Chapter 15: A Flamboyance of Flamingos

Clint spoke softly, “Does he have a gun?”

“No, not in the basement. I don’t think.”

Our first words.

Clint bundled me in his arms and carried me back inside. He sat me gently on a hall bench and flicked the safety off on his Sig Sauer. Even in my panicked state, I registered his new P320. And I also became conscious of the anguished howls coming up from the basement.

Clint opened the door cautiously. He didn’t look away from the stairwell as he asked me, “What did you do to him?”

“Stabbed his face.”

Clint nodded and started down, a firm two-handed grip.

“Wait. He has a knife down there.”

Clint didn’t hesitate; trod steadily down the stairs.

As we waited for the cavalry, Clint said, “I would have killed him.”

I shook my head, “I’d do it myself. He raped me. Hurt me bad. But no.”

Clint had his arm around me. I was wearing one of Folsom’s London Fog raincoats, tan; he wouldn’t be needing it. The sleeves hung down way past my hands, the hem touched my feet. Clint had buttoned every single button and I had the belt clinched as tight as it would go.

Clint had carried Folsom up the stairs and he was now lying naked on his hallway runner, a Persian at one time. A blood-carpet now. Clint had cuffed him — wrists in back — and then he wound some duct tape around his head and over his eyes. Clint had left the towel rod in, not knowing what would happen if he pulled it out. And not caring much either.

Maybe someday I would appreciate the irony — Clint utilized the same tape for a makeshift bandage that Folsom had used to bind me to that skinny iron bed. But for now, I just wanted my heart to stop pounding, my brain to stop pinballing wildly around.

Ash was the first to arrive; Constance was right behind him. We knew Ash had mobilized some fellow agents and two ambulances. No sirens though; this would remain shrouded in a Homeland Security blanket. Constance’s private physician was on her way to see to me too.

Constance hugged me, no words, we just clung to each other. Then it was Ash’s turn. He just shook his head as he reached for me.

But Constance was Constance. “Winter I know this is a terrible time, but we need to know about Folsom. Did he say anything to you about hidden files? Perhaps other victims?”

Even in my fucked-up state, I caught on right away. Search warrants.

“Yes. He bragged to me that he had videos of other girls he had raped. And secret files about killing niggers and beaners.”

Ash patted my arm and started making calls. I heard his words, “The Folsom residence and both offices. Yes, the one at RightWorld too.”

Folsom moaned and thrashed around on the floor. For some irrational reason I was pleased that he hadn’t had a chance to rape again me after my last shower in that basement hellhole.

Doctor Rachael Edmonton was in her 60s, brisk with me, but not brusque. “There are three crime scenes with any rape. The victim, the perpetrator, and the setting itself. We will prosecute all three with full vigor. We won’t miss a thing.”

She rode with Clint and me in the ambulance to Georgetown University Hospital. Placed my left arm in a temporary splint to protect my elbow. Which still hurt like fuck.

“How’s your jaw?”

“Sore, but not too bad.” Ball gag.

“You’re lucky; you have a big mouth.

Literally and figuratively.

Doctor Edmonton had gray hair cut short, and intelligent, intelligent dark eyes. Another doctor, this one with the FBI, had arrived at Folsom’s about the same time. She led the basement team who would collect all the physical samples down there. By the book.

A third doctor would collect DNA from Folsom. After that I didn’t care what they did with him. To him.

Dr. Edmonton gave me quick overall examination then pulled out the Sexual Assault Kit. The rape kit.

Swabs and sterile containers for urine and blood. Combs for hair and fiber. Microscopic slides, sealed envelopes.

“Anal?”

“No.”

“Oral?”

“No.”

“Good.”

After collecting the evidence, she X-rayed my elbow from the front, then the side. “Hairline fractures of the radius and ulna. You’ll be sore.”

“How long?”

“Five to eight weeks; I’d estimate closer to five. You’re in magnificent shape, Winter.”

“Good architecture.”

“Yes, good genes, but you work at it too. Fantastic muscle tone.”

Of course my primary concerns were STDs and my own mental health. We’d know pretty soon on the physical side.

One interesting sidebar to my examination. Doctor Edmonton took every sample I could imagine other than fingerprints. As she clipped a hair, she said, “We do this because it’s in the protocols, but we won’t actually use it.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Hair analysis, even microscopic analysis, is notoriously unreliable.”

“Really?”

“I was on PCAST with the previous administration. The President’s Council of Advisors on Science and Technology. We issued a detailed report on forensic science in criminal courts.”

“Impressive.”

“Yes. Well.”

“What?”

