The Hand of Mercy (A Porter Brown Journey) (6 page)

F
eeling like his balls were lodged in his rib cage and struggling to not throw up, Porter rolled over several times, willing himself to get up.  That’s when he saw Beth, completely distraught at what had just happened in front of her.  The man she loved, or so she thought, and the man who had come to rescue her, both on the ground because of her.

P
orter struggled to his feet, then promptly doubled over and threw up.  Jim still lay on the ground not able to focus as the searing pain from his shattered nose blurred his vision.  Beth moved in and said sweetly, “Jim, honey, I need you to move.”  Jim looked up with a look of resignation and moved to the wall.  Porter slowly limped his way to the driver’s side door and slid in.

*****

Except for the occasional instruction on where to turn, Beth and Porter were silent on the drive to her house.  Both were processing what had happened and what the future now held.  Beth was living the complex internal torment abused women often feel; a sense of despair at what a life without Jim would be, and anguish for allowing herself to have been abused for so long. 

Porter, aside from
his testicular discomfort, felt exhilarated.  Purpose like he had longed for but never known filled every aspect of his being.  While looking out the driver's window, he smiled and said, "Remember who you are." 

As the car stopped in front of Beth’s apartment, Porter put the car in park and looked at th
e distraught woman.  “Look, I know this has to be awful for you, but you know it’s the right thing to do.  Right?”

Meekly, she whispered
, “I know.” 

“Then let’s get what’s yours and get you out of here.  When Jim coll
ects himself, I doubt he will be in a repentant mood.  He won’t be sobered up and his pride is gonna be so wounded that he could be dangerous.  I have a good friend who will for sure take you in for whatever time you need to get yourself set up with your own place.”

"Ok
," Beth said.  "Most of my stuff is already packed."

"Really
?" asked Porter, quite shocked.

"
Yeah. I've been thinking about leaving for a long time.  Just never had the courage to do it."

Porter
followed her up two flights of stairs and into her apartment.  They dumped her remaining belongings into a duffel bag, picked up those already packed, and in twenty minutes were back on the road.

As the
y drove to Connie’s place, Beth whispered to herself.  Porter wondered what was moving from her mind to her lips. 
Prayers for guidance
, he thought. Freedom from Jim's control would not mean immediate healing.  His silent prayer was that some decent guy would enter her life and show her how a real man loves a woman.

In the quiet, 30-
minute drive, Porter had time to reflect. 
What did I just do
? 
Why did I intervene
?  All he had seen was a guy getting rough with his girl.  He had passed up dozens of street fights where one guy was beating the hell out of the other and did nothing. 
Why was this time different
? 
Was it because a woman was involved
?
Probably
, he thought.

How man
y more are out there like this one,
he thought. 
If this douche bag was controlling Beth, who was able to remove herself whenever she wanted, yet chose to stay, how many others who are more dependent, are being completely manipulated
? Saint Paul’s Damascus road conversion was now in Porter's mind.  As Paul's sudden blindness had been used by God to give him his life’s true purpose, Porter's bruised groin had opened his eyes to his life's work. 
Now to refine the edges
, thought Porter, as he offered a word of thanks to his maker.

As
expected, Connie immediately welcomed Beth into her home.  Over the next few weeks, Porter continued to see Beth at The Holy Mother.  She would always smile sweetly and buy his first pint of Black and Tan.  After a few months though, Beth no longer showed.  When he asked Connie about her, all he got was that she had "met someone."  He prayed she was in a good relationship and that the beneficiary of his first rescue would have good reason to trust again, and just maybe intervene on behalf of those in similar trouble.  She would.

Chap
ter 6

Drinking with the Devil

November 2011

Porter’s instincts drove him to Building 1 in the heart of the State Capitol complex.  Despite their perpetual economic challenges, the West Virginia beauracrats allowed the limestone, marble, and gold domed Capitol building to showcase their ability to misappropriate funds.  The near replica of the U.S. Capitol could not match the power that its larger, but shorter D.C. cousin emanated.  Still, Porter felt his senses absorb the control which radiated from the complex. 

The Friday before Thanksgiving week brought holiday engaged pedestrians and bus loads of civic-minded students to 1900 Kanawha Boulevard East
for their annual history lesson on how incompetent state governments work.  Ever cognizant of surveillance, Porter used the ample crowds to cover his reconnaissance.  He knew the fight would not start here, but understanding his enemy’s camp would provide options if so needed.

