Chapter 3

This one made it so easy. They all did, but this one ... So naïve. So trusting.

"Fuckin', dirty squaw," he muttered under his breath. "The best kind of squaw, though, a filthy half-breed. Maybe less than half. This one could even handle a little firewater."

A half-breed excited him more than a full-blooded squaw. They weren't as prone to obesity, and he considered the mix more attractive. More exotic. During his search, he watched for a breed.

Young, but not too young. College age.

"Doesn't make them clean, though. Dirty. Dirty. Dirty."

He didn't kill them. He raped them but didn't kill them. Usually. If they cooperated, and most did, he left them alive. Those that died took their last breath after he left them. Usually. One slit her wrists and died. That pleased him because it meant that he'd gotten through to her. That from what he'd told her, she had figured out that she wasn't worth taking up space on the planet. Figured out that her only value was for servicing white men. White men like him.

He followed the breed, stalked her, but he knew where she was going. "To her hovel, her white man's teepee." No, he thought, not a teepee, not for this one. Her white man's hogan. She's Navajo. Half Navaho. Maybe less.

Your business is finished here. Take her tonight. Now. Leave tomorrow.

He moved closer, moved silently in the shadows like a mountain man.

When she unlocked her door, he rushed her. She turned toward him. Started to scream. But the rag in his hand muffled the sound. And the trichloroethylene on the rag muddled her mind, and with prolonged exposure would make her unconsciousness.

Trichloroethylene was a halogenated aliphatic hydrocarbon related to chloroform, sometimes called trike or tri. That trike was also carcinogenic didn't matter to him. That trike could cause cardiac arrest didn't bother him at all. If the breed died, so be it. There'd be one less dirty squaw on the planet.

He didn't want her to die, though, and for a number of reasons, preferred that she remain conscious, so he removed the rag from her face, and dropped it to the floor. He shoved her inside, and kicked the door shut behind him. Perfect, she appeared drowsy, dizzy, and confused. He pushed her to the floor and fell on her with his knees, knocking the wind out of her. He quickly gagged her, using a ball gag he'd purchased at a sex shop. Then he bound her hands and legs with plastic ties. He left her lying on the floor and searched the apartment. It was empty. The rag doused in trike went into a plastic bag and then into a shopping tote – his bag of tools.

Returning to the gagged and bound squaw, he looked down at her. She couldn't give the authorities a description that would lead to his arrest. He wore a ski mask. He wouldn't leave fingerprints. He wore surgical gloves. He wouldn't leave DNA. He'd wear a condom. The latex sheath was already in place.

"Dirty squaw," he hissed. "You don't deserve to live, but I'll let you live if you cooperate."

She looked up at him with terror-filled eyes, watering eyes, probably from the trike, but maybe from tears. He preferred tears, and the terror in her eyes gave him an erection.

He lifted her from the floor and tossed her over his shoulder. In her bedroom, he dumped her unceremoniously onto her bed.

"If you kick me, I'll kill you," he hissed and cut the ties on her ankles before binding her spread legs to the bed. She didn't try to kick him. Then he secured her hands to the bed over her head without removing the plastic ties from her wrists.

He took a sharp pair of scissors from his bag of tools.

"Time to find out what you look like naked, squaw."

Snip. Snip. Snip. He enjoyed the sound of scissors cutting fabric, a sound from his childhood he remembered fondly. His mother had been an accomplished seamstress.

Throughout the night, he demeaned the breed verbally and raped her repeatedly, but before first light, he gathered his tools, replaced the ball gag with a length of duct tape over her mouth, and left the white man's hogan, left the worthless squaw tied to her bed. She'd be discovered and released – maybe. If she wasn't – he shrugged – there'd be one less dirty squaw walking around contaminating the air he breathed.

Time slipped by as time has a habit of doing. Sable immersed herself into the work I gave her with dedication and, from all indications, great intelligence and a high level of street-smart intuition that surprised me. I'd taken a chance with her, and I'd gotten lucky.

She also hired an instructor at the shooting facility, and after her new identity was established, she purchased her own weapon and obtained her conceal-carry permit.

I used a Springfield XD 9mm semi-automatic polymer pistol. It weighed only about 23 ounces. That's plenty light for a 10-shot, 9mm pistol, and because of the low bore axis created by the XD's striker-fire design and a comfortable grip, the pistol's recoil is very manageable despite its light weight. Sable tried the weapon, liked it, and ordered one. She practiced about an hour everyday in the shooting range on my property. I joined her on occasion.

The only Krav Maga instructor that I could talk into coming to the estate to teach us self defense didn't feel competent enough with tai chi to instruct Sable, so Sable found a women offering tai chi classes in Apache Junction. She drove herself to the weekly sessions, which made me nervous, so I started my search for an executive protector that would work exclusively for me. I soon squelched that effort. Executive protectors wanted more money than I was willing to pay, but I didn't want just a bodyguard.

Sable solved the problem when she said, "How about an ex-Navy SEAL? I read somewhere that their training is the most advanced for the special services in the various branches of the military."

