She Is Risen (She Is Risen: The Gun Control Case Studies) (9 page)

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H.E.N.A.

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Maxwell Out

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“Tick tock!” Henri says as he leans
over and stares at Lorabell, his pale blue eyes filled with pressing questions.

“We’ve made some good progress.”
Lorabell replies slowly, stretching and yawning from a night of reading case
study data.

“What progress?” Henri asks,
expressing his dissatisfaction by waving his hand at the large LCD monitors in
front of them.  “None of these people are distressed, or even close to
violence.”

Henri watches Lorabell as she grabs
a cup of coffee from the control panel, her soft, feminine lips immersing the
edge of the black plastic lid.  His eyes wander down to her plump little bum in
a pair of tight-fitting, black jeans.  He continues his journey up her body
over the white and orange striped sweater, admiring her shapely breasts and
glistening black hair draped halfway down her back.

“We’ve made progress… I… I have
given your team a list of potential triggers that will allow us to gradually
elevate their distress levels.” She glares at him from her right eye, feeling his
eyes perusing her body as though staring at a mannequin in a display window. 

“That’s not progress! Shit, I don’t
need you for a gradual elevation…” Henri sneers at her as she takes him out of
his fantasy world with her glare, making him feel old and ugly in his black,
tailored suit and yellow tie.

“Well what kind of progress do you
want?” Lorabell asks in frustration, her shoulders heaving with contempt and
exhaustion.

“There you go, get angry!” Henri states
in a bold fashion, recovering instantly from her blow to his ego as he uses his
right hand to brush back his sleek, graying hair.  “We need to show The President
results in about two weeks. I can’t have a gradual build up…  Now let’s end
amateur hour, shall we?”

Lorabell glares at him again, but
this time he feels empowered knowing that she is his dancing bear, and he can still
enjoy her on other levels.  Henri leans forward and uncrosses his legs, placing
both of his designer shoes flat on the floor and pressing his fingertips
together deep in thought.

“Look, I didn’t hire you for your
pretty, round bum;” Henri begins in a slow, unfiltered manner, “I hired you
because you get it; your research is years beyond anything we’ve ever used
before.  Another reason I selected you is because you’re a voyeur; you love to
watch other people and that’s okay…”

Lorabell slams her coffee down on
the control panel and spins around to confront her new boss, getting ready to
deliver a rant about equality.

“That’s great!” Henri exclaims,
holding out his right  hand with the palm facing her. “I want you to get
angry.  You need to be emotional.  You need to be involved, and I don’t care if
you get off watching other people; it’s not my place to judge… Now what I need
you to do is focus on these cases- with your gut and your heart.  I didn’t hire
a little college girl to come here and enjoy all my technology and resources. 
This is not a tour for you to sit and watch; it is a tour that you need to
guide!”

“I’m trying!” Lorabell half shouts
back at him.  “What exactly is it that you want from these people?  You want me
to put them through more hell?  Is that what you need; you insensitive bastard!? 
Haven’t these people been through enough already? Don’t these stories break
your heart?”

“There was a shooting in Colorado last summer; it created nightmares for the whole country.  Men, women, and
children- indiscriminately dead.”  Henri stares into her eyes with sincere
concern.  “Now all of that… was from one man.  Yes, he was lonely, and yes he
was disturbed.  His story was heart-wrenching, but it doesn’t EVEN COME CLOSE…
to the pain he caused all those families and their loved ones.  Take a look at
those screens; we are tracking four unstable people who have a tendency to use
guns when they feel pain.  Each one of them could potentially impact the lives
of 150 to 200 people… forever!”

They both turn to the look at the
LCD displays that are hung high above the datacenter floor, and Lorabell feels
squeamish as she considers what Henri is asking her to do.

“No, they haven’t been through
enough,” Henri states boldly; “to answer your question; these people haven’t
been through enough until we’ve learned something valuable.  I hired you to
push… no… to shove these people into a darker place- to see if they’ll snap and
go on a killing spree.  Now you don’t have to worry about a bunch of innocent
people getting hurt, we’ll stop that from happening.  But I need to know if:
May, Ned, Phillip, and Julia are capable of the violence we suspect they are. 
I hired you… from a list of over 50,000 candidates because you know what makes
people behave in different ways.  Is this any different from you manipulating
that young science major to install hidden cameras?  You know…In the dorm rooms
of those athletic college guys?  We know you like the show; not just sex, but
in general… That’s one of the major reasons I hired you…”

Lorabell turns to Henri with a look
of shock and shame, closing her soft brown eyes and feeling nauseated by how
much he has penetrated her life.  He puts his hand on her back gently with his
fingers near the tips of her fine black hair, and despite his bad intentions,
the warmth of another person is comforting.

“How far are we going to push
them?” Lorabell asks with concern, showing that she is ready to compromise.

“We’re going to push them off the
cliff… over the sonofabitch.  We are going to push them until there is nothing
under their feet but empty air, and the terror of falling into their worst
behaviors.  …You risked losing your tenure so that you could have your own
private shows from the men you crave… Now I’m asking you to risk your
conscience to save American lives…”  Henri looks at her with intense passion,
showing his true, albeit slightly twisted patriotic side.  “You know they told
me that you couldn’t do this?  They said that I shouldn’t hire a woman because
she’ll go soft… Everyone told me you have the most brilliant concepts in
psychology and sociology at your fingertips, but don’t have the cajones to use
them… I want to see some results in two weeks.  Show me that you know what
you’re doing.  These are nothing more than human bombs.”  He says with an
arrogant smirk, waving his right hand at the LCD displays.  “It’s your job to locate
the triggers for these bombs and set them off so that we can disarm them before
they do damage…  We can stop them safely, and give them the help that they
NEED.  Like I said, I’d hate for you to lose your tenure, wind up working as
waitress somewhere… Maybe in a situation similar to our test subjects.”