As he casually strolled the Capitol halls, Porter located room 26-E with the placard boldly stating, James Holland, Office of the West Virginia Attorney General.  Those words abruptly halted his desultory manner as a cold sweat ran down his back.  Fighting the urge to flee, Porter steadied himself.  Although he knew the appearance of the state’s top law enforcement officer
very well, this field trip was designed to take the abrasive edge off of his first personal encounter by acclimating himself to Holland’s scent, gait, and aura. 

When the clock tolled five bells, the Capitol police gave notice to all visitors that the government buildings would be closing in one hour.  As they finished their announcement, the conference room doors to Porter’s left opened and a gaggle of staffers filed out.  Following behind in an Armani suit far beyond the mea
ns of any state employee, walked a supremely confident James Holland.  The cold sweat once again journeyed down his back as Porter alternated glances between his smart phone and Holland’s sunken blue eyes, chemically aided blond hair, and long, sauntering strides.  Waves of expensive cologne stayed in Porter’s nostrils long after Holland passed by him and entered his office.

*****

Holland was collected by his driver at the rear of the complex at 8:30 p.m.  As he tailed the people's attorney, Porter was careful to keep three cars between him and Holland’s black SUV as it made its way down Washington Street, crossed the Kanawha City Bridge, and continued southeast on Kanawha Avenue.  At 3.7 miles from the Capitol, Porter slowly drove past Holland's riverfront home just as his guards were welcoming him.

West Virginia had changed in the twenty years since Porter left.  It now tolerated its openly gay Attorney General, even though that aspect of his life was
just an open secret.  In this culturally conservative state, few others could have advanced to the political heights Holland had with such an abhorrent sin ruling their lives, as the majority of voters professed on Sundays.  But Holland’s deep political alliances and J. Edgar Hoover-like list of others' transgressions, allowed him to control the door to his sexual closet. 

At 11:30p.m., Porter parked on MacCorkle Avenue, a few blocks away from Holland’s favorite haunt, the Black Curtain, and paid the $5 cover. 
Inside, he approached the aptly named Back Door, a dimly lit, quasi-reserved area for VIPs looking for a hook up with some discretion. The bouncers posted at the entry viewed Porter’s confident advance as one who understood the Back Door for what it was, and permitted him through without detention.

Bad Penny beer was not on tap, so Porter ordered a pint of Hell’s Belle and waited for his prey to approach. 
Half a pint later, a member of the Attorney General’s staff saddled up beside him to ask if he was looking for some company.  “Sure,” said Porter.  “What do you have in mind?”

“Oh,
it’s not for me,” answered the noticeably offended aide.  “My colleague would like to entertain you,” he huffed, as he pointed to Holland who was wolfishly eying Porter.

Feeling the rage well up within him a
s he stood to walk the 30 feet to Holland's table, Porter repeatedly reminding himself,
Control your emotions
.  When he found a seat directly across from his progenitor of pain, all he could utter was, “Hey.” 

“Hey there
,” said Holland in what Porter thought was the most stereotypical gay accent he could have imagined. 

The Boone County native continued, “You’re new here aren’t you?” 

“Yeah,” said Porter.  “Just in town for the holidays.  Looking to play while I have some free time.  Why?  Are you a local?”

Shocked that
Porter did not know him, Holland answered indignantly, “I’m more than a local.  I run this state.” 

“So you own this bar
,” asked Porter wryly, hoping to further offend the politician. 

“No
. The State,” answered Holland with emphasis, “the State.  You really aren’t from around here.”  Speaking slowly as a condescending teacher does for a student with a low IQ, he continued, “I’m the Attorney General for the State of West Virginia.  Nothing gets done here unless I say it does.”

“I thought the governor was the top dog?” 

“Not here." 

“Wait
,” started Porter, “isn’t a Rockefeller one of your Senators?  You’re telling me you’ve got more power than that guy?  What’s he worth, a billion or so?” 

“Jay Rockefeller?” Holland
questioned in an octave higher than normal.  “That debutant hasn’t shown his face in the state for years.  He doesn’t even come in for elections. All he does is spend $5 million on tv ads that air on the 6 o’clock news and another $5 million to get the union vote and he’s done.”  Pausing to give Porter a chance to take this in, Holland drove his inebriated gaze deep into Porter’s and proclaimed, “If you want power…you’re looking at it.”

