Chapter 157

Blain Benton sat alone in a jail cell. The cops had called it a holding cell, but it was all steel walls with four tiered bunks, two each on opposing walls. The commode and the water fountain were also steel. He had been in drunk tanks before. If this wasn't one, it damn sure favored it, he mused.

They had given him a blanket to put between his ass and the cold steel of the bunk. He had tried lying down, but somehow the pain was less when he was sitting up and slumped forward, his forearms on his thighs.

An hour earlier:

He had just started another bottle of wine — his last from the burglary — when there was a knock on the front door. He had heard enough cop knocks to recognize this one. His heart thudding, he briefly considered running out the back door, but that idea was quickly quenched with the pain of his next breath. The center of his chest hurt like hell; his ribs on both sides hurt like hell; his knee hurt like hell. He struggled slowly to his feet, hobbled over and opened the door. Trying his best to salvage what little of his pride remained, he strained to stand erect.

The lead cop looked up at the giant in front of him. "Son. Of. A. Bitch," he muttered. At the door were four of Denver's finest, two of them with Tasers in their hands. There were two distinctive pops from the direction of the other two cops. Blain, having heard it before, recognized the sound of the cops unsnapping their holsters.

When the detective in charge of the burglary had watched the tape from the camera at the rear of the grocery store and realized how big the perp was, he alerted the patrol Sergeant, who sent four patrolmen to make the arrest.

"Mr. Blain Benton?"

He thought about denying it, but it was obvious they knew who he was. "Yeah, that's me. What you want?"

"We have a burglary warrant for your arrest, and ... we need to have an understanding. We pulled your record. Know this! All of us are going home at the end of this shift," the cop said, gesturing to his buddies. "Whether you leave here courtesy of the coroner, or quietly go with us is entirely up to you. You're too damn big to fight. So there are only those two options. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Blain was too sore to fight, even if he had been foolish enough to try. "Don't worry, I ain't that stupid," he got out, eyeing the Tasers that he hated, and wondering how in the hell the cops had figured out it was him.

While he was being booked, one of the cops asked about his limp, as they belatedly realized he had been injured. The jailer offered him medical treatment, but to Blain that would have only added insult to go along with the injuries the kid had given him. A little later, they asked him again if he wanted to go to the hospital. When he told them, "No," the second time, they had him sign a paper stating he had refused medical treatment. They made him take his shirt off, and took pictures of his bruises, then made him drop his pants while they took close-ups of his swollen knee.

They didn't bother to question him about the burglary, but asked him if he wanted a lawyer. They did grill him about his injuries, obviously wondering how bad the people he fought had been hurt. Remembering Jeremy's very sincere warning, he told them he had fallen down a long flight of steps, but wouldn't say any more about his injuries. That really pissed the cops off. A detective eventually stopped by his cell and read him his rights again, then asked if he wanted to confess. When Blain told him, "No," the detective just grinned and left.

One of the cops shared with him that they had the entire burglary on video, which included some good footage of him breaking in the back door before putting on his ski mask, and, oh incidentally, his tag number showed up just fine.

Now he sat waiting to be moved to a regular cell. The cops told him his bail would probably be around twenty thousand, but that would be after the arraignment. He was pretty sure they were fucking with him. How did they know how much the bail would be? And it seemed way too high. No way could he raise the twenty thousand dollar bail. He didn't even have the two hundred any more, since the cops had taken the money he'd gotten out of the register, let alone the two thousand he would need for the bondsman.

He thought about eventually getting out of jail and going after Jeremy, maybe with a rifle. But what if I fuck up the shot? Jeremy had struck terror in the giant's heart. Fuck them. Fuck all of them. I'll leave the state when I get out of jail. That bitch wasn't any good in bed, anyway. Maybe the kid will knock her up and toss her out on her ass. "Yeah," he managed aloud with a halfhearted chuckle. He thought about eventually seeing Connie waddling around with her milk-bloated tits hanging down to her swollen belly. Yeah, that'll teach the bitch.

He maneuvered around until he was able to lie prone. Naturally, the cell door opened just as he had finally managed to get reasonably comfortable.

"We're going to move you to a regular cell," the jailer said. "Your arraignment isn't until Monday morning.

Blain sighed and began the struggle to sit up.

"The arresting officers say you didn't give them any trouble, so once you're in the other cell, I'll bring you an ice pack for that knee, and some Tylenol. You sure you don't want to go to the emergency room and get checked out?" the jailer asked yet again.

"Nope. Just fell down some steps. No big deal," he answered through gritted teeth as his ribs objected to the strain of sitting up.

Arlene and Ann had long since left to go play in the game room after it became obvious that Hope didn't need them any more, and wasn't having any problems with Art being near her. He now sat with the final sketch in his hand. There had been three previous ones she had trashed, only to start over again, but she had learned each time.

"That was work," Art sighed. "It was stressful for me; I can just imagine how much it was for you."

Hope stood and walked toward the fridge. "Want something to drink?"

"Yeah. Whatever you're having will be fine."

Art move to a more comfortable chair and accepted the soft drink Hope handed him a moment later. He took a swallow of his drink, the sketch still in his hand as she sat on the couch facing him. She picked up her sketchpad and pencil, starting to move her pencil quickly about her pad. She glanced up at him from time to time, but didn't say anything.

Art was aware that she was sketching him, but tried to ignore what she was doing. Indicating the sketch of the slaver in his hand, "This is better than I ever imagined it would be. If his face is in our data banks, the software is bound to recognize him. You have a great talent. I really appreciate your doing this."

"No problem. I enjoyed it. I think I'm getting the hang of it. Hopefully I'll be better with the next one we do. I just hope this works after the Matthews have spent so much money buying me supplies."

Art sat quietly watching as she finished the sketch. Handing it to him, she smiled, "You're easy to draw. Hope you like it."