A solution but yet another problem. I didn't know how to go about recruiting an ex-Navy SEAL, and in the end, it wasn't a Navy SEAL I recruited, but a man with different training, not of the water, but for the desert, a better solution to my mind. After all, I lived in a desert. An enquiry at the V.A. Hospital in Phoenix gave me his name.

Captain Gregory Benton, Ret., had been a member of the 5^th Special Forces Group, commanding an A-Team. Unfortunately, he was, in his words, shot to pieces during a mission in Iraq. The Army didn't want him anymore. I did, so I made him an offer he couldn't refuse. He didn't.

"No wife? No Children?" I said to Greg during the interview. He'd told me that he preferred Greg to Captain.

"Ex-wife, daughter. Ginny, I mean Virginia, she's my daughter; she lives with her mother and her mother's new husband," Greg said. "Ginny's eleven years old going on twenty-one. Ginny and I, we're close, Clint, but..." He shrugged and tears misted in the tough man's eyes.

"But what?" I encouraged.

"As I said, Ginny lives with her mother and stepfather ... in New York City. I've got visitation rights, but I've got to go to her. Frankly, what with physical therapy, I haven't had the time, and without a job, I couldn't afford the trip. New York City isn't cheap."

"Why can't she come to you?"

Greg looked embarrassed. "Clint, while working hard at physical therapy to bring me back to close to where I was before I was wounded, I've been living in a studio apartment so I could save up the money for a trip to the Big Apple. I couldn't ... Ginny's new stepfather is a rich man. They live in a glitzy apartment in Manhattan. I've been living in a hovel."

"Come with me," I said. "It's time for you to see where you'll be living if you go to work for me."

When I discussed the design for housing live-in staff, I told the architect and decorator that the living units should look like a suite in a swanky hotel. One two-bedroom suite and four one-bedroom suites sat over the garages. Two two-bedroom suites and two one-bedroom suites were freestanding. I took Greg to one of the freestanding two-bedroom units.

"Would you be ashamed to have your daughter stay in the extra bedroom?" I said.

He gulped and shook his head.

"The suite has a small kitchen behind those louvered doors, but you and Ginny should eat with the staff whenever possible. As you can see, you'll have your own television, but unless I'm using the entertainment room in the main house, which isn't often, she can watch television or movies on the big-screen with surround sound. She can also use the pool, and soon I'll be adding stables and other outbuildings for horses. If you want, you could buy her a horse, one for yourself, too, and the two of you could ride the trails on the Superstition Mountains. Juan Gomez, my groundskeeper, has a twelve-year-old son who lives with him and his wife in a two-bedroom suite over the garages, so Ginny won't be the only child living on the estate."

"Yes! This is perfect, Clint! Ginny could live with me fulltime and visit her mother during school breaks. Perfect!" He rubbed his hands together with joy.

"Would such an arrangement be Ginny's preference?" I asked, a little surprised.

"Hell yes! And my wife's, too. Ginny tells me that her stepfather really doesn't want her around. For me, the only drawback to this job was the live-in requirement. This changes everything. Let's talk turkey, boss."

I chuckled. Captain Gregory Benton, Ret., was more than happy with the salary and benefits I offered. We discussed job responsibilities, and I showed him the shooting range, safe room, and security room. I opened a door off the security room, a door that opened with my fingerprint.

"I reserved this room for an armory," I said. "As you can see, it's almost empty. Fill it with whatever you think we'll need."

"Which brings up the question," Greg said. "Why all this security, boss?"

"I'm a rich man. Rich men often become targets, but there's more. Sable, my executive assistant, ran from her abusive husband. He told her that if she ever left him he'd kill her. She left him. Right now, I'd say Hal Carson, Sable's husband, is our most serious threat, but Greta, my cook, also left an abusive husband. He could be a threat. If he is, he's a low-level threat, I'd guess. I'll want you to order dossiers on both men and make your own threat assessments. For what it's worth, Sable told me that her husband is a loan shark and is laundering money for some drug lords. Accordingly, please hire a driver for Sable as soon as possible. Her driver should live in the compound. You'll be my driver."

Clint paused, gathering his thoughts. "Perform a security audit, Greg. Make any changes to security demanded by the audit. Man the security room as you see fit. The security room personnel don't need to live on the premises unless you feel otherwise. You'll manage a security budget and bank account, and you'll be given a debit card for the account. Sable will have overview on the account, and she'll help you set up your budget. My CPA has overview on Sable, so your expenditures will be checked twice. I'm a venture capitalist, which means I loan money to fledgling companies. I'll be asking you to do security audits on some of those companies, as well. You'll earn your keep, Greg."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," he said.

My new security chief moved into his new home that afternoon.

The bougainvillea bloomed bright almost overshadowing the orange and red blossoms of the stunning bird of paradise. Purple fountain grass waved their plumes in the evening breeze.

"I like Greg," Sable said to me.

We were walking around the running path inside the walls of the estate, a habit that we'd developed to discuss the day, the business, and other subjects. The habit would end when the days and nights heated up.

"You said he was shot to pieces. What does that mean?" Sable said.

"He wasn't actually shot. An I.E.D. exploded near him."

