She Is Risen (She Is Risen: The Gun Control Case Studies) (8 page)

            Although she appreciates Henri’s supportive
tone, his thick fingers on her back make Lorabell feel uncomfortable.  She is
starting to regret wearing such a sexy lime green skirt with white stockings
and a royal blue blouse.  Ever since she arrived, the technicians below are
seeming to find reasons to perform ‘maintenance’ right below the open end of
her small skirt.  Despite the obstacles, Lorabell ascertains that this will be
a great opportunity for her, and she decides to shake off the glaring
perversions, focusing instead on the positive benefits. 

            “Well, let’s get started.” Henri says with
excitement, watching her reaction to the scale and scope of their operation. 
“Maxwell, will you introduce the subjects of our case study for Ms. Cardigan?”

            “This is May Ivory.” Maxwell begins, gesturing
toward the LCD panels at the far left. “She’s 25 years old, and has been living
in Virginia for the past year.  As you can see here,” he points to the screen
with a laser pen, “May has suffered burns to over forty percent of her body.”

            Lorabell shows a sudden concern and shared
connection with the lonely, young woman up on the screen.  The video feed
depicts May Ivory working quietly at her computer, taking drinks from a bottle
of water ever few moments.  Her deep blues eyes display emptiness under her
long mane of delicate, blonde hair.  She has fair skin, pale and beautiful,
except in the places that are severely burned and scarred.  Her face was mostly
untouched by the fire, except for under her jaw, and the area surrounding her
left eye and cheek.

            “She was involved in an accident while traveling
through The Needle’s Eye on Needles Highway, South Carolina.  May was riding on
the back of her boyfriend’s motorcycle when he tried to pass a pickup truck. 
Apparently, the driver of the pickup didn’t want them to pass, and sped up. 
Her boyfriend tried to go faster on the motorcycle, the pickup truck responded,
and they crashed into the entrance of The Needle’s Eye.  The tunnel is famous
for being one of the narrowest roads in America.  Anyway, the truck caught fire
shortly after impact with the tunnel and pinned the couple against the rocks. 
Her boyfriend died, she suffered burns over forty-percent of her body, and they
later found an engagement ring he was going to surprise her with on the trip. 
The couple was on their way to visit Mount Rushmore.  Now today, she is
considered a risk for gun violence because she frequents the shooting range at
least three times a week… It seems to help her get out the aggression.  We’re
also concerned about an incident involving a dog that used to wander around her
luxury home, barking during the night, sometimes for hours.  We know that she
suffers from migraines, and our video surveillance captured her threatening the
dog just a week ago with a revolver.  May is also considered a risk for gun
violence due to her heavy use of pain medications… and susceptibility to
depression.”

            “Next we have Ned Lawhorn,” Maxwell continues
with a nonchalant expression, pointing at the next set of LCD Displays, “and…
it looks like he’s out somewhere right now, probably the general store…  Well,
the guy is 62 years old; a retired oil worker who lives just outside of Houston, Texas.  His wife died from cancer over fifteen years ago, and his
fourteen-year-old daughter died a few years later…  It was a bus accident.  The
school hired a substitute driver who had a few shots in him, in an effort to
take the edge off from the kids screaming during the drive.  Although the
driver was convicted of manslaughter, his attorney found a way to present new
evidence during an appeal hearing, and was successful in getting the case
dismissed.  The bus driver now works as a parts delivery driver for a small
automotive service center.  One of the last things Ned taught his daughter,”
Maxwell chokes up for a moment, his voice cracking as he holds up his index
finger, then continues in a dry voice, “was how to tie a lasso.” 

            Maxwell stops to pick up a bottle of water from
the control panel and take a quick drink before continuing.

            “Do you have any questions so far?”  Maxwell
asks, holding his left hand out to Lorabell.

            “No, not yet.” She replies, smiling and nodding
for him to continue the briefing.

             “Lately, we’ve seen him spending time tying
lassos on his daughter’s bed and quietly staring at the floor…  Anyway, Ned
Lawhorn is your typical Texas badass,” Maxwell says with satisfaction, “he has
been a bullfighter, volunteer firefighter, and served in the Marine Corps
during The Vietnam War.  He now spends a lot of time buying and drinking whiskey. 
We consider him dangerous because he has already been seen stalking the man
responsible for his daughter’s death, and using photos of him to practice
shooting at his barn.”

            Maxwell stops to take another swig of water,
gesturing silently to the next set of LCD displays; one of them showing a
muscular, black man watching television at home.  A second display depicts a
young, black woman doing laundry in another part of the house.  She is slams
down a bottle of detergent, and throws the washer and dryer doors shut in a
controlled state of rage.

