She Is Risen (She Is Risen: The Gun Control Case Studies) (29 page)

            “Yeah, let’s take some precaution.” Henri agrees
from his position at the center of the OBDAT control panel. “Mason, what do you
think?”

            “I’m looking at the map now.” Mason replies through
a headset from within the safety of his rental car in Texas.  “There’s a school
about another seventy-five yards away.  Have them lead her through the alley
between the apartment complexes.  I’ll have Eisley pop smoke at the end of the
alley.  That will ensure nobody gets hurt, and our young friends can easily
escape through the trees at the backside of the high school.” 

            May strides with renewed fury, her hands
gripping the rifle in strong affirmation, focused solely on retrieving what
belongs to her.  When she reaches the top of the hill, her eyes follow the two
young men as they sprint into an alley between two apartment buildings.  A
quick glance at the ground near her feet brings forth a jolt of pain; the
precious photos from her past are scattered all over the grassy hill.  She
sucks in air through her nose like a mad bull, pulling the rifle firm against
her chest as she begins to sprint at top speed after the teenagers.  During her
short jaunt down the hill, she glances from side-to-side, watching for the
police who are supposed to be helping her, but is discouraged to see that there
are none. 

            When she reaches the buildings, May slows down
to a steady walk, confused at the sight of white smoke billowing out from the
end of the alley.  She is gripped with a sudden sense of caution as if there is
a larger force at play here.  With a look of disbelief, her eyes move down to
the trigger guard of the rifle, and she presses the small button to disengage
the safety.  As she approaches the smoke, her mind begins to form wild theories
about who might be responsible for engineering this robbery.  Her heart begins
to throb against the inside of her chest as the circumstances are clearly not
adding up.  ‘Where are the police?’ She asks herself as she steps within three
feet of the white wall of smoke.

            Before she can contemplate these things, a gunshot
rings out from behind the veil of smoke.  May ducks down on the asphalt and
places her right knee against the gritty, hard surface as she pulls the rifle
up into a firing position, aiming the barrel at the center of the smoke.  Her
mind is racing with theories as she holds the stock tight against her right
shoulder, watching for any movements and immediate threats, hoping that the
police will arrive soon.  She begins to tremble, feeling awkward and afraid; a
writer of children’s books kneeling in the street like a soldier before a wall
of mysterious smoke. 

            She hears another shot that flies above her
head, forcing all logic to escape her as the terrified woman begins to return
fire.  At first May only shoots two rounds, but corrects her aim slightly based
on where the shot came from, and fires five more times.  Her ears pick up the
slightest sound of someone in pain, and she zeroes in on the sound, aiming her
rifle as close as possible to that one spot within the plumes of smoke.  She
fires three more times for good measure, then retreats back to the safety of
the bricks behind the corner of the apartment complex to her right. 

            May feels instantly sick inside as she considers
what might have happened through the smoke.  Her stomach is in deep physical
pain and she is trembling all over, afraid for her life, and the life of the
young man who has been firing upon her.  She puts a shaky right palm to her
forehead, feeling nauseated and wanting to throw up, still watching for the
police to arrive. 

            May is filled with the dread of not knowing what
is happening, and she looks around in a state of shock and terror, hoping to
soon see another human being.  She wants to scream as the tension continues to
build; the smoke is starting to clear, but not enough for her to know what is
happening.  Finally, she leans back against the building and begins to cry, the
rough bricks gripping her T-shirt like so many tiny, demonic hands.  Her entire
body is shaking as she turns to look around the corner.  The smoke has cleared
enough for her to see the outline of a large building about twenty yards away. 
She squeezes her eyes tight for a moment, trying to identify the shapes in
front of the building.

            A surge of energy hits May in the back, and she
finds herself sprawling to the earth with intense force and frightening speed. 
She instinctively grits her teeth, wondering if, for a moment, she has been
shot from behind, but then the young woman feels a heavy weight bearing down on
her.  Two powerful hands latch onto her wrists and press her to the ground face
first, forcing the rifle out of her hands.

            “Face down! You’re under arrest!” A man shouts
as he holds her wrists and uses his knee in her back to prevent her from
moving.  “What the fuck are you shooting at; you almost hit me!?” He asks with
brazen concern and self-righteous outrage.

