The Cries of the Butterfly - A LOVE STORY (37 page)

Wolf grabbed the cellphone and switched it off. Then he disabled the fixed line. Rochelle looked at him—his face had no color.

“It’s going to be alright,” she said and placed a hand on him. It was a wholly inadequate response, she knew, but that was the best she could manage right now. Even she was pretty thrown by it all.

“How can they do this to her? She’s just a child,” he began muttering to himself. “Does Cass realize what he’s doing? Does he realize the damage he is causing the little girl? How devastating for her that I disappear like that without a word! Surely a man of his goodness and decency has to have some understanding of that.”

For a moment he went very still…then suddenly he triggered. He leapt out of bed and dashed to the cupboard on the right. Rochelle was startled.

“What…what’re you doing, Wolf?!”

“I must see her,” he thundered, hastily unbuttoning the night shirt he was in.

She went after him. “How are you going to do it? They won’t allow you, don’t you know?”

He ignored her and pulled out a fresh shirt.

“Wolf, calm down! Don’t act in haste or you’ll worsen things.”

He began putting the shirt on.

She snatched it away. “Don’t behave this way! You’re not thinking straight! We need to remain composed.”

“Composed? How on fucking earth?” He seized The New Halcyon Tribune. “Look at this piece of fuck! Look what they’re doing to my baby!”

She grabbed both his shoulders. “And you want to make it worse by creating a scene? Think of Robin. She needs you…more than she ever needed you. But to be of any use to her, you need to remain calm.”

“The only way I can be of any use to her is by being by her side. I
must
go to her.”

“They won’t permit you to enter the Home, remember?”

“I’ll force the fucks! I have a gun…I’ll kill them! How dare they! They’ll allow these fucking pimp reporters to meet her and mess with her mind, but they won’t allow
me
to step inside the fucking Home? How can they do that?!”

“Wolf, Wolf!” she said, her sane hands still on his shoulders. “There are other ways to get to Robin. You don’t always have to be blatant.”

Wolf regarded her. There was a knowing look in her eyes. He exhaled, then quietly went back to the bed and sat down once again.

.

T
he eruption converted to a full-blown volcano that evening.

Thousands upon thousands of New Halcyonites. Men, women, even children. Waves and waves of them. From five year olds to those in their eighties. From strong athletic types to wheel-chair bounds. Angry and distressed, pleading and demanding. Strident and scorching.

Butcher Garden was besieged. Like an army of countless ants, they occupied every square foot of the street outside, and way beyond it. Bodies mashed against bodies, but they didn’t care. They had come here with a purpose—a single-minded resolve. Their raised placards expressed it succinctly.

GIVE UP THE WHORE

SAVE THE CHILD

and

WOLF BUTCHER—RISE ABOVE LUST

EMBRACE DECENCY

and

HAS THE HOLLYWOOD DISEASE EATEN UP YOUR SOUL, WOLF?

and

DON’T BETRAY OUR LOVE & TRUST, WOLF BUTCHER

DO WHAT’S RIGHT BY LITTLE ROBIN

and the tacky, but ominous…

IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO ROBIN, REMEMBER WE’LL HAVE YOUR HEAD

Reaching the main gate, the massive crowd threatened to crash in. Somehow, the security guards and the few policemen present forced the gates shut and padlocked it. But the frenzied rabble quickly began scaling the high walls. Most of them fell back, but some managed to reach the top despite the shredded glass and barbed wire topping.

“Release Bruno…quick!” shouted Rochelle to a servant. Her heart was thumping as she ran down the front porch steps barefoot and sprinted toward the compound wall on the southwest side. She was followed by Estelle and a horde of servants, waving and shouting to the crowd to get off the wall and not dare jump in. Bruno came bounding from the east and barking viciously, made straight for the walls. He growled and snarled, leaping in the air at the threatening strangers out of his reach, then ran to the other side, where Rochelle and Estelle were pleading with the people.