Art stared in awe at the sketch, wondering how someone so young could have so much talent. "This is perfect. I'm going to frame it. Thank you."

As soon as Art left, Hope stretched out on the couch, the mental fatigue from the tension having drained her energy. In minutes, she was soundly asleep.

As Art stepped into the hallway, he wasn't sure where he would find Sandra and Bobby, but decided to check the game room first in case they were still there. There was only the quiet murmur of voices as his eyes fell on the four females sitting near one of the corners of the big room, all facing each other. Their animated conversation chopped off as if a switch had been thrown when they saw him.

He didn't know why exactly, and maybe it was because of all the concentration over the last hour, but it hit him again that he had never been around so many women and girls who were so ... pretty. No, pretty isn't even close, he thought. There isn't a one of them in this building who couldn't become a model. And from what I've seen, they're all smart. But his eyes locked on Sandra and Bobby. I don't know why they fell for me, but I'm damn sure not going to look that proverbial gift horse in the mouth. They love me and I love them. That's all that matters. Jeff says it's because I'm an Alpha and they're meant for me.

I don't know how this is going to work out, though. How will I ever be any use to the agency with that group trying to kill me? I can't risk those two sitting over there. What am I going to do?

As he neared the group, "Well, Good Looking, how did it go?" Bobby asked.

"Really well," he answered as Bobby stood, motioned for him to sit, then sat in his lap.

Sandra leaned over for a brief kiss.

Holding the sketch up, Art said, "Look. This is one of the bosses. Trust me; this is him. Anyone could recognize him from this."

"And the other sketch?" Sandra asked, then added, "Oh, wow," as he held the sketch so they could see it.

"I'm going to frame this. She'll be famous one day, and I have one of her first sketches, although it's an insult to even call this a sketch."

They chatted for a few minutes, then, "I'm going to find Jeff."

"He's in his basement office next to his lab," Arlene and Ann said together.

The two girls looked at each other and blushed for some reason. Ann continued, "We always know where he is, and your women will know where you are, too. Probably not long after your wedding night."

Art stood, leaned over and brushed his lips across those of his women, then started for the door.

"Art?" Arlene called out.

"Yeah," he said, stopping to glance back.

"Knock before you go in."

He started to tell her he would have done that without them telling him to do it, but shrugged and said, "Sure."

A few moments later, just as he got to Jeff's office, the door opened and Nat, Nicki and Whitney, giggling, came out. "Hey Art," they said in perfect unison, their faces flushed.

Whitney continued, "Go on in, he's expecting you," she said, holding the door open for him.

As soon as he stepped into the room, he smelled air freshener with a hint of sex mixed in. Jeff was sitting on the couch and motioned toward a chair nearby.

Art pondered, If I've interrupted their sex, he doesn't show it. The girls were giggling, but all of the women here laugh, chuckle or giggle a lot. Heck, everyone here seems to be in a good mood just about all the time.

"Jeff, if I..."

"You didn't." There was a slight hesitation, then with a grin, "Several of my wives are young, and the others are made young. We enjoy an active sex life, as will you and your women come Monday night. If you were an outsider, I would be embarrassed, but you're a brother Alpha. Other than my wives, what's mine is yours, and I have nothing that is secret from you, although there are many things we have not, as yet, discussed.

"Coffee in the carafe there," he said, motioning, "and soft drinks in the fridge. Why don't you let me look at what you have in your hand while you serve yourself?"

Art handed Jeff the sketches, only to hear a quiet, "Shit," from Jeff a second later.

As Art sat back down with a cup of coffee, Jeff continued, "Hope is going to get a job offer as soon as Whatley sees this. He won't know who did it, of course, but you can bet he'll want to know. Damn, she's good."

Art blew gently on his hot coffee, took a sip and looked at Jeff. "It was stressful. Probably even more so with her than with me. But that's him. Everything about him that I can remember. Even that faint blemish on his left cheek."

"You have a good memory."

"I was blessed with that, and the FBI taught me how to look at a person and really notice them. Then Helen's idea about the self-hypnosis went a long way toward bringing the full memory back, but the real talent is that pretty girl upstairs. She's a genius in her own right."

"And she's gone through hell," Jeff interrupted. "At least that slaver did one thing right when he blew her father's brains out. Saved me the trouble of doing it. Anyone who would do what he did to his daughter does not deserve to breathe air."

Startled, Art realized he could feel Jeff's anger. But the anger washed from Jeff's face as he smiled at the young agent and held up the sketch of Art. "I see that she drew you, too,"

"I'm going to frame it."

Jeff chuckled. "I'm going to frame mine, too. Diana ordered a couple extra frames and matting. You can have one of them if you wish."

"That would be great. Thanks."

The two sat quietly thinking with Art occasionally taking a sip of coffee. Then, "Uh, how am I going to get this to Whatley?"

Jeff's eyes regained their focus, "Oh, sorry. I should have told you. We'll scan it there," he said pointing to the scanner in the corner, "and I'll give the file to my Security to send to the General. He'll get it to Whatley. Whitworth has access to technology that the rest of the nation can only dream about. There's absolutely zero chance the sketch can be tracked back here, and anyone who tried would get a rude awakening when their system was attacked by a very vicious virus."

MIDVILLE, WYOMING

Lunch over, the women cleaned up while Bill and Luther sat in the living room chatting. After swapping an abbreviated version of their lives, a short silence ensued, then, "Could I have a look at your church? The women seem to be enjoying themselves very nicely."

"What? Oh, sure, I'll be glad to show it to you, but you have to remember, it's just a small-town church in a very poor community. We don't even have carpet on the floors. The church was already here when I decided to make my home in this area. When the old pastor died, I was asked to assume his duties, and I've been the pastor ever since."