Chapter 12

The kids. Walker and Mindy certainly weren’t prudish about sex. They fucked, so Vanessa and I presumed, like little bunny rabbits. But they were private, not talking much about their sexual activities.

They were also teenagers. Curious. Especially intrigued with Vanessa and me. About our sex life. They were respectful of our privacy. But curious.

I had to smile as I came into the kitchen one sunny Saturday morning. Vanessa was telling them, “I’m selfish in bed. I love to eat Winter and she usually lets me.”

Walker and Mindy nodded solemnly. Insider stuff.

“But sometimes Winter gets so hungry, you know how she is?”

More nodding, eager this time.

“So I let her go to town on me.” Vanessa grinned her merry Slavic grin, “Not that I’m complaining.”

Another time Mindy asked us, “Do you guys use toys?” Walker grinned, “Hell yes, come on I’ll show you.”

Phillip Massimino had a secret life. Completely unknown to anyone he knew in real life.

This undisclosed existence festered in a digital world buried far deeper than the Dark Web. Eons deeper than Silk Road had ever delved. So deep that even the Sullivan twins hadn’t caught a whiff of it.

There was one real life component. Other than the M A D victims. Under an alias four times removed from his identity as Phillip Massimino, he had purchased a 1950s bomb shelter in a relatively isolated section of central Massachusetts.

A thorough scouring of his Colonial house in Wooster found some trace blood samples and DNA from two women in his basement furnace room. He’d probably started his secret life there.

Our physical life was back running more or less normally. I was still lost in The Guilts, but not so frequently as when we first returned to KC.

Walker and I usually ate dinner, just the two of us. Vanessa at BEAR’s, Mindy splitting her time between Mary’s shelter and the restaurant. She’s learned as much as she’s going to working the shelter. She’s absorbed what there is to learn working with those sad, lost, little girls.

I think Walker sensed what I needed more than he thought the process through. He’s become more handsy with me. He’s not pushy, that’s not his nature. He’s still shy when he puts a move on his mother.

But more than before, before Wooster, I’m coming out of my after-work shower wearing a one-item, unspoken-invitation piece. An obscene Tee. My robe. One of Richie’s dress shirts.

One-item means no undies, a fact of which Walker is achingly aware.

Like tonight. I’m wearing one of my ex’s shirts, the tails hanging down to my knees. I’m standing at the sink, washing our dinner dishes. We’d polished off the last of Mindy’s saffron polenta and I’m cleaning away the evidence.

Walker comes up behind me, his hands on my waist. He’s so tall now, well over 6 feet. He bends down to nuzzle my neck. Decision time. I say, “Hmm.” This signals it feels right and that all systems are go.

Walker teases me with the tip of his tongue swirling in my ear. This is a new one on his part.

He slowly gentles his hands around front, under my shirt. Pauses, one final, silent question. I don’t say anything. He slides his hands up, over my tummy, no more hesitation.

Walk knows by now, has known for years, how sensitive my boobs are. His touch as he twirls both nipples is so boyish, so tender, it melts my heart. But my brain is working just fine. The Walker-erection against-the-Winter-butt sensation comes through loud and clear.

Mentally, I’m smiling as I push back, butt cheeks against denim. My darling boy catches his breath, “Winter.”

“Let it go, babyboy, let it go.”

I recommend that most people don’t read this section. I’m including it because I have a selfish streak. Learning what Massimino was doing, learning the horrific M A D secrets, helped me. Helped me feel less guilty about Bear.

But the details are unlikely to benefit anyone else. They involve gruesome torture and murder. Even though I’m going to be purposely vague ... well, take a pass, that’s my suggestion.

No, I changed my mind -- keep reading. I’ve now edited out 90% of the evil and left only an overview explanation of what Massimino was doing. That is disgusting enough, but at least you’re spared the gory details. Although in this age of terrorism videos, perhaps some of the shock has been lost in our public discourse.

Phillip Massimino had discovered his technological talents could do more than define a business career. It could take him on journeys where he found, digitally found, like-minded grotesques.

The usual underground sickness. Kiddy porn. Rape. Parent-child incest. Any kind of gun, any kind of drug.

Unknowing participation in sex tapes. This section was an inside joke. After the perps had milked the girlfriend, wife, sister, whoever, for everything she had, they migrated the videos from below the Dark Web to public forums. Posted the sex tapes with contact information. One final insult.

Massimino’s site was called: M A D Bitches.

Mutilation. Amputation. Decapitation.

That’s all I’ll say about it.

He taped those poor girls in that isolated, windowless, bomb shelter. No one could hear them scream.

Morgan Fleetwood had left it up to Phillip Montgomery to tell me about M A D or not.

Phillip didn’t hesitate, he knew how guilty we both felt about Bear.

And I’m glad he told me. Glad that I forced myself to watch one grisly tape.

I’d been sort of steeled by the two snuff tapes I’d watched with Sergeant Finch. But this, M A D was even worse. Much worse. The woman I saw had been kept alive for weeks and weeks. Begging to die.

Adding to the sheer awfulness of it all, was the merry attitude of those underground viewers. Chat logs would show gleeful appreciation of the most gruesome depravities. Detailed discussions and suggestions on new tools and techniques to experiment with. Illegal meds to keep the victims alive longer.

Massimino didn’t charge to enter his website. Those allowed in were fellow travelers. Some with similar interests, others with different brands of paraphilia.

These monsters fed off each other, encouraged each other, cheered each other on.

Homeland Security turned everything, not including Philip Montgomery’s sex tape, over to the FBI. They’re going to try to maneuver through Massimino’s site, using his encrypted passwords and digital footprints, to slip into other sites. To identify the other vermin involved.

Apparently Massimino and some of his pals hunted victims through online hookup sites in locations away from their home bases. Wore enough of a disguise not to create a physical profile.

The authorities decided not to prosecute Cassandra Simmons for her blackmail participation. They didn’t want to risk tipping off any of Massimino’s underground friends.

He’d posted a sex tape of Cassandra for his friends. And told them she would soon be a M A D Bitch. This was a common theme from Massimino. He’d befriend a girl, tape her having sex with him, and then post the tape for his underground buddies to watch. Previews of Coming Attractions.

Massimino admitted, no bragged, about how easy it was to lure a girl to his hidden bomb shelter. “Tell ‘em it’s a secret Party Room, plenty of booze, grass.”

I saw photos of the bomb shelter. A vintage Kelvinator. A comfy bed with a blue down comforter. A brown Lazy-Boy, flat screen television for streaming recordings. Cameras on tripods. No windows, no one around to hear the screams.

Phillip Montgomery paid all of Bear’s considerable hospital expenses. And told him the dark truth about the man who had shot him. Whose arm Bear had snapped before he passed out.

Philip presented me with a check from Envoy Assets, his hedge fund. It was the largest check I’d ever received. Hell, it was more money than I’d ever made in a year. In two years.

I won’t share the amount, that would be too much like bragging. However, there are six figures west of the decimal point. And the first one isn’t a 1. It’s 3. The second figure ain’t too shabby either, 5. The rest are just zeroes, nothing very impressive.

Neither Walker nor Mindy has expressed any interest in learning how to drive. Kind off odd for a boy, but sort of understandable -- Walker’s more city than suburban.

And Mindy, living with us, has lost much of the suburbia psyche that she was born into.

But I think it’s also a generational thing. Kids today seem to simply be less interested in cars. They grew up in the age of Uber and Lyft, driverless cars seem to be a thing now. I read that Tesla is now worth more than Ford. Changing times. But they always are, right?