James Swain - The Program

“This is your first time dealing with serial killers, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Just a guess.”

The Bonnet House was one of Renaldo’s favorite places. A thirty-five acre barrier island off Las Olas, the estate was filled with a variety of exotic animals, including chattering Brazilian squirrel monkeys, raccoons and panthers, the animals freely roaming the grounds. He visited often, and would sit at the base of a mangrove tree, watching the animals eat each other.

Late at night, when the estate was closed, daring raccoons would scale the walls, and invade the corner of Las Olas Boulevard and A1A, their icy blue eyes shimmering in the dull street lights. They were scavengers, and would tear apart garbage cans looking for food.

Tourists often fed the raccoons, and let them touch their bodies. Tonight, a brave German stood on the corner with his arms outstretched, and let a family run up and down his body looking for nuts stuffed in his pockets. His wife stood nearby, snapping photos while shrieking with laughter.

Renaldo stood on the corner across the street. He’d seen tourists feed the raccoons before, and always wondered what would happen if the tourist sneezed, or a car beeped its horn? Would the raccoons become frightened, and bite the tourist? It seemed like the natural reaction to such a situation. His only wish was to be there when it happened.

A pay phone began to ring. Renaldo looked up and down Las Olas. It was midnight, the streets empty save for the crazy Germans. He picked up the receiver.

“Yes?”

“Hello, my friend,” the caller said.

“Hello.”

“How are you tonight?”

“I am good.”

“Was your day productive?”

“Yes. I have the boy.”

“Splendid. What is that racket in the background?”

“A woman laughing at her husband doing something stupid.”

“What, pray tell?”

“The husband is letting wild raccoons run across his body while she photographs him.”

“Are you in a zoo?”

“No, a public place.”

“How strange. Have you started the boy on the Program?”

“Yes, I started him right away.”

“How has he responded?”

“He hated the first pornographic film I showed him. He said it was sick.”

“That is not a good sign. The films are important. They open doors in the mind.”

“He liked the second film, though.”

“Really. What was it?”

“A hunter chasing a woman through the woods and raping her against a tree. The boy liked that.”

“Did you measure his erection?”

“Yes. It lasted six and a half minutes.”

“Did he still have it after the film was done?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a promising sign. Are you keeping a log of everything that happens?”

“Yes. I am eager to get to the next phase.”

“Don’t be.”

“Why?”

“Each phase is important for the boy’s evolution. Continue to show him the films until he’s ready to move forward. Don’t speed things up.”

Renaldo fell silent. He desperately wanted the Program to work. The first two times he’d tried, it had failed, and he’d had to kill the boys, who he’d grown to like for different reasons. But the new boy showed promise. The new boy had all the right ingredients to make it through the Program, and graduate.

“Still there?” his friend asked.

“Yes.”

“You have done well. I am very proud of you.”

“Thank you.” Renaldo became conscious of the time. It was growing late, and he needed to get back to the house, and check on the boy.

“I need to go,” he said.

“Tomorrow night, same time?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a new number for me to call?”

“Yes. Hold on.”

Renaldo dug out a slip of paper containing the phone number of a payphone at the RaceTrac gas station at the intersection of Sunrise Boulevard and Andrews Avenue. Earlier that day, he’d checked the location, and deemed it safe. He read the phone number to his friend, who repeated it back to him.

“I will talk to you tomorrow night,” Renaldo said.

“One more thing.”

“What?”

“The man with the raccoons – is he still there?”

The crazy Germans were going strong. The man had refilled his pockets with nuts and gone back to his crucifix pose, the raccoons racing up and down his arms and legs while his wife leaned against the wall, weak with laughter.

“He’s here,” Renaldo said.

“Do you have a gun with you?”

“Yes, I have one.”

“I would like you to shoot it into the air. Then tell me what happens.”

There was real mischief in his friend’s voice. Renaldo checked for cars, and seeing none, knelt down and drew a.38 special from an ankle holster. Standing, he took another look around before deeming it safe.

“Ready?” he said into the phone.

“By all means.”

He fired a round into the air, the booming sound echoing across the nearby ocean. The shot was followed by a second, equally as loud.

The raccoons reacted as most animals did when hearing gunfire – and savagely bit the German on his arms, legs and face before jumping off, and scampering over the wall. The German fell to the ground in agony, his wife kneeling helplessly by his side.

“Done,” Renaldo said into the phone. “The raccoons ripped him apart.”

“How wonderful,” his friend said.

The cinder block house shared by Eric and Randy Drake had a crumbling front porch and curtained windows pulled so tight that it was impossible to see inside. The patch of front lawn, flooded from a recent downpour, was gray and sickly.

Linderman sat in an unmarked van across the street, spying through binoculars. With him was Vaughn Wood and two FBI agents wearing bulletproof Kevlar vests and armed with shotguns. Down the street, their backup sat in a second van.

A strung-out man staggered out of the Drake house, and crossed the flooded lawn without seeming to care. He drove away sucking on a glass meth pipe.

“How many is that?” Wood asked.

“Six,” Linderman replied.

“I really want to shut this operation down.”

“Let’s wait until Eric gets here, okay?”

Wood fell silent. It was nearly eight a.m. Eric Drake had finished working the graveyard shift at Starke Prison, and was heading home with a Special Ops chopper on his tail. Linderman had considered arresting Eric as he got off work, but had decided it was better to meet Eric at his house, and question him inside. It would give Linderman the opportunity to look around the house for any incriminating evidence.

Only arresting Eric at home was a risk. His brother Randy was selling crystal meth out of the house, and might give them trouble. Having to deal with Randy was the price they were going to have to pay to nab Eric.

Wood’s cell phone vibrated, and he took the call. “That was the pilot of the Special Ops chopper. Eric Drake is two blocks away,” Wood said.

“Let’s grab him on the lawn,” Linderman said.

Wood called the second van and relayed the plan.

“All set,” he said, hanging up.

Thirty seconds later, a gray Ford pickup rumbled down the street and pulled into the driveway. Eric Drake got out, and stretched his arms in the air. Late thirties, he wore a pea green guard’s uniform, and had thinning hair and a droopy handlebar moustache. He didn’t look menacing, but looks were often deceiving.

Linderman drew a Glock 22 from his belt holster, and held it against his chest. At the same time, Wood drew his sidearm. The two agents in the back were fingering the shotguns in their laps. Both had been drinking coffee and were wired.