             Agent Eisley watches for a moment as the police
officer tackles May and restrains her.  He feels suddenly terrible for his role
in all of this, observing from a position near the tree line.  Beads of sweat
are streaming across his face as he hunkers down next to a small boulder to
catch his breath. 

            “Did you leave any evidence behind, Agent
Eisley?” Mason asks through the headset.

            “No, Sir,” The young man says with labored
breath, “I retrieved both smoke grenades and my shell casings before the police
arrived.  It looks like they have the subject in custody.”

            “What about our young friends from the high
school?” Mason asks with concern.  “Did they get to the safety of the tree
line?  Please confirm!”

            “Yes, Sir, I’m looking now…” Agent Eisley
replies quickly, pulling up a pair of small binoculars to survey the school grounds
to the right.  “Yeah, it looks like they made it okay.” He announces, watching
the two young men as they make their way to the east side of town.

            “Can either of those boys connect this to the
agency?” Mason asks, wanting to be thorough.

            “No, they think I’m a jealous ex-boyfriend,”
Agent Eisley replies with confidence, “we’re good to go.” 

            The young agent smiles with satisfaction,
brushing his dark hair back and enjoying the nice breeze as it drifts through
the tall pine trees that are providing him cover from the police down below. 
He takes a seat on the small rock that he was using for cover from gunfire, and
pulls out a pack of cigarettes, casually looking down at the school as he taps
the smokes against his leg to pack the tobacco in tight.  After a few seconds,
he stops shaking the pack of cigarettes and his entire frame freezes; the young
man’s German features showing a sudden ghastly, pale color.  Agent Eisley opens
his mouth in horror as he uses his binoculars to look at the grounds again,
this time further to the west. 

            “Oh my God, Sir, we have a serious problem!”
Agent Eisley reports slowly into his headset.

            “What problem?”  Mason asks with refreshed
concern, waiting patiently for a response.

            “This is not a high school…”  The young man
replies as a tear streams quickly down his right cheek and drips from the side
of his face.  “This is an elementary school!” 

            “But it’s just after two, right?  Everyone
should be in class.” Mason inquires as he looks at his watch from his rental car
in Texas. 

            “It’s two O’ clock central time, you fucking
retard!” The young agent replies as more tears begin to slide down his cheeks. 
“Virginia is on Eastern Time, it’s after three here… The kids just got out of
school… I heard the bell when I was popping the smoke, but I thought… they were
changing classes.”

            “Eisley, what happened?” Mason demands with
concern, feeling his gut sink at the distress he hears in the young man’s
voice.  “Eisley, what happened out there!? Report in, son!”

            The young agent falls to his knees, looking away
from the school as his face turns red with anger.  He begins to bawl with his
mouth wide open, grieving and shaking from the inside out, wanting to pull out
his side arm and shoot himself in the temple.  He reaches down to the earth,
gripping the soil in his hands with fury, feeling the delicate pieces of dirt
pushing beneath his fingernails. 

            “Eisley, I need you to vacate the area…” Mason
orders, wanting to regain control of the situation.

            “Oh my God, Sir!” The agent says into his
headset.  “Oh my God…”       

            After one last look of shame, the young man
proceeds up the tree line toward a truck that is waiting for him near the side
of the road fifty-yards to the north. 

            More police cars begin to surround the elementary
school as dozens of students stay frozen on the grounds, covering their heads
for safety.  At the playground, a young black boy is holding his right leg,
crying in agony as he rocks back and forth in the dirt.  His classmates are
hiding behind the thick pillars and sturdy bars of the jungle gym.  They look
on in confusion and terror, crying openly for their wounded classmate.

On the sidewalk in front of the
school, a little girl is cradled in her teacher’s arms; her lifeless body
struck through the chest with a rifle bullet.  The teacher is sobbing in a
state of shock, his white dress shirt and brown jacket saturated in fresh
blood.  He kneels over with the girl in his arms, hanging his balding head in
shame, unafraid of more gunfire. 

“Agent Eisley, what happened?”
Lorabell asks with concern from the control panel of the OBDAT. 

“I would say some kids got hurt at
the elementary school… Or worse!” Maxwell replies, glaring at her with building
fury.

