The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security (6 page)

When he released her she scrambled back into the closet to peer at him from the shadows. “He'll kill me,” she said. “I've been bad."

"It's all right. What's your name?” She didn't answer.

Tom guessed she was about ten or eleven. Her youthful breasts had slipped out of her training bra during their struggle and he couldn't help noticing the soft curve of her buttocks, the smooth line of her brown thighs. Tom realized that the emerging sexuality of her body, combined with her complete defenselessness, had caused him to be aroused. He had to shift his cock around through his pocket. “I won't hurt you,” he said. “Are you thirsty?” She nodded. “I'll get you something to drink. You'll stay right here, all right?” She hesitated, then nodded again more slowly.

As he went back downstairs, he wondered what he should do. If he took the girl away, or even left her out of the closet, he would compromise his mission. Everett could not know he was being watched—it was a matter of national security. Nothing could happen to cause him—or the public, or Washington—to discover his true identity. Everett was a pond Security didn't want stirred up. He thought about it as he got her a drink from the kitchen tap. To the rest of the world this girl didn't exist, she was Everett's little secret. She'd shown up in no census, no security dossier. She was anonymous. Tom pictured her as he had just seen her—the delicate swell of dawning womanhood, the matted hair, the patch of urine stains dried against her puffy little crotch, scraped knees, bloody fingers—and felt another pang of arousal. It occurred to him that, like Everett, he could do anything he wanted to this girl. He pictured himself pulling down those dirty panties and shook his head. He brought the glass of water upstairs and returned to the room.

In the doorway he noticed how dull the girl's bedroom was. The gray carpet was heavily stained and strewn with broken Barbie dolls and dirty clothes. The bed was a dirty heap of worn blankets pushed against the back wall. The blinds concealing the only window were thick with dust, the walls were bare. There was only one picture, tacked over a small dresser. A black woman smiled sadly, her eyes shut to the flash of the camera. It was wrinkled, as if it had been crumpled and then smoothed out again several times. The closet door was closed and the girl was gone.

"Hello?” Tom said. “Are you still here?” He went to the closet again and slowly opened the door. The girl was huddled in the dark again, hugging her knees against a cheek. “I brought you a drink.” She wouldn't come out, and Tom had to hand her the glass in the closet. When she finally grabbed it she guzzled it down all at once. Watching her, Tom realized what he had to do. Right now he would find her something to eat. Then he would convince her to keep
him
a secret. He doubted that would be very hard. And in return he would help her—as much as he could.

And that's how it worked.

In fact, Tom's own boss wasn't aware of the girl's existence for a good four months. Four months of simply watching Everett abuse the girl. If Everett punished her by locking her in the closet, Tom would sneak her out or bring her a snack. He became her ‘imaginary’ friend, and she seemed to look forward to their brief meetings. She called him ‘The Shadow’ and sometimes insisted even to
him
that he didn't really exist. Four months, and then Tom's conscience could take no more and he told his boss about her.

"Under no circumstances will you do anything for this girl,” Carmen Fairbrite, Chief of Staff at the time, told him. “You've managed to keep your presence unknown up to this point. And that's exactly what you will continue to do."

"Maybe you don't understand the situation, sir..."

"No, I believe I do. People have been watching you on this assignment, Russell. You've handled the issues here with great sensitivity and discretion. They're talking promotion in Washington."

"But this poor girl is—"

"You will not interfere! There are larger issues at stake than the welfare of one little nigger girl."

"Sir, with all due respect—"

"Tread carefully here, Russell. You're in the middle of a highly charged situation. If that tyrant bitch's clone becomes pressured by Security, he might start asking questions that could lead to a very dark time for The Party. Her real son is going to be the next President. How would it look if anyone found out he had an illegal monster for a brother, a man who has been involved in terrorist activities over the last decade?"

Tyrant bitch?
For the first time, Russell realized the future Father Washington's mother, who had passed away several years ago, wasn't remembered by everyone as the near-saint vision had made her out to be. It was an important lesson—if you were part of a winning team, things were not always what they appeared to be.