"What is an I.E.D.?"

"An improvised explosive device, in Greg's instance, the device contained ball bearings. Four of them ripped into his flesh. He's a lucky man. They saved his arm and leg, which was questionable at first. Still, the medicos and physical therapy were only able to restore his leg to about 80%. The arm is a little better at 90%. He could have stayed in the service at a desk job, but he knew he'd be stuck at captain, so he took a medical retirement. As far as I'm concerned, he's not so disabled he can't run security here, and I have every confidence that he and his crew will protect us should we come under attack." I grinned. "He tells me he enjoys tai chi. He'll be joining us tomorrow morning at dawn."

"Dawn?" She groaned mentally.

"The best time for tai chi. We can watch the golden glow of a new sun cast its warmth over the chilled surface of the high-desert land."

"Since you put it that way, I'll set an alarm. What time does the sun come up tomorrow morning?"

I chuckled. "Don't know. You'll have to check. I'll be up regardless. When the sky starts to lighten in the pre-dawn, I wake up and get up."

That's why he's always up and about when I crawl out of bed, she thought.

"All right," she said. "To change the subject, did you decide which restaurant you want to fund?"

"Neither," I said. "Jim Burke is an experienced restaurateur, but his business plan doesn't name a capable chef. Harold Gaunt is a superlative chef, but I don't believe he can run the business end of a restaurant. If Burke and Gaunt were partners, I'd fund their restaurant in a heartbeat."

Sable smiled. "That's a good idea, Clint. I think I'll sit the two of them down in the same room and see what happens."

"Couldn't hurt," I said. "The architectural design work is finished, and the land is tied up for both restaurants. They're both excellent locations and far enough apart so they won't be competition, one with the other. If the two men can get along and agree to be partners, I'll fund both restaurants."

"That'd work," she said. "What about the art gallery?"

"We'll fund it," I said. The art gallery was a no-brainer. Philip Sams had successfully operated a gallery in Scottsdale for many years. His buyer list was more than adequate, and his affiliations with other major galleries around the country were superior. The location downtown was excellent, and the renovated old warehouse would end up being the largest, most impressive and prestigious privately owned art gallery in the city. "Subject to a million dollar life or disability insurance policy on Sams naming EPC beneficiary, an insurance policy necessary because Sams is a one-man band," I said and huffed a laugh. "If the Burke/Gaunt partnership works out, introduce them to Sams. They can cater his openings. We'll pass on the internet venture. It'll fail within three years."

"I disagree," she said.

"Why?"

"The numbers..."

"I agree the numbers work, Sable, but Hans and Everett have some serious personality conflicts. The business will fail because they'll end up diametrically opposed to each other on important business issues. One or the other will walk, probably Everett, and both are critical for the business to succeed."

I'd listened to Hans and Everett's thoughts from my office when they'd met with Sable. Hans was the marketing/business man and Everett the computer whiz for the venture. They detested each other.

Sable sighed and thought, He's probably right. He usually is when it comes to personality problems.

"Okay, I'll send them a rejection letter tomorrow," she said. "What about the wholesale gift company?"

"Haven't read the business plan yet. Look at that sky, Sable. It's going to offer us another stunning Arizona sunset. The mountains are starting to turn pink. Soon they'll appear as if covered in gold. Then the colors will slowly deepen to purple. I love the high desert."

Yeah, well, I love you, you big lug, she thought.

I moved my eyes from the glorious sky to Sable's lovely face. The sight of her still took my breath away. We had a good working relationship, and we'd become friends, but I worried about moving the friendship to a more intimate relationship. If I fell in love with her, what would she say when I told I wouldn't grow old with her? How would she react to her loss of privacy when I told her I could and did experience her deepest private thoughts?

I love him, but he doesn't love me. I should leave. I see nothing but heartache for me here.

She turned and looked at me. If I'd had any doubts that she loved me, the love I could see shining in her eyes smothered those doubts.

Tell him. Tell him how you feel, she told herself. She squared her shoulders, but then they slumped when she lost her courage. No, not yet. Wait. Soon, though.

How would I feel if she left? That was the test. I took a long moment to consider my question, and she failed. Or perhaps it was I who failed. Breathtakingly beautiful she was, but she wasn't the woman for me. I just didn't love her. I wanted her, but I wouldn't use her, use her love for me, to achieve some sexual gratification. We were friends. I'd try to maintain our friendship. We had a working relationship. I'd keep that relationship professional.

"Let's head back to the house," I said.

It was raining the next morning. With an overcast sky, we wouldn't see a glorious sunrise, but rain was a pleasant change, and the desert had to be thirsty. The three of us met at dawn and danced in slow motion, danced alone to the silent musical rhythms in our individual minds and bodies as we flowed through the thirteen movements of tai chi. The overhang for the covered patio was large enough so the rain didn't drive us inside.

Greg's tai chi was rusty, and Sable was still learning, so there were bobbles, but we weren't in competition. We'd met to exercise our minds and bodies, and for me, at least, to find my center. My center, however, remained illusive that morning.

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Paul Phenomenon

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