            “The next subject is Phillip Belfort,” Maxwell
leads off by pointing his laser at the man on the sofa, “he is a 35 year-old
Marine who served in Operation Iraqi Freedom, and stayed overseas for his full
eight years.  Unfortunately, while he was away at war, his wife was gang-raped
by a group of young men after visiting her family in Inglewood, California.  The assault was very brutal, and took place about six months prior to Sergeant
Belfort returning home to Anaheim.  Now, the Military insurance did cover some
limited therapy sessions for her, but she hasn’t fully recovered.  Since
Sergeant Belfort has returned home, she has refused to be intimate with him,
and has repeated nightmares of the assault.  When she gets really angry, she
also blames him for not being there to protect her.  They have both become
heavily dependent on alcohol, and Sergeant Belfort has not been able to find a
job since he returned from service over three months ago.  We consider him a risk
because he packs up his firearms, and tells his wife that he is going to the
shooting range with some buddies, but drives to Inglewood instead.  When he
gets to Inglewood he stalks the streets in his truck for hours.  Our theory is
that he’s looking for the rapists, who are members of a local street gang.”

            Lorabell has been strong to this point, but
seeing the couple in their misery touches the deepest section of her heart, and
she covers her mouth with both hands, staring with empathy at the screens.

            “Are you all right?” Henri asks with what would
measure up to be a teaspoon of concern and a pound of irritation.  “I thought
you said you could handle this?”  The Congressman asks, turning his head to the
side a bit as if surprised by her display of weakness.

            “No, I’m fine.” Lorabell sighs quietly. “It’s
just that seeing them, and knowing what has happened in their lives is so much
harder than just reading a case study.”

            “Well I’m going to need you to grow up fast,
Professor.” Henri snaps in a campaign-dictated tone of voice. “America needs you to be strong.  We are trying to solve a problem here and help these
people, and I can’t do that if my asshole analysts feel like you’re watching
Oprah all day…  Do you understand what’s at stake here?”

            “Yes, I do,” Lorabell states with pride, rapidly
gathering herself back to a state of immunity from her natural empathy, “we’ll
stay focused on the objectives.”

            “Do you know what we’re trying to do here?” 
Henri asks in a tone that displays his lack of confidence in her statement. 
“About a year ago, a young man dyed his hair orange and burst into a movie
theater with assault weapons.  The public was horrified; as they should have
been.  Now, after Nine Eleven, we implemented the TSA, but we don’t have any
program like that for gun control in this country.  We have no way of tracking
these maniacs who are buying 6,000 rounds of ammunition on the Internet, along
with body armor, and other bullshit you don’t need for hunting.  What I’m
trying to do is build a solid case for The President so that he can give me the
security authorization that I need to make this happen across the board…  I can
already get the funding; all I need is a green light from The Commander-In-Chief. 
We are trying to make history here by stopping the shooting sprees… long before
they happen.  Can you help me do that?”  Henri stares at her evenly, displaying
his expectation of compliance with the objectives at hand.

            “Yes, I can help you.” Lorabell states with
conviction, gesturing back to Maxwell. “Please continue your briefing.”

            “Our last subject is Julia Welheim.” Maxwell
starts speaking by pointing at an LCD screen that displays a woman alone in a
dark home, listening to the radio, and pacing from room to room.  “She is 46
years old, a disabled mother who has been confirmed as paranoid schizophrenic. 
Twenty years ago, she was doing really well until she had a relapse with her
therapy, which triggered a violent episode that was minor.  Anyway, the episode
involved a kitchen knife and a frightened neighbor who blew things out of
proportion.  This caused her marriage to fall apart, which led to another
episode, and soon after, her husband married Julia’s younger sister who is
mentally stable, and they took her five-year-old son to live somewhere in the
Midwest.  Get ready for some bad news…” Maxwell says slowly, watching to see if
Professor Cardigan is still strong enough to hear the rest of the story. 

            After she gives him a quick, irritated nod he
continues. ”Every day for the past twenty years, Ms. Welheim has been setting
the table with three placements for dinner, waiting for her husband and son to
return.  When about an hour passes, she breaks down, and sometimes locks
herself in the closet for several hours.  Other times, she goes upstairs and
retrieves a pump shotgun that her husband left behind when he left the Florida with her sister.  She then sits with the shotgun in her lap for hours, rocking back
and forth.  We consider her a threat for obvious reasons, but her behavior
becomes much worse when she doesn’t take her antipsychotics.”

