Shadows of Fear -- Part 7
by Martin H Slusser

Almost over. Ha.

Old man ‘Spider’ Ryan leered a malignant smile. He nodded, tapping a gold-headed blackthorn cane on the floor in a gesture of excitement. It was the DA, O’Brian himself, who had told the County Prosecutor that he was personally taking the case, with only a slight push from the ‘Spider.’

“It goes well,” he said to his chauffeur. “Very well indeed. The property will soon be back where it belongs.” He cackled a mocking laugh at Henri’s open hate. “‘Tis true, poor Benny might have to stay a while in a prison. No matter, me boy-o, indeed.”

Ryan had delivered this particular piece of property out of tighter places than the Federal Penitentiary.

“Bah, Henri. A few weeks there would be good for the boy-o. Make him a touch more malleable. Sure, and any normal fifteen year old lad would be overjoyed to exchange bars and bad food and predators for the luxury of a place like the Project’s fancy-house. They would indeed. But then, the boy-man is not exactly normal, is he?, else the dear people would not be wanting him. Would they now?”

A shudder hit his heart. Ryan swallowed a small pill and touched the ebony crucifix in a bid for help from that quarter. Then he caressed the Owl totem Leda Melancowski had made for him. In it was a drop of blood taken from a sacrificed infant. One of many Ivanovitch put in her.

Ryan caught himself making signs against witchcraft. He saw Henri watching and scowled.

“Devil take the whole rotten lot of you,” he muttered, snarling at the tawny eyes of a now grinning Henri. “Black boy, I tell you, that reward was as good as in me Swiss bank account.”

Ryan winked at the judge. Wilson hastily averted his face.

In his closing arguments against the defendant, District Attorney Josiah O’Brian spun with all the grace and finesse of an actor in a failed script. Face outraged, arm pointing, his finger extended like an accusatory weapon at a lone teenage boy slumped at the defendant’s table. Eyes filled with promise of retribution, Anna stared at O’Brian.

Baring his teeth, O’Brian announced, “That, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that young man before you, is one Benjamin Wya Grey.” He is evil. Warped. “He cannot conduct his life in the same manner as you or I. It is beyond him, for he lives to break the law, to do harm to his fellow man.”

The arm lowered slowly. The courtroom was silent but for the accused’s mother’s broken rasp of protest.

O’Brian shot Anna a withering glance and stepped to the defendant’s table. He towered over the boy.

“He is guilty, beyond even a shadow of a doubt. Rotten to the core, ladies and gentlemen.”

O’Brian recounted Benny’s sins.

“He is a chronic runaway. A known thief.” A drug pusher, an enslaver of innocent young girls. My poor Angel. “He was, and may well yet be, deeply involved with the nefarious experiments done by certain misguided persons in a group known to us only as the Project.” O’Brian leaned on the table, hands smooth, his eyes flat with hate and locked into Benny’s. “He has helped kidnap citizens of this nation, forced them into a life of shame and degradation to further his depraved and corrupt goals.”

“That’s a lie.”

Benny leaped to his feet. Mouth gaping in bitter shame of the controls, of the training collar he had worn, Benny froze. It left him sweating drops of ice. Benny slumped back in his chair.

“And was himself a prostitute there.”

His wife’s shapely form crossed O’Brian’s mind’s eye and the DA clenched his hands into fists of rage. Thousands paid to an obscure doctor as hush money to keep silent about Angel’s abortion.

Taking a deep breath, O’Brian allowed himself to leer at Benny. Turning to the jury box he straightened his tie. The cold face became a saddened and touching mask.

“I implore you, do not let this . . . animal -” He bit off the word with a savagery, then caught himself. “Do not allow Benny Wya Grey to continue his life of crime. Give us a cry of guilty.” His fist shot forward and up. “Remand this case to a higher court if you will, but help us take this . . . person off the streets before he can strike again.”

As one, the jury looked at Benny. The papers had been full of the Project, accusations of slavery, buying and selling human beings, hints of breeding them. And this kid. Then nothing.

“Were it up to me,” O’Brian said, his voice filled with pain and sorrow, “For his crimes against the State - against humanity, ladies and gentlemen, I would ask for the death penalty.” Gasps of shock filled the court. “It is the only humane thing to do. When a dog runs down Main Street, bloody foam dripping from his mouth, you do not attempt to treat the disease. All that is left is that one final, merciful shot.”

He paused, allowed his words to sink in. To Benny, he said in a low hiss, “You raped my wife. She’d never willingly lay with a rednigger.”

Anna jerked forward and balled a fist. With a low, muttered laugh of contempt, he showed Anna a flash of teeth.

“If you allow him to walk,” O’Brian captured each jurist with his eyes, “then you will be guilty of setting free one of the most iniquitous and vile criminal minds America has ever produced. Benjamin Wya Grey is a danger to every man, woman, and child you know. He is guilty. Guilty,” O’Brian shouted.

“Guilty,” he whispered. “Of this I have no doubt.”

Several in the jury nodded. Face triumphant, O’Brian stared at Benny, then at Anna.

“At the tender age of fifteen, he is rotten. His mother was tried and found guilty of the wanton murder of her beloved father-in-law, one Ivor Greylov. His stepfather, Carl Ivanovitch, is a known male prostitute. A pimp who spent most of his life behind bars. Ivanovitch is a biker. A Road Warrior,” O’Brian said, his lips curling. “Lawless and murderous, a man on the verge of insanity.

“Between these two, they have produced a son who is a depraved and sadistic ghoul that feeds on our children.

“Rotten through and through, ladies and gentlemen.” He swung around to face them, hands held in supplication.

©2002 StoriesByEmail.com

Nolan Chart