny would be
well guarded, each Corpsman thinking he had to do his duty by Ivanovitch and
protect the dead man's stepson for him. There was no way Benny could escape
her now, until she decided on a way to terminate him. An accident, too bad.
She glanced at the senator. He grinned and in
silence applauded her. Cindy gave him a sultry look and returned her
attentions to Benny. Griffin was tall, lean, and hungry, but still loved his
dead wife to much to sully her name with what his religion named sluts and
whores.
“Hello, Benny. Not hungry?”
Piece by piece, he returned to this world. His
eyes flickered under closed lids. All of his being had concentrated on
attacking what lay beyond that door. His head raised, the lids blinked. He
yawned and stretched. Benny hacked and spat on the door.
With a casual look that belied the very real
hatred in his guts, Benny took out his tobacco and papers. A match flared
briefly in his cupped hands. The tip of the cigarette glowed, the smoke of
an offering drifted around his head and out a ventilation shaft. The tiniest
of cracks started in the east camera.
She hadn't expected an answer, not in words. Cindy
frowned, saddened by his malice.
“Arnetti is alive, Benny. You gave him quite a
headache, but he's all right now, not even a concussion.”
“Some folks got no luck. Hain'a, lady?”
The still lit match dropped to the floor. It
flared and died.
“He nuts?”
“Just very, very angry. I'm afraid the subject
doesn't yet believe in what we do.”
The agent looked relieved. “They said Ivanovitch
was. The shrinks, I mean.” He sat back and took in both monitor and video.
An occasional grunt came from him as Carl showed Benny fighting moves that,
even with all his training, had only heard of.
Cindy lay a hand on his shoulder. Startled, he
glanced up.
“Ms VanTur?”
“Keep an eye on him. I want to know everything
he does, what you feel he's thinking at the moment.”
Trying to cover his disappointment, the man shut
off the video. He nodded without looking at her.
On her way out, she said, “You can borrow them,
if you like. Just return them tomorrow.” She took Griffin's arm.
“Thanks, Mrs. VanTur. Thank you a lot.”
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
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