|
“Please,
your honor.” Anna twisted a worn gold band on the third finger of her left
hand. “If only you would reconsider. It should never have come to trial. My
son was proven innocent. It’s that DA -”
Bored
and uncaring, he raised an eyebrow and she rushed on. “Sir, I could send him
away.” Anna’s heart was breaking and it showed in her voice. “He could
live with relatives - out of state - until this business with the Project is
finished.”
Wilson’s
piggish eyes narrowed.
“Mrs.
Grey, for the last time, no.” He
pretended to busy himself with the stacks of papers on his desk, anything but
meet the woman’s eyes.
My,
but she is good looking. Desperate, as well.
The
phone whispered, “Sir, you have a call.” Body pulsing with thoughts of Anna,
eager, sweating Anna, laying under him, whispering dirty words in his ears and
he snatched it up.
“What
is it now, Mrs. Jeffras? I’m busy, so be quick about it.” His lips smiled at
Anna, his eyes leered his thoughts. Make
her beg. Then, for the voters he stood to gain, put the boy away for
decades. Yes. Let her suffer for having an animal for a son.
In
his arrogance Wilson relished the faint revulsion on her dark face.
The
monitor showed only his choice of screen-savers. The party on the other line was
demanding. He grew pale. Wilson made a sporadic clutch at his stomach. Heart
like ice, Wilson snapped upright in the plush chair.
“I
. . . Yes, of course, Mrs. Van-”
Jaws
slammed shut to stop his teeth from chattering, Judge Wilson slipped the phone
back in its cradle. The small monitor slid back in place, silent waves crashed
and foamed on a distant shore.
In a
stunned silence, he stared at it. He glanced at his watch and shoved to his feet
in one quick jerk. Wilson’s chair spun in a rapid arc and cracked against the
rich Italian chestnut paneling of the wall. Taking a short, quick breath through
his nose, Wilson blinked. A shudder withered his spine. He opened his mouth,
then shut it with a hard snap.
“ .
. . Unless you can come up with something more plausible, a better excuse than
the Project -” Eyes derisive, he held up his hand to forestall more of
Anna’s pleading. “Your son will stand trial in exactly five minutes. I
suggest you get him into my courtroom or face charges of contempt. I somehow
doubt your own record will stand that.”
“But-”
“Five
minutes, Mrs. Grey.” In a cold, biting voice, Wilson snapped, “Or is it Mrs.
Ivanovitch now?” He stamped out a side door.
Tears
running down her face, Anna sagged. Times had been worse. A quick hand scrubbed
the wetness from her cheeks. She stumbled out the door, taking a seat herself
next to Benny. Anna tried to smile. She smoothed the shaggy hair out of his
eyes.
“No-va,
kid. Sorry.”
Benny
shrugged. “I figured, Mom. Thanks anyway.” He gave Anna a half-hearted grin
and lied. “How bad can it be? We got Trinity and Conn and everybody all on our
side. It’s just, y’know, a couple of creeps trying to mess with us. I
didn’t do nothing. Just got a bunch o’ crap done to me. The Feds proved
that.”
Brilliant
and seemingly without care, Benny flashed his mother a smile. In his stomach a
duodenal ulcer flared, gnawing hard at the lining. Christ, getting one
scared-hell out of him. Imperfect slaves were disposed of, sold. If that had
been his only torment at the Manse, he would have been lucky. A hand out for his
mother, Benny stood. Mom was real cool about it all. She went through a lot for
him.
If
things didn’t turn out, to hell with it. All of it.
He
would rather cut his own throat than live in a place like the Manse, making
babies for the Project. Leda and the Greylov clan could have him, use him on the
‘Stone first.
Grampa
sighed. Crap’s a happenin thang, dude,
but yo.
Moving
out into the main lobby, Benny held his head high, scowling like a real bad-boy
for the hordes of cameras exploding around him and the storm of shouted
questions.