“We don’t know that yet,” Henri
interrupts, holding his hand up to silence his analyst, “and if someone fucked
up here; it was probably Mason.”

“She wasn’t supposed to leave the
yard…” Lorabell says quietly, looking up at the LCD displays showing images of
May’s empty home.  “Why would she shoot like that without provocation?”

“I don’t know.” Henri replies with
a quick shrug.  “We can only setup handheld surveillance to cover the area
immediately around the house.  The rest of it is a blackout zone.  I still have
no idea what the story is in Texas.  We’ll have to get that from Mason.”

“You pushed her too far!” Maxwell
states indignantly, continuing to scorch Lorabell with his stare.  “I hope
you’re happy with yourself…”

“Enough of this bullshit! Henri
snaps, glaring at Maxwell from his left eye.  “Ming’s death is still on your
head, and if one of us is responsible for these people, then all of us are…
You’re welcome to leave now, we don’t need you anymore.”

“Okay… whatever.” Maxwell says with
a frustrated expression as he gets up from his seat and begins to walk away.  “One
more thing though, Henri…  When I play MY video games, people don’t actually
die.”

Henri turns toward the younger man,
locking eyes with him for several seconds.

“MING!” Henri says with a growling
rage, like a wild boar, before turning back around in his chair. 

Lorabell looks up at the LCD
monitors and then back down at the control panel of the OBDAT, placing her
forehead on her right hand as she contemplates her actions.

“Don’t worry about it!” Henri
orders, still amped up from his conversation with Maxwell.  “If it’s a problem,
then it’s my problem.  Go get some rest.”

“So where did we finish out? Henri asks, walking briskly
through the halls of The White House, eager to be on time for his meeting with The
President.

            “Two dead and two arrested.” Mason replies,
handing Henri a manila envelope full of classified reports.

            The Congressman is dressed in his most lavish
black suit with a pearl-colored tie and his gray hair is slicked back in neat,
wavy lines.  Mason trails one step behind him on his right side as they move
through the historic halls of the White House on their way to the Oval Office. 
The General is wearing his ceremonial hat and green uniform, with three bronze
stars shining bright on each shoulder, standing tall and looking optimistic
beside The Congressman.

            “What about Julia Welheim?” Henri asks,
scratching his head instinctively as he peruses the materials within the
envelope.

            “She’s been committed to a mental hospital in Florida for now.” Mason says with a vindicated smile.  “Why did we have to tell Cardigan
that she committed suicide?”

            “Because I needed these to be real people, and I
wanted her to feel attached to them; like puppy dogs.” Henri states with an
arrogant and fiery stare, feeling more powerful as they get closer to the Oval
Office.

            “What about the situation in Virginia?” General
Mason inquires with a fearful gaze, almost wishing he didn’t ask the question.

            “I’ll take care of Virginia; that’s no problem!”
Henri reassures the younger man with a brief wink from his right eye as the bright
lights from the ceiling create an impressive sheen on his forehead.  “How about
the murder-suicide in Texas; is that all cleaned up?” He asks in a somewhat
malicious tone, looking at Mason with a gentle half-grin.

            “Everything in Texas is buttoned up.” Mason
answers, not knowing how to react to Henri’s mixed vocal and facial
expressions.  “We also cleaned up the forensics in California.  Phillip’s truck
was found just around the corner, and the insides were apparently torched by a
gang.”

            “It sucks when that happens…” Henri declares
with mild amusement, clearly annoyed by the long walk to The President’s
office. 

            “What about Devlin?” Mason pries in a worried manner,
his voice raised with a bit with urgency.

            “Devlin is still at large,” Henri fires back,
“but don’t worry, I’ve got everything tied up in Chicago!” He smiles wide,
displaying a full set of bright, white teeth and places his right hand gently on
his colleague’s back, giving him a comforting tap.  “When we capture him, we’ll
send him back into the field on a new assignment… A nice meat grinder in some
hellhole outside the states.”

            “Torn The Langley Contour?” Mason asks, leaning
forward with a confident smirk. “You’re sending him on a suicide mission. I’ll
be glad when that problem is off our radar!”

            The two men pass through the corridors leading
up to the Oval Office, and submit to a final security screening by The Secret
Service before making their way to the reception area.  During this short
security screening, Henri passes the envelope back to Mason, having learned all
he needs to know.