“The current administration has largely shelved the PCAST report. They want convictions, not details. But, back to microscopic hair analysis ... in one infamous study, the DOJ and FBI reviewed over 3,000 cases. Turns out the experts had provided scientifically invalid testimony in more than 95% of the cases.”

“Holy fuck.”

Then she turned back to tending to me. Focused, sensitive to what I’d been through, concerned about my future, mental as well as physical. Later I decided that she was a skilled caregiver. Making interesting conversation to take my mind off of ... all of that.

I refused to spend the night in the hospital; Clint stayed with me at Matt’s. Just held me in his arms.

My family rushed to join me first thing in the morning; they’d stay with me while Clint and Daddy moved to a hotel. Ash had arranged for a 24/7 watch, but none of us really expected any kind of retaliation. Even if Sarah Meriwether completely lost it, she was certainly smart enough to wait weeks, months, maybe longer, to come after me.

But I didn’t complain about the guards, not at all.

There was no way not to tell Walker what had happened, what Folsom had done to me. Vanessa had so much warrior in her, she’d eventually be okay. And Pilar was pretty fucking tough herself. Daddy would be Daddy, hurting for me, but stoic.

But for Walker, it was his worst nightmare come to life. No, worse would have been if Folsom had killed me.

As for that cocksucker ... his life was over. I hadn’t killed him as I’d promised myself — lying there taped in an X position, with a ball gag in my mouth while he raped me. I certainly could have offed him, maybe should have. Clint and I could easily have taken him out, but I decided not to.

My fervent hope was that Folsom will end up wishing I had.

No sexually transmitted diseases. A clean bill of health, physical health.

But my earlier conversation with Doctor Edmonton still interested me.

In a follow-up visit I said, “Tell me about forensic evidence. In courtroom testimony.”

“As regards Folsom?”

I thought about that. He was going down, no question. “No, just in general. I’m a private detective and a newly minted attorney so I have sort of a professional interest in the subject.”

“Okay. Let’s see ... at best, a lot of forensic testimony presented in court is unreliable. Hopelessly biased in favor of the police and prosecutors.”

“God.”

“Oh, it gets worse. The National Academy of Sciences took a long look at the subject. They evaluated hair comparisons, bitemark matching, shoe print and tire track analysis, bloodstain analysis, fiber matching, handwriting comparisons, and a lot more. Even fingerprint analysis. Which was the pre-DNA gold standard.”

“What’d they find?”

“The good guys get it wrong far too often. And that the good guys weren’t always the good guys. Like that police crime lab in Houston. What a fiasco! At least now they have an independent forensic lab. Not one that works only for the police and prosecutors.”

“Every city should do that.”

Doctor Edmonton continued working on me as we talked. I again suspected that our conversation was some sort of beside manner. Something to take my mind off ... everything.

“Good luck getting independent labs in this climate. Anyway, there were two primary concerns that the NAS had regarding criminal forensics — the lack of rigorous testing and the presence of a significant degree of subjectivity in reaching results.”

“Okay.”

“A wide range of scientists, lawmakers, law enforcers, agreed to create the National Commission on Forensic Science. This was in 2013.”

“Do any good?”

“Well ... yes and no. Over 80 percent of the commissioners agreed that experts could no longer testify that they had ‘a reasonable degree of scientific certainty’ because, quote, ‘such terms have no scientific meaning and may mislead judges and juries’.”

“That’s something, right?”

“Unfortunately, it applied only to federal courts. So, many states still allow the phrase, and some even require it.”

“That’s insane.”

“It’s moot now. The current administration refused to extend the Commission’s charter. They said they could proceed better through internally generated improvements.”

Constance invited all of us to meet in Senator Wainwright’s private office. My family, including Daddy, along with Clint.

The senator himself sat in; the yields from the Folsom raids had been that significant.

But among all the major news, one little thing somehow made me feel much better. Folsom had snatched me early on a Monday morning. I had escaped on late Thursday afternoon. I thought that I’d been a prisoner for a much longer time. Apparently Folsom wasn’t gone for a full workday each time he left the basement. He came back two and three times a day to check on me. To rape me.

Not that I think he savored the act. Maybe I’ll never know his reasoning, but he had apparently felt some kind of compulsion to return again and again. That — leaving and coming back — had thrown off my internal clock.

And the compressed calendar meant that Clint had moved fast, faster than I had realized at the time. He had been worried; then came down to DC to confront Folsom as soon as I didn’t return the second one of his calls.

Senator Wainwright ran the first part of the meeting — praising me, then Clint. Ignoring the magnetic tracker part of the festivities.

He placed his hands on both of mine, “Constance and Ash will give you the details, but The Restoration has been stopped in its tracks. You discovered it and now, because of your confrontation with Folsom, they’ve made almost 30 arrests. In every one of the nine sleeper cell cities.”