“Get us the bastard!” a young man shouted at Rochelle, holding aloft a wooden baton.

Another, waving a machete, screamed, “We’ll give you one minute. If the motherfucker isn’t brought out, we’ll come in and get him ourselves.”

“You don’t want this place going up in flames, do you?” yelled another.

“Ma’am, we won’t harm him. Just bring him out and we’ll reason with him. Then we’ll go away. We won’t hurt anyone, we promise.”

Bruno rushed from one side to the other, and back and forth, barking dementedly. He had never seen anything like this before, so many people, such menacing people, and it threw him, especially as they were out of his reach. He didn’t quite know how to behave under the circumstances and kept glancing up at Rochelle and Estelle and the servants, in the hope that he would get some direction. But the humans of Butcher Garden were too engaged in their own efforts.

Rochelle was gesturing wildly. “Please calm down! Please! Wolf is NOT in the house! Listen to me…WOLF BUTCHER IS NOT IN THE HOUSE…” But her feminine voice got drowned in the din even before it left her lips.

Rochelle cursed aloud.
Where is the goddamn Presidential security when we need it the most?
And for the first time ever, she was angry at Grant…very angry.
Why is this man so pigheaded?
It was absolutely insane…
utterly daft! Goodness gracious, Uncle Grant, you are just a politician; don’t try to be a goddamn saint, for god’s sakes! Be practical, wizen up!

Outside, the crowd had become incontrollable. A sudden surge sent those at the very front crashing into the shut main gate. Heads banged against the iron and bled.

Inside, in his room, Wolf was frantically phoning Savannah. But again there was no answer. He had called her all day and now he was seriously worried. Had the mob got her? He shivered and refused to think of it. He knew he should be out there in the garden with the two women and he went to the cupboard and pulled out his revolver. He rolled the ruthless steel in his hands, then remembered Rochelle’s words.

“You stay put right here and don’t dare come out!” she had warned him sternly not a minute ago. “The pack’s after your blood and if they see you, they’ll go utterly berserk. They could bring the house down. So let me handle it. The last thing we need is you getting macho. Please!”

Wolf sighed and sat down limply on the edge of the bed.

In truth, he was more than happy to stay put in his room. He feared encountering any of his family. Baring Rochelle, he couldn’t bear to see their faces. Although they never said anything, even a chance confront spoke lucidly of their true feelings. It was painted all over their faces—stark and vivid. There was hurt of course, great hurt. But there was more. There was a look of helplessness. And grief—as if someone close had died. And there was that look that said:
how much we cared for you, Wolf, and how much we expected of you. Is this how you repay us?
A gory blend of expressions that sent shivers up and down Wolf and made him want to die each time. What made it absolutely impossible to bear was that there was truth to their feelings.
Yes, I
have
let them down badly…very badly. … But oh god, what else can I do? I have my own compulsions, my own obligations…

He thought of Rochelle. What a beauty of a woman she was! The way she had taken care of him Sunday…
sweet shit!
After the verbal whiplash, she had cleaned him up, then the house, and boy! did both need some cleaning. He was flooded in his own puke, and there had been so much dust in the house, it would have drowned an elephant. She hadn’t summoned a maid, instead she had done it all herself—washed him, swathed him in fresh clothes (her father’s ancient stuff), then cleared the dirt, done the cobwebs and mopped the floors. It had taken her all of six hours and it had left Wolf speechless with admiration. She had been drenched from head to toe in her sweat, but not a moan had seeped out of the mouth of the wife of the world’s richest man. Just watching her work had made Wolf more fatigued. In-between, she had fed him with doses of ‘Electral’ every half hour (which she had obtained from a twenty-four hour chemist shop). But for this care, he would have dehydrated to death, notwithstanding his first rate physical condition, Wolf had no doubt in his mind. Later, she had called home and said she’d be spending the day and the following night at her parents’. Instead, she had remained by Wolf’s side, sleeping on the couch in the living room and checking on him every half hour. And Monday morning, Wolf had been ready to return home.