            “Hello, Ilene,” Henri says with a winning grin
as he rounds the corner to the desk of The President’s personal assistant. 
“I’m here to meet with President Kirkland.”

            “Yes, Congressman Edwards, how are you?”  The
young Asian woman says by returning a sharp smile, looking astute and classy in
her royal blue dress. 

            “I am phenomenal, but not nearly as much as you.”
The politician evokes in a savory tone with expert delivery, bowing slightly
toward the young woman. 

            “I’ll let the president know you’re here.” Ilene
acknowledges, feeding off his energy before she steps through the side door of
the Oval Office, closing it behind her.

            “Well, thank you so much for escorting me down
here, General Mason.” Henri offers, reaching out with his right hand to his
suspicious colleague.

            “What do you mean?” Mason asks with a
disgruntled look of concern.  “Am I not going with you?  That’s bullshit,
Henri!”

            “Now, Mason, the president wants this
confidential, and the results are my ass, so this is my brief.” Henri answers with
a self-assured stare.  “He only wants one man on point for this project!”

            “Don’t screw me, Henri.” Mason says with a bold
stare. “I can screw back.”

            “The President will see you now.” Ilene confirms
as she returns to the reception area with a polite demeanor.

            “Of course you do, Mason, and I look forward to
it!” Henri says with a sinister grin; not really looking at the man, but more
through him.  “Thanks again for walking me down the aisle on this one, buddy!”

            Mason turns his chiseled face back toward the
corridor they just walked through, wishing he could say more to Henri, but
deciding instead to keep the faith and smile.  He continues to smile for a
moment, then takes his leave in an awkward fashion like a corpse coming to life
on the expensive blue and red carpet. 

            Henri turns back to the lovely receptionist,
gesturing with a wink for her to lead the way.  As she opens the door to the
Oval Office, he feels the air burst forth into his lungs, sucking it in with
excitement like a spoiled child inside the world’s largest toy store.

            “Good evening,” Vice President Trent Iverson
says with a wholesome expression, approaching Henri to shake his hand, “I hope
you weren’t waiting long.”

            “Good evening,” Henri replies with clear
dissatisfaction, “is President Kirkland running late?”

            “No, not at all,” Iverson jokes with an austere
grin, borne from years of professionally not giving a damn, “he’s busy with the
family, and wanted me to give you some feedback on your data.”

            “Okay…” Henri says with a betrayed smirk,
looking like the bride who was left standing without a groom at her wedding.

            “Have a seat.” Iverson offers, extending his
right hand out to an expensive, leather chair in front of the main desk, while
he takes the chair opposite of Henri.  “You want a drink?  I’m sure as shit
having one.”

            “No thanks.” Henri declines with a pouty stare,
realizing that Kirkland has already denied his proposal, and that this meeting
is somewhere between a formality and a hand job.

            Iverson takes a moment to get comfortable in his
custom-tailored black suit, straightening his peach and blue striped tie as he
finds a suitable position with his left leg crossed over his right.  The former
Navy Admiral looks healthy, sporting his clean-shaven, bald head and a pair of
kind blue eyes.  With his strong body and well-groomed appearance he looks
young for a man in his early fifties.  

            “Okay, well let’s just get right to it!” Iverson
says, pouring himself two fingers of bourbon as he continues.  “The President
went through your data, and doesn’t like the fact that you featured people who
were under the influence.  Hell, every person in this case study has some type
of drug in their system; either at the time of death, or for long periods prior
to that.” He retrieves a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and unfolds it
to read off a few facts.  “For example: May Ivory, pain medication and
marijuana; Phil Belfort, marijuana; Ned Lawhorn, whiskey; and Julia Welheim,
antipsychotics.”

            “Those were all red flags…” Henri begins, “We
flagged those behaviors as part of the evaluation criteria.”

            “That’s bullshit!” Iverson says without
flinching.  “I have the evaluation criteria right here, and it specifies that ‘people
under the influence of drugs and alcohol are to explicitly be excluded.’  Now
we feel that you chose people with addictions because it would be easier for
them to go sideways, but these are not good results...”  He confirms, holding
the unfolded piece of paper up for a second.