            “Thank you, Maxwell, that’s all we need.” Henri
interrupts with a stern voice, gesturing for his colleague to take up his work
elsewhere.  “Also, one more thing, work on your encoded messages.  The cipher
you’re using now is so simple; an eighth-grader could break it.”

            Maxwell sighs, twisting his head like a scorned
tiger as he snatches his water bottle from the control panel and moves briskly
toward the catwalk stairs.

            “Do you understand what I need?”  Henri asks
with concern, looking at Lorabell as if bringing her on may have been a
mistake.

            “These people all need serious help!” Lorabell
declares with outrage, gesturing in a spirited motion at the LCD displays.  “I
can’t believe we let people slip through the cracks like this; how could we
become so cold?”

            “Look, my dear, let’s be honest with one
another,” The Congressman says in a sweet, salt of the earth tone, “there are,
unfortunately, millions of people going through life just like this.  Now we
can’t afford to give all of them the help that they need, but hopefully, with
the right program, we can save thousands of lives every year when these people
finally explode and decide to commit gun violence.  You’re the expert in the
field.  You knew that people like this existed.  Now you’re surprised to see
the reality?  Grow up, Professor!  I need to know if you’re on my team or not… 
Right now!”

            Lorabell watches Henri with the trained stare of
a psychologist, and can see that there is something disturbing hiding behind
his eyes.  His false gestures of concern send up red flags that he is extremely
manipulative and predatory.  She observes the subjects on the LCD displays for
a moment, her inner-voyeur enjoying a veritable playground of stimulation. 
Then Lorabell looks back at Henri, deciding it is better for her to be involved
than to leave this whole operation in the hands of someone who gleefully broke
his moral compass years ago.

            “Yes, I’ll help you.” Lorabell agrees, holding
out her hand in a gesture of good faith.        

            “That’s excellent, my dear.” Henri replies,
surprising her with a friendly hug; both of them feeling uncomfortably close
for a few seconds.  “I know you’ll be able to get the results we need,” Henri
predicts with a smile as he steps back from the hug, “and just in time.”

            The young professor smiles and turns her head to
the side, feeling angry that she allowed him to invade her personal space.  She
takes a few awkward steps backwards and to the left toward the LCD displays,
thinking to herself that the one thing you should never do is turn your back to
a predator. 

            Antonio Espinoche feels the ghost pain creeping
up in his right arm.  He looks down at the stump in disbelief, realizing that
there are so many tasks his body can no longer perform.  It has been only two
days since Enrique cut the arm off with a machete just below the elbow, and Antonio
cannot stop staring at this missing part of his body.  He closes his eyes for a
moment, feeling like God has punished him for his service to the cartel; all of
those bodies put into the ground. Every ounce of his creativity focused on
ensuring that they cannot be located by authorities.  Antonio ‘Gravedigger’ Espinoche
has devolved into ‘The Gimp’ Espinoche. 

            Antonio thinks about the priestess, turning his
head slowly from side-to-side in discomfort as he stands tall on the brightly
lit marble flooring of Miguel Horatio’s mansion in Costa Rica.  He raises his
eyes to the ceiling like a small child beholding something marvelous.  The
ceiling has been hand-painted to resemble that of The Sistine Chapel, with
vibrant colors telling Catholic stories from The Old Testament.  His eyes
descend from the artwork of the ceiling to the lavish staircase that ascends
high to the second floor bedrooms of Miguel’s wife and teenage daughter.  The heavy
wooden staircase railing was hand carved by skilled carpenters from all over Central America, and the floor is carpeted in a fine gold and red pattern.  These dark wooden
railings also have a deep history rooted in the area, with carvings of many
legendary figures that are meant to bless the home and keep out evil
spirits.   

            Antonio feels a lump in his throat as he thinks
about evil spirits, looking down at his arm again in shame.  He is certain that
he saw the priestess, feeling his forehead begin to perspire as he remembers
her unnerving stare and ominous message for Miguel.  After the horrors of their
first meeting, the last thing that Antonio wants is to tempt the wrath of someone
who has crossed over from death.

            “Miguel has finished his phone call,” a humble
Mexican butler announces quietly as he appears from the corridor to Antonio’s
right.  “He’s ready to meet with you, Señor.”