Now, Wolf opened the phone book. He found what he was looking for and made the call.

“Get me Maddy Witcher,” he said to the operator, his voice gone ice.

“Who’s this?” a sweet female tone asked.

“Her brother.”

The phone was put on ‘Hold’ and light classical music came on. Wolf grinded his jaws.

After a minute, which seemed like an age, the music died.

“Piers?” a new voice asked urgently, a voice Wolf recognized all too well.

“No, not Piers. Not yet. But you’ll receive his carcass in an hour. With a pierced heart and pierced lungs and a pierced brain.”

The voice went completely silent at the other end.

“You fucking cunt! You’ll pay for this, if that’s the last fucking thing I do on this planet!” Wolf spat, his voice hoarse with rage, then cut the line.

Outside, the situation was getting out of hand. Wave after human wave smashed into the massive wrought iron gates of Butcher Garden and threatened to break it free. Bodies began to heap at the gate’s feet and writhed under the load. Howls ripped the sky.

Then it happened.

A thirtyish man tripped from atop the wall on the southeast side and fell inside the compound. Before anyone realized what had transpired, Bruno was on the prostrate guy. As the man started screaming hysterically, Bruno began dragging him by his left shoulder, like a leopard would a prey. Deep guttural growls gurgled in the canine’s throat.

The multitude on the walls went dumb, in abrupt shock. They gaped with stupid incredulity.

Rochelle was the first to re-kick. She rushed to Bruno, shouting at him to let the man go. But Bruno was suddenly no house pet, but a wild predator whose killer instincts had been unleashed. As blood poured from the human’s torn flesh and drenched the large Alsatian’s mouth, the growls turned satanic. It chilled Rochelle’s marrow for a moment.

But she quickly snapped herself out of it, then began pulling Bruno by the ear. It only added to the dog’s murderous resolve. His eyes flashed madly and at one point he threatened to let go of the man and turn on Rochelle. She released his ear, dashed to his hind and began pulling him by the tail with all her might. But her every frantic yank, instead, only compacted the dog’s clasp on the man.

Rochelle realized the futility of her actions and began looking around wildly. Her eyes homed in on a neatly wound garden hose fifty feet to her right. She sprinted and grabbed its mouth, then pulled it to the scene of murder.

“Throw it open! Quick, throw the damn tap open!” she shouted at a servant.

For a second, the man stared at her stupidly, but when she barked at him again, he activated.

Rochelle aimed the furious jet at Bruno. It hit him square on the jaws. Again, that only went to consolidate his determination. Rochelle cursed, then fell to the ground, and now aimed the squirt at the dog’s testicles. The big Alsatian’s hinds leapt in the air and he squealed in agony and let go of the intruder. Bruno turned and faced Rochelle, but she kept aiming the stream at him. He howled at the violence of the water and after a dazed moment fled, tail jammed between legs, disappearing to the back garden.

Police sirens screamed outside. There was a fresh upsurge of hysteria, as law fought demented mob. Inside Butcher Garden, Rochelle and Estelle attended to the trespasser who had passed out. The glossy green lawn was soggy with bright red blood where his mangled shoulder lay limp against the earth.

“Call emergency…hurry!” Rochelle shouted to a gardener.

The people on the walls now began jumping back into the street. A shot was fired in the air. Twice. It broke whatever spirit there was left in the swarm. Out of the corner of her eyes, Rochelle saw the main gate open. Escorted by two dozen heavily armed policemen, President Grant and Art Butcher strode in. Leaving the wounded trespasser to Estelle, Rochelle rushed to them.

“Where are your cars?” she demanded hoarsely, her face contorted in fright and great concern.

Grant took her shoulders. “Are you okay?” He looked around, taking in the vast property in one swift sweep. “What happened? Goodness gracious, who is that?” he pointed.