Understanding
Holland's double entendre, Porter asked, “So what are you looking for?” 

A thin
smile adorned Holland’s expression of dominance, “Well, why don’t we move to the quarters and see what you’re made of.” 

“No,” said Porter, “I’m not going to an AIDS infested back room of some dive bar for a quick
ie with some arrogant prick who says he has more power than the governor and a senator who is the son of Exxon.”  Holland was dumbfounded, but before he could retort, Porter continued.  “Let’s roll back to your place where, one, we can take our time, and two, you can prove you're the real power in this armpit of America.”

Still dizzied by the loss of control and blatant disregard for who he was,
the Attorney General paused ten seconds to consider the proposal.  With a quizzical look still covering his face, Holland said, “Ok. I have a driver.  I’ll have him come around to the front for us.” 

“No
,” said Porter a second time.  “If I want to leave, I’m gonna have my own car when I’m ready to go.  You tell me your address and I’ll meet you there.” 

T
he alcohol and sexual rush of this young, confident stranger overrode Holland's caution and concern for his privacy.  “835 Sanders," he offered quickly.  "There’s a guard at the entrance.  Let him know you’re my guest and he’ll let you in.”  Attempting to regain some of the control he had lost to Porter, Holland ordered, “You go on over.  I’m going to finish my scotch.”

Porter left the Black Curtain and hastily strolled to move his car
from the driver's line of sight.  With the car around the corner, Porter quickly searched for what he needed and hustled back towards the bar. 

Holland's
black, late model Suburban was idling in the alley just to the left of the entrance as Porter approached the driver.  "Hey, I’m going to be the guest of the Attorney General tonight.  Do I need to tell you, or can I just show up at his place?” 

“Sure man.  Yo
u got some ID?” asked the round-faced chauffeur.  Porter reached in his wallet and presented his license through the driver's window.

“Jack Taylor
,” read the driver.  “Okay, I’ll call ahead so they’ll know you’re coming.” 

“Great.  Thanks
,” said Porter.  As he withdrew the license and moved to put it back in his pocket, he let it fall to the ground.  “Shit.  Too many beers I guess,” he said, still at the driver’s window.  As he bent down to retrieve the laminated card, the gloved hand in his left pocket pulled out a tracking device and placed it on the SUV’s undercarriage. 

Standing quickly, Porter
announced, “Okay, got it.  Thanks.”  The driver offered a quick grunt and a nod.

When Holland stumbled into the SUV ten minutes later
, his driver greeted him with a cordial, “Hey boss.”  Holland grunted as the driver continued.  “Your friend already headed to the house.”

“He came t
o the car?” Holland asked with slight alarm.

“
Yeah.  He said he was gonna be your guest and showed me his ID”

“What was the name?” asked Holland
.

“Jack Taylor
.”

“Jack Taylor
,” responded Holland, running that name through his mind.  “Nobody I know,” he concluded.  The warmth of the car, the effects of the alcohol, and the comfortable leather seats assuaged any lingering concerns Holland had on his five minute ride home.

As his vehicle turned right onto Sanders Street, all seemed in place.  The guard at the gate greeted Holland cheerfully.  “Has my guest arrived?” asked Holland. 

“No, not yet,” said the guard without concern.  “Paul called me and said a Mr. Taylor was supposed to be headed over here, but he hasn't shown yet."

A bit puzzled at this news, Holland said, “When he gets here you know where to send him.”

Holland entered the house and went directly to his bedroom for a quick clean
up.  But thirty minutes of anxious waiting turned into an hour of sexual frustration.  Concluding that his evening would be one spent alone, Holland put in a porn and attempted to entertain himself.  But just like his no-show guest, Holland couldn't finish what he started. 

H
olland awoke the next morning with his head raging from both the open bottle rule he had at the Black Curtain and being power slammed by some stranger who had no idea who he was, nor cared.  As he primped in front of the bathroom mirror, Holland assured his reflection that Jack Taylor obviously doesn’t understand how important he is.  He paused to apply moisturizer and analyze what he knew. 
Jack Taylor?  If that’s his real name anyway.  From where?  Out of town?  Shit!  I could find a thousand Jack Taylors in the tri-state area alone
.  Straightening his tie and with a final review of his ensemble, Holland quipped in disgust, “Let's hope we don't meet again Mr. Taylor.  I'll show you my power until you walk with a limp.”