Man Hunt (14 page)

"Did Bethany decide to go home or start over somewhere new?" Josie had asked Rhonda once. "I'd like to look her up one day. What's her last name?"

"She has no last name," Rhonda said. "None of you do. And you can't meet each other. It's just safer that way. I'm sorry, dear."

Josie had said she understood, but of course she hadn't. The bond these women formed in their years on Monroe's Island were tighter than any friendship. Tighter, even, than any sisterhood. Nothing, Josie had learned, was as strong as the bond formed over a shared murder.

But now that was over. Bethany was gone. Charles 2.0 was gone. Even Charles 1.0 was gone from her life. She was on an amazing island that was making a real difference in the world, and she had been for six years. But she wouldn't be much longer if Monica worked her own breed of magic.

"I know what it is you think you're hiding from me, Josie."

Josie didn't look up. Yes, of course Monica knew. Had probably known since their last session, perhaps even the one before that. Might have even known before she had. She was a fool for thinking she could hide a thing so big.

"You think you feel compassion for the men you train. You think we're unfair to them, that we judge them too quickly. You can't bear to watch them suffer because you think your suffering was the same."

"I'm sorry, Monica," she said. And suddenly talking was a little easier. She purposely pictured Charles and his wicked backhand. "I have failed you." There was no point in fighting it anymore. She'd probably be sent home within the hour.

"You think," Monica continued, deliberately ignoring her, "that when you are training them…" and she slowed her speech yet again, purposely emphasizing her next point, "that when you're in that back room where nobody is there watching you… that those men are unjustly punished. And you think that because you think they're actually
innocent
."

Josie flinched. It was true. Not all of the men were rapists. Not all of them beat their wives. Some were guilty of crimes far less severe. She knew, for she had recruited hundreds of them herself.

For Monica to have guessed her compassion for the men was one thing, but to have nailed an exact detail was profoundly unnerving. She was suddenly scared now. She really was going to be sent home. She really would have to face the real world all alone.

Monica began talking faster now, her voice rising in pitch a little now that her hypnotism was no longer needed.

"It always saddens me to see our girls in training feel this way. Every so often, Josie, a girl like yourself comes along who thinks she's better than the rest of us. I want you to remember what Charles did to you the next time you feel compassion for one of those pigs in there. I want you to remember the weeks and years of pain he caused in only fifteen minutes."

Josie laughed and finally opened her eyes to the floor. She could see the spattering of her tears darkening the floorboards. "An hour," she mumbled.

"What?" Monica asked.

"It took him an hour. My parents were upstairs the whole time. I could have called out and stopped him. They never came down."

Monica was silenced for a moment, and Josie felt she had somehow earned a drop of real pity for the first time since sitting in one of these brutal sessions. Soon, however, Monica picked right up where she left off.

"I want you to think of every woman who has suffered at the hands of every one of those men. Every woman who, just like you, couldn't find the strength, the courage, to fight back. Think, even, of those who did fight and were only hurt the more for it. These men you girls recruit are not the angels you'd like them to be, Josie. You know that. Each and every one of them is guilty. One-hundred-
percent
guilty and deserves what he gets here."

The tears had finally come to a halt. Anger had a way of doing that. Josie pulled her eyes from the floor to Monica. She was back in her fingertips position again. Her eyes were sharp, and when she spoke again her voice was loud, high, and crisp. "So how do you feel
now
, dear?"

Josie wanted to say 'tired,' but knew she was in enough trouble already. Instead, she told another breed of the truth. "Pissed," she said. Monica's face didn't change. "And tired," she added. Monica smiled a little.

"You should be just fine if you take the next few weeks seriously, but you do know how serious of an offense this is." It wasn't a question. "I'll be informing Gertrude about what we discussed today. She won't be pleased. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if she decides to give you official warning. You would not be the first girl sent home prematurely, Josie, though you
would
be the highest ranking. By now these things should have been worked out of your system."

Josie only nodded. She couldn't speak. She just wanted to escape.

Monica tisked her teeth once and quick, then continued. "What happened to that
fire
I saw when you first came here, Josie? You were
such
a promising prospect." Monica stopped as if waiting for an answer, but Josie knew it was better to let her finish.

"You are the single best recruiter we have right now. Perhaps the best we've
ever
had. And at your age you
still
have so much potential. So
few
get to the black squad so quickly. Do you know that at your pace you'll break the recruiting record in only your eighth year? It's unheard of, Josie! You've really started to make something of yourself, and now you want to throw it all away. And why? Because of a little doubt; a little guilt that's not even based on sound arguments? Josie. Tell me you've learned something here today. Tell me I don't need to worry Gertrude any further."