He left to do senatorial things and Constance said, “Winter, the Folsom files were a treasure trove of intel. A hit list of over 200 black and Hispanic leaders around the country. A detailed business plan indicating which cells would be assigned to which targets. Even an assassination calendar.”

Daddy shook his head. Vanessa held my hand; Walker couldn’t stop gazing at me.

“We already had the Albuquerque hit-and-run killer. For that city councilman, Oscar Jose Hernández. And Kansas City arrested Larry Horton for the Houston poisoning. The Reverend Ezekiel Matthew Greene.”

I understood why Constance included the names of the two victims. Daddy had always done the same thing. The dead deserved to be recognized. Either everyone counted or no one did.

Constance looked at Ash, who didn’t need to refer to his notes, “Warren and Maeve Hardmore, Joe Harlan Pewtie, and Mike Grimes are in custody as well.” He gave me a grim smile, “Mrs. Hardmore went berserk. Screaming and biting and clawing and scratching. Resisting arrest and assault were added to her charges. Not that it will make any sentencing difference. They’re all going away for felony murder.”

“Good.”

“Every regional leader from the other eight cities has been arrested. Along with most of the members of their teams.”

He smiled at me with some amusement, “Turns out, these are not standup guys. They’re already singing, pointing fingers. We’ll have all of them under wraps in a day or two.”

I said, “Sarah Meriwether?”

Constance answered, “No direct link to her. But the weight and majesty of our two offices are in the early stages of the Meriwether PR rollout. It’s already causing some conservative backlash against the family.”

She smiled merrily, “Timing couldn’t be better. Charles and David receive Presidential pardons and a week later the Meriwether attorney is arrested for heading up a national assassination ring.”

But I had a very personal interest in Sarah Meriwether. And perhaps the shelter lawsuit would become a way to pry open a door or two. However, I still wanted the details on The Restoration. I asked Ash, “Can I see the files you recovered?”

He shook his head, trying to hide his smile, “Sorry, Winter, government property. Official access only.” Which meant, fuck yes, he would let me spend as much time with the captured data as I wanted.

Daddy said, “What about Winter?”

Ash said, “We’ll keep her out of it if at all possible. No media leaks so far. If Folsom, or his criminal defense lawyer, is crazy enough to call her up during his trial, well, no way to prevent that.”

Walker slumped down in his seat.

I said, “I hope he does. I want to testify against that cocksucker.”

I looked directly into Walker’s eyes, “I’m not ashamed of what happened to me, honey. Millions of women are raped around the world. Yes, there is a stigma, but there shouldn’t be. If I do get to testify, I’ll show Folsom up to be the cowardly bully that he is. That most rapists are.”

Vanessa and Pilar and I didn’t discuss it. We knew that Walker would be sleeping with me from that first night in Matt’s apartment and for at least the next couple of nights. For as long as it took. My ordeal had really shaken him.

I had gone slowly, taken my time with him. He was feeling more fragile than even I was. But by the time we were back in Kansas City, he was no longer tentative when I spooned him behind me and slid his slender hand down from my boobs, down across my tummy, down to where I needed it to be.

My arm splint was a minor annoyance, but Walker and I soon learned to work around it.

That I was able to pleasure myself, that my body allowed Walker to pleasure me, was a relief. I wasn’t quite ready for intercourse, especially not with someone of Clint’s girth, but I wasn’t so traumatized that I was all clenched up.

It might be different if Folsom were still out there, but I liked to think that it wouldn’t be. Liked to think I was strong enough — physically, emotionally, mentally — to overcome his assault. Ongoing assaults.

Of course with Walker, with Walker in my bed ... well, boys were easy. No matter how tentative he was with me, I could have him quivering like a taut bowstring. There was no question about his ability, his need, to reach completion. Boys were indeed easy, and anyway, in this case, I owned the lad.

Martin Folsom was permanently blind in his left eye. It had been a lucky strike for me, unlucky for him. I hadn’t had time to think, to plan, to aim. I had gripped that shower spike in the palm of my right hand, pointing out between my two middle fingers. Without a warning, with no hint, I leaped at him and just slammed my fist in the general direction of his face. He’d been momentarily stunned by my screaming attack and had instinctively ducked his head, placing that eyeball squarely into the path of my crude weapon.

It took me a few days to make the connection, to remember that I had blinded my other attacker, poor, hapless Pedro Morales. In both eyes.

Not exactly a Biblical eye for an eye thing, but my vengeance, and the resulting damage, didn’t bother me. Damages.