            Antonio dips his head somewhat in a display of
respect, and then steps over to where the butler is standing, waiting for him
to lead the way.  The butler is dressed in a dark, forest-green uniform.  His
body is strong and his hair and nails are well-kept.  Antonio appears a bit
mismatched in his attire, wearing a nice black dress shirt and red tie,
complimented by khaki slacks, and expensive leather dress shoes.  The look
loses something with his large, short-sleeved, green flack jacket.  It seems
bulky and tediously out of place over the top of the more formal clothing, like
a Mexican gentile deceptively encased in the duds of a soldier.    

            After a short trip down the hallway and around a
corner, the two men emerge into the large game room of the Horatio estate. 
Antonio immediately sees Miguel playing pool at a deluxe, red billiards table
with his nineteen-year-old daughter. 

            The forty-year-old cartel boss is bent down on
the table like a jackknife, eyeing the cue ball as if it is not to be trusted. 
He is clad in a bright orange suit and a white dress shirt, which is
complimented by a pair of shiny, black leather boots.  The aging cartel chief
has blue eyes, a muscular frame, and a head full of graying hair.

            “Come and have a seat, Antonio.” Miguel shouts
through the game room with the throaty confidence of a roaring jungle cat.
“We’re almost finished.”

            There is a full bar to the far right of Antonio
with a fancy white and blue marble top.  Just a few feet to the left of the
bar, in front of the billiards table, is an inviting round end table with a
brass reading light positioned on its surface.  There are two, hand-carved,
blue leather chairs on either side of this table, and Antonio decides to sit in
the chair on the right, facing the pool table.  As he takes a seat, Antonio watches
Miguel miss his shot on the six ball, his eyes glazing over menacingly after
this failed attempt.  His daughter Patra then moves closer to the table,
swooping in on her father’s missed opportunity like a dragon hovering above the
small wooden huts of a Costa Rican village. 

Patra is wearing a sexy, white
dress, showing off a tall and curvaceous body.  Her right hand bears a diamond
ring with a titanium band, and an emerald ring with a gold band.  She also has exquisite
diamond earrings dangling shamelessly from both ears.  These fine pieces of
jewelry contrast with her frizzy party hairdo, with strands of dyed red hair
coming down from her bangs, standing out oddly from her natural black hair
color. 

The young woman looks as fierce as
her father, bending down to examine the table with her bare feet firmly planted
on the floor.  She sizes up the shot carefully, aiming her pool cue directly
inline with the eight ball, which is resting against the fourteen ball.  After
sliding the cue through her fingers a few times, she hits the cue ball with
finesse, tapping the fourteen ball into the side pocket, and simultaneously
sending the eight ball into the corner pocket.

            Miguel remits a cold half-smile to his daughter,
and she returns this gesture with an added spike of malcontent. 

            “So what happened in Becan, Antonio?”  Miguel
asks in a dry voice as he sets the pool cue down on the table.  “I heard that
you killed Enrique.  The men told me you encountered a devil woman in the
jungle?”

            “Devil woman?” Patra says with iron rhetoric,
rolling her eyes at Antonio.  “This is new!  I’ve never heard of a devil woman
in the jungle… Unless it was me...”

            Miguel glares at Antonio, signaling that he must
answer his daughter as if she were also a boss.

            Antonio begins to feel a nervous sweat forming
on his brow and behind his ears.  The stories of Patra’s ruthlessness are far
beyond those of her father.  He always wanted a son, and she had to fill that
role for many years, suffering a callous childhood laden with horrors.  Some of
these included: broken legs, handling deadly spiders, and unfair fist fights
with stronger female leaders in the cartel.  Her lack of empathy is displayed
in a pair of cold brown eyes, showing the face of a young woman who has grown
up, and grown cold, far too soon. 

            “I saw a woman in the jungle,” Antonio begins,
dismissing Patra’s cynicism.  “She was wearing a full length, red robe; the
type you hear about in rituals.  Enrique fired his weapon at her, but his
bullets… flew to the ground.  She stepped up to us, held out her hands, and we
both fell unconscious on the walkway.  When I awoke, Enrique was running toward
me, screaming and calling me San Perez.”  Antonio grimaces and chokes up a bit
before continuing, glancing down at his arm.  “I told him that I was not San
Perez, but he rushed at me with his machete.  I pulled away from him, and moved
toward my gun.  After he cut off my arm… I was able to shoot him and stop his
attack.” 

            “Is that all?” Miguel asks, showing a smile of
wicked contempt as he folds his arms and leans back against the pool table. 

            Patra looks at her father and they both shake
their heads in disapproval, turning back to Antonio, and waiting for him to
continue.