"I have," Josie said truthfully. "It's been painful, but…I feel much stronger now." Her chance to escape had finally come. She knew Monica's routine from here and finally began to sigh.

"Do you feel you can continue helping Rhonda with the training?"

"Yes. Definitely."

"Have I
helped
you, Josie?" This question was always Monica's last move, her calling-card finale. She would look for uncertainty, a weakness of any kind, and if she thought she found it, the session would begin again from virtually the start. Josie let a moment pass before answering.

"Yes, Monica. Thank you. It's…very good to have let this out. I feel like I can start over now with so much more anger than before. If Gertrude permits me that honor. I must think of every man as Charles. It's the only way. I'm embarrassed for having forgotten what scum these pigs can be."

Monica didn't move, didn't breathe. Her eyes simply bore down on Josie while her fingertips played their waiting game.

Finally, the hands separated and opened, palms upward, and Josie knew it was over.

"Then you may go. Rhonda's already waiting for you, I believe. You can take care of some of that anger right away."

Josie smiled weakly and rose to excuse herself.

"I trust you, Josie," Monica said in her hypnotic voice. Josie's smile widened, but she didn't dare speak. A moment later, she turned and left.

But as she closed the door to Monica's office, the smile died and turned instead to another awful grimace. In her mind's eye she could see Charles hitting her again and again and again. His grunting and sweating as he raped her. His look of disgust when he had finally finished.

There are men downstairs who like to hit women,
she reminded herself.
And some of them need to learn their new names.

Gertrude stepped into the hallway and closed the door to her office. The behemoth of a woman made her way through the halls and toward the training area. Her torso twisted sloppily as her feminine lower body lumbered to carry her weight. When others were around she walked slower to conceal this awkward movement, but the halls were empty now, and she was anxious to get into Rhonda's files.

She passed many doors, most of which were locked, utterly unused and collecting dust. In the stairwell, she looked out the window at the steep grade of the land outside.

The term 'ground floor' was a relative term for the old hotel. It was no more excused from the island's rich landscape than any other place. On the north side, the first floor was at ground level, but on the south side it was the basement that opened to the streets. Outside Gertrude's office, the large circular driveway that had once admitted so many vacationing guests was now so overgrown that it was more grass than asphalt. Here and there chunks of the blackened tarmac sat askew and graying in the sun, but mostly there was that grass, tall and unmanaged. Wild. Gertrude often enjoyed looking out her window at that slowly dying landmark of civilization.
One day
, she would tell herself,
it will
all
be gone.

Because of their particular needs, the entire basement had been renovated. The western third was a large garage equipped with enough machinery and tools to be the envy of any modern mechanic. The island's hunters were, of course, also adept at the many skills needed to repair and maintain– and to modify– their heavily-used machines of death.

But the lion's share of the basement housed the immense training arena.

Gertrude emerged from the eastern stairs that led directly to Rhonda's office. She hoped the trainers were all busy inside their torture rooms. She didn't want to be disturbed while gathering information.

She opened the heavy door and exposed the enormous gray room. A long corridor stretched off to her right. Another, shorter one loomed straight ahead. Both were lined with dozens of square doors just big enough to crawl through. None had windows. Between the door and the corridors was Rhonda's open office space. And against the left-hand wall were her numerous files.

The only well-lit space of the training area, Rhonda's office was dominated by her own enormous desk. On it was the island's only computer and a mass of unorganized papers. The tall, metal filing cabinets were stuffed with folders and notes and photographs of the thousands of men the island had had swing through its revolving doors. Gertrude longed for one particular file now, but first she needed to talk to Rhonda. She did have a name to work off of, but it was the wrong one.

Rhonda's files were organized by Emotional Marker, not by jumpsuit name. It would be idiocy to do so. Each jumpsuit saw so many men die within its stiff confines that any such file would be a foot or more thick. One of the behind-the-scenes details the men never knew was that jumpsuits were eventually retired. The magic number was one hundred.

When a jumpsuit had aged a full 'century', it was taken out of commission, framed, and added to their collection in the grand foyer. At the most recent Women's Meeting, Rhonda had retired another one. The 'HEDGEHOG'– a green suit with a foot-long rip down the middle of the left thigh and a distinctive, strawberry-shaped bloodstain in the middle of the back– had taken its place and become the one-hundred-and-eighth jumpsuit to hang on the grand foyer walls. Since the jumpsuits were all displayed front-out in order to show their names, the strawberry bloodstain had of course been cut out and displayed to the side.