One thing about Folsom was still puzzling. What had been his end game with me? He surely couldn’t let me go, not after all that he’d done. Kidnapping, assault, rape. So why did he keep me alive? Quite possibly, it was uncertainty about his boss, Sarah Meriwether.

He didn’t keep me alive for any sick pleasure. In fact, he barely seemed to enjoy the sex. I had the sense that he was just going through the motions. Cleaning me, feeding me, securing me, fucking me. I was there, I was his, he may as well use me. Maybe he enjoyed my humiliation more than the act itself. But even if that were the case, I hadn’t been able to see it.

I didn’t argue with Clint when he insisted in meeting me on my next trip to DC. My next attempt to be shut of Sarah Meriwether once and for all.

He told me, “This is officially a Vanguard Securities operation. I’m the nearest one to DC. I’m in.”

“I’m glad to have you on my team, Clint. Can you type?”

He laughed more heartily than my silly little jape deserved.

I was meeting with Doctor Edmonton for the third, and final, time. The bruise on my forehead had faded. My elbow was still a little swollen. The chest pain was almost completely gone. I didn’t have any sexually transmitted diseases.

She said, “For what it’s worth, they found a new vial of Cialis in Folsom’s medicine cabinet. Strong dosage too — 40 milligram pills.”

Huh. So he had to rev himself up to rape me.

Dr. Edmonton smiled sort of sadly as she went over the detailed results of the SAFE kit tests. Sexual Assault Forensic Exam. The rape kit.

“Because of your relationship with Senator Wainwright and Ash Collins, the lab work was timely, thorough, and professional.”

Something in her tone of voice ... I said, “Is that unusual?”

She shook her head, “In this country alone, there are hundreds of thousands of backlogged — untested — rape kits. And that doesn’t include the ones that get lost in the criminal justice system. And that doesn’t count the number of women who are too ashamed to even report the crime.”

“Hundreds of thousands. You’re kidding me. No, of course you aren’t.”

“Winter, it’s a criminal shame, but so many states don’t even require the kits to be logged or tracked.”

“Fuck me.”

“Of course the one thing the kit can’t do — no matter how sophisticated any one single version is — it can’t measure the presence or absence of consent. Swaps, slides, photographs can never determine intent.”

I remained silent. Thinking about all the poor women around the world. And the mostly-male indifference to their assaults.

“And the kits themselves vary from state to state. Some kits require just seven steps. Others, more than 20.”

I shook my head.

“When you’re in New York, you should see an art exhibit called ‘Anthem’. The artist, Aliza Shvart, displayed different rape kits from all over the country. Visitors, especially women, are fascinated, and sometimes furious, to see how their home state treats the survivors.”

“My god, can’t the police even agree on a systemic response?”

“Nope. And neither can the politicians. The process is all over the map. Some jurisdictions have a higher awareness of the gravity of the assault. And some are better at commiseration and prosecution. But go to that exhibit — you’ll see how inexcusably uneven the access to quality care is.”

I understood that my fixation on Sarah Meriwether, on ‘getting’ her, could seem a little obsessive. On the other hand, Matt Striker was dead. On the third hand, her operations manager had raped me.

We were in Matt’s apartment and I was wearing a long pink tee and my new Wellington knee-length boots. Blue with white polkadots. Wellies.

Clint said, “So we’re waiting to see what else those Folsom search warrants yield.”

Ms. Mysteriosa said, “Oh, there’s more going on than just that.”

“So, there’s frigging in the rigging.”

“It makes me moist when you talk about frigging.”

Clint looked at me sharply.

I said, “It’s time,” and whipped off my tee.

His voice cracked, “Leave the boots on.”

“I know.”

He hustled to keep pace, but had trouble with one of his shoelaces.

I called Joey Viagra, “What dosage to you take?” His favorite subject.

“Ten milligrams. Anything stronger and broads all over Kansas City would be taking chastity vows.”

No doubt.

Right after Folsom’s arrest, even before I took Walker and my family back to KC, I called Sarah Meriwether.

No surprise, she took the call immediately.

“Winter I didn’t have anything to do with The Restoration.”

“Shut up, you fucking skank.”

She did.

“Call off that Sister Mary Packer lawsuit.”

“Done. Today.”

She hadn’t even bothered to deny her involvement.

“Why did you include Sabbath Armstrong? How did you connect her to me?”

I didn’t like her answer, but I believed it.

“No idea who this Sabbath Armstrong is. Folsom handled all the details.”

And once she assigned him to use me, to use the shelter, as the point of her anti-minority arrowhead, Folsom would have researched me just as carefully as he did the black and brown assassination hit list. He had found some link between Sabbath and me. I’d probably never know what, but I guess that didn’t really matter now.