            “No…” Antonio replies with some hesitation. 
“The woman told me to give you a message.  She said that you need to stop
hurting her people.”  His hands begin to shake as he delivers the message;
feeling like the devilish spirit dammed him from the beginning with this
request.

            “We should take his other arm right now, Father,”
Patra declares immediately, looking sideways at Antonio in disgust.  “I have a
machete in the pantry.  We just used it to chop up a hen…  I won’t even need to
clean the blade for this asshole!”

            “She’s joking, of course,” Miguel says standing
up straight from the pool table.  “It’s actually a meat cleaver, but it will do
the job.  Tell me, Antonio, why should I stop my daughter from chopping off
your other arm?”  The cartel chief asks with a hard stare, folding his arms as
he waits for an answer.       

            “I have served you for years, not as many as
Enrique did, but I respect the Horatio family,” Antonio announces with a great
deal of pride.  “But this,” he adds, holding up the bandaged stump on his right
arm, “is not my imagination.  The woman was there, and she also said… that she
will claim your firstborn son… If you don’t stop hurting her people.”

            “She will claim my son!?”  Miguel asks with a
pair of fiery blue eyes, glancing at his daughter with outrage.  “Do you know
how long I have waited to have a son?  Are you trying to threaten me, Antonio…
but you just don’t have the balls?  Is that what this is!?”

            “It seems to me that both men have been stealing
your drugs,” Patra declares, glaring at Antonio as if he were a three-legged,
stray dog standing in the middle of her game room.  “Why else would they be
hallucinating in the middle of the jungle unless they were taking your drugs?”

            “That makes sense,” Miguel states, placing his
hands on his hips.  “Did you enjoy some of my drugs?  Maybe you and Enrique
wanted to have a little party after taking the resort from that family?  Or was
it hard for you to forget about burying them, so you had to take some of my
cocaine!?”  The cartel boss lowers his thick, gray brows, staring evenly at
Antonio, and feeling confident in his daughter’s assessment.

            “I have not had any cocaine!” Antonio says,
raising his left hand to plead with Miguel.

            “Shut the fuck up!” Patra screams as she swings
the pool cue hard into the side of Antonio’s head.

            As the compressed wood smashes against his
skull, Antonio is engulfed by intense pain.  The crushing blow snaps his
jawbone, and he drops onto the fine carpet, feeling helpless and consumed by the
young woman’s brutality.  He steadies himself on his knees with his left palm
flat against the carpet, trying to recover his wits after having his jaw
broken.  Despite his obvious agony, the young woman isn’t finished. She uses
the heavy end of the pool cue to batter his left hand while his fingers are
outstretched against the carpet, breaking them with tenacious accuracy as blood
spurts from his fingernails.

            Antonio immediately rolls onto his side, curled
up in the fetal position as his nerves are overloaded with extreme pain.  His
broken jaw feels raw and exposed, as if a cross section of the bone has been
gnawed on by a wild animal.  Meanwhile, his fingers are starting to swell about
three times their normal size, and his middle finger is spurting blood every
other second in perfect timing with his heartbeat.  The young cartel enforcer
steadies himself on the carpet, his extremities shaking, and eyes closed tight
as he tries to deal with the overwhelming agony.

            Miguel and his daughter begin to circle Antonio
like hungry wolves, trying to decide what to do with him.  As the young woman
raises the pool cue a third time to strike Antonio in the head, Miguel signals
with his right hand for her to stop.  The cartel chief kneels down next to his
young enforcer, looking at him with sympathy for the first time.  His eyes are
hard-focused on the stub of Antonio’s arm that was cut off by Enrique.  After
all of his years of torture and murder, Miguel knows that a man in this much
pain would have told the truth by now if there were more to tell.  As he
considers this and looks at where the right arm was cut off, he decides that
Antonio is telling the truth in some form.

            “Let’s put him in the storage room for two
days,” Miguel instructs his daughter.  “Then we’ll know if he’s had any
cocaine.  If he hasn’t had any drugs, and we can’t find anything in his system,
then maybe he’s telling the truth.  Maybe Enrique did attack him, and the pain
caused him to go mad...” 

            “Okay, I’ll get the storage room ready.” Patra
states in a professional tone, following her father’s orders without question
as she leans the bloody pool cue against the empty leather chair and walks
away.

            “Oh, and get him some painkillers… for now.”
Miguel states with hateful eyes, staring down at Antonio’s arm as if it were
some ancient work of art.  “If someone is threatening to kill my son… I will
take the time to create new hells that have never been experienced on this
earth.  As for not harming her people… I will do what I like!”