Rhonda was sitting at her desk again. Had probably been clacking away at her computer through another night of sleeplessness. Gertrude considered the notion of efficiency for a moment, and mentally reprimanded Rhonda on her only true flaw. She consistently wasted a perfectly excellent trait as insomnia on researching and writing a book rather than on the men themselves. The only good that Rhonda's condition did for The Cause was in keeping nearly two hundred pigs from ever getting a good night's sleep. Sleep deprivation, Gertrude knew, was an integral part of Rhonda's work.

"
Ger
truuude!" Rhonda nearly squealed.  "Good to
see
you! What can I do for the black squad today? Have we made an unexpected kill perhaps?"

"No. Nothing that exciting, I'm afraid, Rhonda."

"I should have known. The moon isn't due to be full for another week, right?"

Gertrude faked a smile. She seemed to be the only one to not find that particular repeated coincidence humorous. "I'm researching. I need the E. M. of the man currently wearing the GOPHER suit."

"Oh, well no need to look that up. His name is Obe. The blue squad just transferred him a few days ago. I thought you might be looking into a transferal yourself. Don't tell me there's been a mistake. Are you sure you've got the right jumpsuit?"

"No mistake. That's the one. Thank you, Rhonda." Gertrude turned to go, but Rhonda's question called her back.

"Do you want Lorraine's help, Gertrude? I'm sure she'd be more than happy to fill you in on…"

"That won't be necessary. I'd like to handle this one myself. There's been a breach in the rules, and it does affect black sector." Gertrude turned again, this time determined to continue her own business regardless of what Rhonda might say. But Rhonda was a better woman than that. The two of them had dealt quite comfortably together for years, and part of that comfort was a respect in professionalism. Intrigued though she must have been, Rhonda kept herself busy by carefully choosing among the many hand-made contraptions proudly displayed on the wall behind her desk. As Gertrude found the 'Oa-Om' drawer, Rhonda had already selected something that resembled a metal, spike-lined corn-on-the-cob. Many of Rhonda's devices had spikes.

Gertrude found the file marked 'Obe' and pulled it from the cabinet. Inside, she found an 8x10 color photograph of a rather thin young man with deep-set eyes, an acne problem, and twelve pages of information. She looked closely at the photograph, trying to decipher what seemed strange about it. There was something wrong with his eyes. A quick look from one to the other and she had it. His left one was a sparkling blue almost the color of the afternoon Hawaiian sky, but his right one was a deep brown, nearly black, that reminded her of doe's eyes.
A genetic freak
, she thought.
Interesting. I wonder if Rhonda ever pulled something from his childhood on that one. The other kids could have chosen him as the runt of their litter. He certainly looks geeky enough. They may have been relentless about it. Now, what does GOPHER have to tell us?

She began reading from the beginning. He'd been a relatively easy capture and of moderate difficulty during training, the file told her. He did have a strong fondness for his older brother, however, which they'd never been able to fully extract from his mind.

But there was good news as well. He had developed the idiomatic habit of chanting that some men voiced whenever they got nervous. Rhonda had described it as "a phenomenon taken on by individuals of an inherently weak nature. Too overwhelmed to take on their problems in a logical fashion, they chant to calm themselves and focus better. Usually such students never advance past the problem and so live in a state of constant consternation until a quick death takes them out of their misery, probably emitting the chant itself as their last words."

Further down on the report, Rhonda had filled in the area labeled "Prediction:" with the words "2 weeks, certainly no more than 2 months." Gertrude frowned.

As she looked up from the file, she heard some man blubbering to please, please stop. She ignored it. Making predictions was by no means an exact science, but this was nothing like she thought this GOPHER would be. The odds of Rhonda being so inaccurate as to not notice a potential trouble-maker was very low.
Luck, Lucy had said,
she thought
. Perhaps it really was just luck.
Still, this man had managed to evade the green hunters for over three months, and already he'd caused a definite disturbance in his new sector. She scowled at the mere thought of the little "society" the blue men had created.
Probably love him for it
, she thought.

She looked back to the file, scouring it again for useful information. She saw which devices Rhonda or other trainers had used on him. She saw that he been sent to solitary just one time, that he'd never attempted escape, that his treadmill sessions were without merit. She frowned again. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Nothing stood out as a weakness she could use against him.