Lorabell rolls her eyes at his
threat feeling betrayed and defiant.  Henri smiles at her as he sees the
emotions displayed on her face, and ventures a guess at those festering beneath
the surface.  Before she has a chance to object, he walks to the edge of the
OBDAT platform, making his way down the small set of metal stairs.

“You’re in charge, Lorabell.” Henri
commands as he walks away.  “Be creative and make me proud!”

        Lorabell clenches her hands into white-knuckle fists
and stares up at the LCD displays; no longer seeing people in need of help, but
dangerous creatures in need of a cleansing.  The haughty professor grabs a
notepad and pen from the console, sketching quadrants on the large sheet of
white paper.  Then she proceeds to take detailed notes in each of the four
sections, pausing every so often to press the pen against her lips.  After a few
moments of deep thought, Lorabell hears footsteps coming back up the short
flight of metal stairs behind her.

            “So Henri was kind enough to tell me that you’re
the boss..?” Maxwell asks in a disappointed tone.  “He TOLD me to give you
everything that you need.”

            Maxwell sits down next to Lorabell at the
control panel of the OBDAT and folds his arms.  His bald head looks extremely
pale under the large, fluorescent lights, which also create a reflective sheen
on his dark eye makeup.  He is wearing torn jeans and his standard black, heavy
metal T-shirt, which bears some type of snake on the front that she cannot see fully
behind his crossed arms. 

            “So what can I do for you, boss?”  Maxwell asks
with contempt, staring sideways at Lorabell and slumping in his chair.

            “I need agents on the ground in Virginia to buy these postcards.” She orders dismissively, tearing off a piece of paper and
handing it to the younger man. 

            Maxwell sneers momentarily, and then takes the
paper out of her hand with a curious expression.  He finally decides that
working for a hot Asian woman will be much better than a self-absorbed
Congressman.

            “Okay, postcards…” Maxwell replies slowly,
displaying doubt in her ability to think under pressure.  “What else do you
need?”

            “We need to get Letisha Belfort out of the
house.” Lorabell says with a cocky smile, having no intention of failing this
assignment.

            “Letisha was just raped six months ago and she’s
never gone anywhere.  How are we going to get her out?”  Maxwell asks, rubbing
the top of his head in confusion.

            “I’ll handle that.”  Lorabell replies with total
confidence.  “Let’s also get some people close to all of the subject’s homes;
we’re going to be working a lot today and tonight…”

            “We call them assets… CIA assets… And they will
be doing what?” Maxwell asks, holding his long pale arms out to the sides and
exposing the words ‘don’t tread on me’ above the coiled snake on his black
T-shirt.

            “We’re going to shake up the hornet’s nest
tonight!” Lorabell grins, feeling the power of her position for the first time.

            Maxwell returns her grin, but raises his
eyebrows with concern, then grabs the dispatch microphone and starts issuing
orders to the four teams out in the field.

PHILLIP & LETISHA BELFORT:

            Letisha sits in front of her small, bathroom
vanity as she curls her long, black hair delicately at the ends.  The young
housewife looks at her soft, light brown skin in the mirror, feeling better
that the scars are fading from around her eyes.  Her small frame is clad in a
demure gray outfit, something her grandmother would have worn.  The outfit
consists of a pantsuit with a thick dress shirt; several layers of clothing that
are too hot for the spring weather in Anaheim, California. 

            Although her hair was looking great an hour ago,
she loves the feeling of it in her fingers, and has been playing with it like a
little girl.  Letisha thinks back on the many hours she has spent learning all
the finite techniques of styling hair over the past six months.  This tedious styling
gives her refuge from the painful memories of her assault, allowing her to feel
beautiful in the way that nature intended.

            “I am a black woman!”  She says to herself in
the mirror with conviction, feeling her strength rise a bit.  “I am a black woman!”
Letisha repeats, feeling empowered and a bit happier.  “I am a broken woman…”
She says as tears begin to roll forward from her eyes, unable hold back the
memories.

            The twenty-eight year-old sobs spastically as
she recalls the gang members pressing her face hard against a brick wall. 
These memories cause her to shake as she thinks back to those horrible acts of
men, wishing that she’d never taken that left turn… She hated Phillip for not
being there… for being on the other side of the world protecting other people.

            “Not today!” She says to herself, shaking her
head in the mirror as she clears her mind of the pain.  “They don’t get to take
today from me!” 

            Letisha turns sideways and begins to
compulsively style her hair again, pulling it up into what she likes to call ‘the
warrior’s braid.’

            “I AM A STRONG WOMAN!” She shouts at the mirror
with joy, expelling the darkness from her mind, and standing tall in front of
the vanity.

            Her cellular phone breaks the silence of the
morning with a soft tune from Nina Simone, singing about ‘a new dawn, a new
day, and a new life.’  Letisha picks up the familiar silver iPhone®, pausing
briefly as she attempts to recognize the number on the display.