"We aren't in the domestic squabble game, Russell. I understand your concern for this girl—you're a good man. But as a good man, you must judge the more important issues."

Four months became four years. Four years of discreetly helping the girl against the express orders of his superior. It wasn't enough. When he finally convinced her to run away, and he and his men quietly helped her succeed, it still wasn't enough. He owed Leslie a debt he knew it was impossible to repay. It would never be enough.

Tom never understood how two men who were so different could come from the same genes. Father Washington represented all that was fair and honorable and patriotic. His brother Everett had embraced a rogue state, a member of the always and ever growing Evil Axis. Tom knew from experience he was a monster.

Tom tried, but never learned the identity of the black woman in the little girl's photograph. And the day of his promotion had been the most bittersweet day of his life.

There was a sharp knock at the door. Frowning at the setting sun, Tom said, “Open it.” Soft footsteps crossed the carpet and then stopped as Tom turned. Andrew Jefferson, Chief of Staff, stood before his desk, fingers stretching out to tap the fake oak, his head tilted forward and brows raised in an attempt to make his dull gray eyes somehow piercing. The failed glare didn't bother Tom. It was the halitosis that made him flinch. He smelled it as he sat behind his desk.

"Hello, Andy."

Something shifted in Jefferson's eyes as if a second, transparent, set of eyelids blinked at Tom's greeting.

"You're a lucky man, Tom."

Instead of asking why, Tom watched Jefferson's dull, soft face. He made his own face relax.

"Do you know why?” Jefferson's voice rose, just a little.

Because I belong to the ninety-ninth percentile of America's population more intelligent than you.
“What brings you to my office, Andy?"

Jefferson pulled the chair beside the desk out to the front and sat down. “Because you don't have to deal directly with the President. Ever. Just me. I'm the one who has to take the shit from Him, no matter
whose
fault it is."

Tom tried to ignore Jefferson's breath. Meyer's roaring voice cracked in the background: “You fucking Godless—” Tom almost laughed as Meyer started choking. There were times, he thought, when it was very difficult to take these young men seriously. Jefferson wasn't even in his thirties and he was Tom's superior, answerable only to Father Washington Himself. Tom had been in security for almost twenty-five years, working up from the bottom. Jefferson entered the scene four years ago with university degrees in The Religion, in Patriotic Studies, and in Holy Security. What did those degrees really mean? Tom imagined the man had always been a zealous misfit, the humorless boy in prayer school who took the catechisms far too seriously. This position of power was the first opportunity in his life to fit in, gain respect, to make friends. Granted, someone like Meyer wasn't ever really your friend. At least he had to kiss Jefferson's ass. Maybe that was enough for Jefferson.

"I didn't want to discuss this over our communications link. You never know who's listening, and believe it or not, Tom, I want to give you the benefit of the doubt here."

Tom stared at him.

Holy Spirit of Revolution
—
get to the point.

"What was Saint Leslie doing out on the field today?"

Tom looked into those dull eyes, and wondered why Jefferson bothered to ask. The man's response was obviously already prepared, and wouldn't change no matter how Tom explained the decision.

"You gave a saint a position on Holy Security, Tom. I'm sure even
you
can tell me how many regulations contra-indicate that move. Not only can't saints work, but you put her image and her life in jeopardy. Not to mention the life of Father Washington."

Tom snorted. “Father Washington? Andy, you know as well as I do that Leslie has always been a conscientious guard."

"And you know better than anyone how precarious the state of her mind might be. Tom, she's nothing more than a pet experiment of yours. Don't forget it. There are a thousand priorities higher than her. Now things are even more complicated, what with all the publicity around her damned promotion. Do you realize how much I wish I could just pull the plug on that? But for the moment, with everybody chanting her name and writing her letters and making little action figures, we
have
to follow through with the sainthood. There's really nothing we can do except maintain damage control. Of course the public has a short memory. Things will return to normal."

Tom rubbed his balding head. Jefferson didn't need to tell him who would take the blame for everything if Leslie embarrassed Washington. And he didn't wish to lose his pension, his job, or worse.