“Why
is Judge Wilson doing this?”
“Wasn’t
the case resolved in the Supreme Court?”
The
scowl wavered. It was replaced by a very real fear snaking through his guts.
Benny gave his shoulders a slight hunch. Forcing a way for his mother and
himself through a forest of microphones thrust at his face he tried to ignore
the strident demand of voices. The control was his restraint. It dominated him,
commanded his obedience. Like Pavlov’s dog, he was trained to submit.
“Are
you finally going to tell about your part in the Manse, Mr. Grey? The people
have a right to know.”
“Was
the President’s wife one of the women you had to host at the Manse?”
“How
many children have you sired for the Project?”
A
tall, gone-to-flesh man pushed between Benny and his mother. He thrust a
microphone at Benny. Sweat rolled off the jowly face, a scowl of contempt burned
already splotched and crimson skin.
“Is
it true the Project emasculated you, Grey?”
Except
for a furious whispering in recorders, a deathly silence fell over the packed
halls. The man smiled. He looked over Benny’s black jacket, his scuffed boots
and work callused hands, and rumbled a bark of laughter.
Shocked
that the reporter knew about the Project’s way of punishing recalcitrant
slaves, he stopped. Benny stared up at hungry, shark-like faces and the
revulsion there. Anna’s eyes grew frantic. At the sight of his mother’s
fear, a low growl started in the depths of Benny’s chest. Filled with hate and
an iron rage, Benny snatched the man down to his size. Oblivious to the shouts
of alarm, Benny hissed, choking back tears of shame. A bitter, harsh joy formed
in Benny.
Kill
him. The wolf
within crouched, whispering its hate. Feed
me. Crushed his jaws. See the blood wash away the perversion of the Manse. War.
War. War. Kill. Feed me, Dark-Rider.
Give me his soul.
Forbidden
power whispered terror at the
reporter.
“Shark,
I’ll eat your friggin ogana liver. I
swear I will.”
Anna
touched her son and said in her quiet, irony-filled way, “Beat it, hi:no. That yan:ki unodena
isn’t worth the trouble. Benny?” Anna chortled. “You’re frightening
him.”
The
sinewy hand slowly released the reporter. Almost gently, he took the man’s
recorder and dropped it to the floor. The reporter’s hard rage never left the
bloated, shuddering face while the heel of Benny’s engineer boot crushed the
palm-sized recorder on the green and white tiles of the hall.
A
foot taller than Benny, the man watched in shock the short kid destroy his
instrument. He balled a fist, raised it. In Grey’s eyes there was something
that made the arm fall back, sway limp and loose. Made his knees tremble.
Benny’s
eyes widened, grew wolfish. Power
roared at the man. In his soul, the reporter saw it. Under the force of the
night-sun, the spirit-wolf screamed for death. The reporter whimpered, dropped
his gaze to the remains of his recorder. A rank, odious wet stain shot out from
the seat of his pants.
Grampa
and the wolf both howled with laughter.
Anna
sighed. It was wrong, he knew better than to waste power.
“Benny,
son?”
He
nodded at his mother and matched her grin with a wan smile.
The
doors swung open for them. Bailiffs and the police guarding the court from a
rumored interference by ani:Wy:O:Ming
Native Americans or, far more likely, a raid of brown-shirt Project fanatics,
leered at Anna. From the packed hallway that reporter’s voice rose in shrill
derision to hail them one last time.
“I
take it that’s an affirmative, Grey?”
It
would be so easy. Reach out and kill. Head bowed, Benny held his temper. The
things that happened there happened months ago, a lifetime ago, but he was
unable to refuse Trinity’s wishes. The controls would not allow it and she
knew it.
Taking
his seat at the defender’s table, Benny nodded at his court-ordered attorney,
then glanced at their opponent. Benny closed his eyes and choked back a sob.
“Geezis,
no. Not O’Brian.”
©2002 StoriesByEmail.com
|