As Gertrude reached halfway through reading her fifth report from the 'Obe' file, Rhonda returned to her office, wiping her corn-cob device with a rag and smiling to herself. Gertrude checked the clock on the wall above the door. It was already time for her second workout, and she still hadn't found the time to fix the maddening problem of the ever-breaking incinerator. Sometimes the freezer that housed the men's dead bodies would break down, but usually it was ok. But the incinerator that cremated them and left only the barrels of ash was a constant worry. It seemed every time she fixed one part, another would soon break down in its place. She grumbled quietly and turned to Rhonda.

"I'll be taking this with me, but I'll have it back later today," she said.

"Alright, Gertrude. You sure I can't help you with anything?"

"Yes, actually. I have a question about your craft." Immediately Rhonda's eyes lit up. The spiked device in her hand almost disappeared from her attention. "When you have a man who deserves not just death, but true punishment," Gertrude said, "what is traditionally the best way to frighten him?  Ideally I'd like it to be both quick and long-lasting. I don't know if both elements can be done to sufficient poignancy without sacrificing the other."

"Just frighten?" Rhonda frowned a little, but was still too enthralled to be truly disappointed. "Well, let's see..." She thought for a moment, nodding to herself. She made to reach for her stacks of papers which sent a bolt of panic up Gertrude's spine, but then pulled it back immediately, smiling.

"Well generally speaking, you want to take away whatever it is he still has, of course. Removal of existing commodities is always quicker than adding something and trying to create a new existence. A leg would do nicely, but I don't think you want him fated for an easy kill, do you? Maybe you could remove one of his hands. Probably you should select the one he uses to masturbate."

Gertrude shook her head, thinking about something she'd read in the file. "No," she said. "Nothing that physical."

"Well then," Rhonda continued. "If you want him still healthy but nevertheless destitute, you're talking emotional destruction. So you'd have to take away something he honestly
cares
about. If he's a green, it might be his sneakers. If he has found a friend, you would kill his friend in front of him, slowly and painfully so he remembers it in his nightmares. The more important this thing is, the more effective it will be when you remove it from him. From there any standard technique will work wonderfully. You destroy his confidence first, see? The one thing he loves enough to give him reason to live. Once his heart is broken, you can have your way with him."

"Broken
heart,
" Gertrude said.  It wasn't quite a question, though Rhonda took it as one.

"Yes. Men have hearts too. Metaphorically speaking, I mean. Even the men on this island. Is this GOPHER giving you some trouble?"

"Not anymore," Gertrude said. "I know his weakness. And I'm going to obliterate his pansy little heart." She tapped the rolled folder in her hands a few times while her eyes stared down the long right-hand corridor and seemingly through the far wall, the city streets, the trees beyond, and perhaps deep into the seas themselves.

Slowly, a crooked grin warped her already unsightly face. A moment later Gertrude was gone and Rhonda was left in jealous wonder at what Gertrude's anger had in store for the man now named Obe.

3

Josie moved through the unlit hallway determined to stay angry. Monica's office was the only room used on the third floor, and this made for a lonely, if not eerie, walk back through the rest of the fortress. Everything other than the path from her office to the nearest stairway looked unused and lifeless. But Josie was used to this trip and didn't notice the disheartening atmosphere consciously. Today she was filled with energy and ready for action.

She descended the stairs to the second floor, passing right by an oil painting of a sad clown. The fortress held many remnants like this one from the island's more lucrative days. No one had ever bothered to clear them out, and Josie liked it that way. On more than one occasion after a session with Monica she had paused at that painting trying to find some solace for herself there. But today she could easily ignore the way the suit was choking the clown's neck and how the huge red pom-pom on the collar seemed to be stuffed inside his ear.

She continued down the second floor staircase and could not help staring with disdain at the painting that hung there. She didn't like this one. The upper-class couple that walked through the colorful flower garden tended to disturb her more deeply than even a real-life sad clown could. In that painting the man was looking over his shoulder at a younger, prettier woman who was just a commoner collecting flowers. Meanwhile, his wife pompously held her head high, proud of who she was, but didn't notice her husband's straying eyes. The first time she'd seen it, Josie longed to be that flower girl, beautiful and secretly desired. But as a seasoned woman of Monroe's Island, she now knew whom she best represented. She also knew how symbolic the man's desires were. He reminded her of every man she'd ever recruited, regardless of the degree of his crimes. His leering disloyalty was something they all had in common.