"How much does He know?” he asked.

"Very little,” Jefferson replied.

As Tom watched the young man's face, it suddenly occurred to him Jefferson was afraid. After all, he'd withheld information from The President. Tom knew that, rather than making them allies, it merely made Jefferson more dangerous to him, for Tom would be blamed with the total force of his superior's desperation if anything went wrong.

"I think The President suspects there's something strange about Leslie, especially after his little interview with her today. I don't think it'll take too long for him to figure things out if he starts asking the right people the right questions. His Advisors have been at me nonstop ever since the assassination attempt. You know; ‘Where does Freeman come from, where does she receive her programming, why does Russell take such an interest in her?’”

"I suppose we had this coming. After all this time, with all of Everett's connections to Washington buried for so long, I'd thought we were pretty free and clear."

"Nothing is ever free and clear, Russell. Especially when a grandstander like you hides a key figure like Leslie right under everyone's noses."

"We've been down that road, Andy. I still stand by my decision. We needed to keep her close and we needed to modify her memory. And it worked."

"It worked when she was buried in the ranks of security and not in the public eye. What if her identity comes out now?"

Sighing, Tom shrugged. “So what are we going to do?"

Jefferson smirked. “We? No, Tom.
You
. You're going to make sure Leslie gets through this sainthood thing without any problems. You will ensure that proper procedures are followed, that her programming operates according to plan, and that Washington can rest assured she'll act like the little Cinderella she is, and then settle back into anonymity as quickly and as fully as possible. Crystal?"

Tom pushed his jaw forward and sighed again. “You know as well as I do that Leslie's responses to programming have not always been utterly predictable."

"This is no longer my problem, Tom.” Jefferson stood and rapped his fingers on Tom's desk a final time. Then he started for the door, but before he reached it, he turned again. “One more thing. Why hasn't our Security Saint turned in her gun?"

"Give her a break, Andy. We've talked about Gun before. She's totally attached to it. It's her only friend, the only personality she feels she can rely on. I didn't want to push it too hard and have her fall apart. That would risk your precious image, wouldn't it?"

"You're the expert.” He smirked again. “For now. But it's time to start weaning your little girl, Tom. She'll have to give up Gun soon. There's a limit, you know."

Tom found himself consciously keeping his growing anger behind his unmoving face. “Yes sir."

As he watched Jefferson retreat from the room, he pictured Leslie alone in her apartment, hiding from the world and holding Gun against her hard little breasts.

She'll probably never understand just how far out on a limb I continue to crawl for her
.

He rose from his chair and returned to the window. How in Kennedy's Camelot had they ever allowed Leslie to get promoted to sainthood? He rolled his eyes. His stomach had begun to burn. And how the Desert Storm had he let her get pregnant!

And this new obsession with the Sons of Man. Leslie was playing with a fire she didn't understand. Not just because of political appearances. She didn't know Everett had become affiliated with the Sons of Man, that he was somewhat of an important figure within the organization. If she dug deep enough, it was likely she'd find him. What would happen if they were to meet? She seemed to survive meeting Father Washington all right, but Tom didn't know if the head mem could shield her from her past if she found herself literally faced with her father.

I don't know if she could bear such a meeting, such a revelation.

Then he snorted as another thought occurred to him; if she regained her memory, it would expose him as the man who watched Everett's abuses and did nothing. That was something he wasn't sure
he
could bear.

Below, the first Atheist was sprawled face down and unmoving on the asphalt, the heel of Meyer's black boot ground into his neck. And Meyer was screaming at the second in line, his voice rising up in a maddened screech of righteousness: “You! You now, Mother fucker. I—
say it!
—I pledge allegiance to the—What's the matter, you some kind of retard!"

Tom blanched at that.
Some kind of retard.
He could see what looked like a great crimson worm lengthening beside the first Atheist's head. Meyer's men had circled the Atheists, their guns raised to their various Godless temples. Beyond them the eyes of vision glowed, recording the glory of the recanting. Tom turned to the desk and rubbed his fists in his eyes.