            “Why not?” Henri asks, twisting his head
uncomfortably in the expensive fabric of his suit jacket.

            “Because violent behavior for people under the
influence has already been established in psychology.” The Vice President
replies with a bit of sarcasm, shaking his head somewhat.  “We thought you were
going to break new ground in gun control research so that we could make a
decision based on hard facts, and then we’d get the support to move forward.”

            “What about the violence that took place?” Henri
retorts quickly, fencing with his fellow politician.  “Those were all crimes of
passion.”

            “Yeah, we have some questions there, and the DOJ
is looking into how that all went down.  We have: five dead in California, three dead in Texas, and one little girl gunned down in Virginia… That is about
the most heartbreaking thing we’ve seen in a long time…  This is YOUR MESS. 
Care to explain yourself, Congressman?”

            “Mason had operational control of all military
personnel, and if you look at the files from the time he took over, you’ll
notice that the body count has grown geometrically… And it was you… That sent
me Mason.” Henri replies with a sharp grin, staring Iverson right in the eyes.

            “Is that how you want to play this?” Iverson asks
returning Henri’s stare with added frustration.  “The President is already
going to be under attack for what happened here, and now you want to bat this
into the administration’s ball court?  What about the casualties you had before
Mason took over?  Weren’t there three or four?”

            “I’m taking care of that problem.” Henri replies
with a cold tone.  “If you think bringing down an Army Veteran with
counterinsurgency training is easy, then you’ve been hitting that bourbon too
hard.”

            “Why did you need to take him down in the first
place?”  Iverson asks with a subtle smile.  “We’d really like to know all the
details here because this is ONE HELL of a mess, and it’s going to be swirling
around for months.  Why didn’t you stop the woman in Virginia before she opened
fire?”

            “That was Mason’s call; it was his guys on the
ground.” Henri states with a confident gaze.

            “Okay, so that’s one.” Iverson says, holding up
his index finger.  “What about California?”

            “Crime of passion.” Henri says without breaking
eye contact.

            “Okay, that’s two.” He continues, holding up his
thumb and index finger.  “What about-“

            “Texas was Mason’s call; it was him personally
on the ground.” Henri interrupts Iverson before he can ask a third foolish
question.

            “What happened there?” Iverson asks, giving
Henri a hard look.

            “Your General fucked up, Mr. Vice President,
which he has been doing since you sent him to me.” Henri states with corrosive
fury.  “Now, I’ve answered all your questions, and based on the number of
deaths alone, I’d like another shot at getting this program off the ground, so
why don’t we get the boss on the phone?”

            Iverson stares at Henri with contempt and
curiosity, tapping his finger lightly on the heel of his shoe as he
contemplates this.  After a brief pause, he gets to his feet, straightening his
jacket out of habit, having been a man in the public eye for six years now.  He
steps over to the desk behind Henri and presses a button to call the
receptionist.

            “Ilene.” Iverson says quickly into the phone,
leaning forward on the desk with both palms down.

            “Yes, Sir?” A voice asks immediately from the
speakerphone. 

            “Please get President Kirkland on the line; we need
to speak with him.” Iverson remits, appearing doubtful and holding his head
down a bit at the idea of participating in this phone call.

            “I have President Kirkland for you.” Ilene
reports after a long pause.

            “What can I do for you?” The President asks in a
dignified and irritated manner, his rough voice pouring out of the speaker like
a shovel filled with beach sand.

            “I have Henri Edwards here, Mr. President.”
Iverson says slowly, hyper-focused on the desk front of him as he calculates
every word that is uttered. “And he’s telling me that Mason has been the source
of our woes in these shootings.”

            “Mason, huh?” President Kirkland laughs. “Are
you blaming the administration for this, Henri?”

            “No, Mr. President,” Henri says softly, turning
in his chair to face the phone, “I’d like to think that this is more proof that
we need intrusive gun control screening, and a highly-evolved system of red
flags.”

            “This is America, Henri, people are not fond of
red flags or red tape.” President Kirkland retorts immediately. “Myself
included.”

            “Are people fond of seeing their children shot
on the playground?” Henri asks, standing up from his chair to approach the desk
in a more dramatic tone.  “Do people like going to the movies and being shot at
by some emotionally unbalanced man who thinks he’s a comic book villain?”