James Swain - The Program

“You know, cruel. Why not just let them go? They probably wouldn’t tell.”

“But if they did, I’d go back to jail.”

Wayne finished the bowl in silence. The car’s interior smelled like an opium den, and Renaldo lowered the windows and flipped on the AC to its highest setting to blow out of the smell.

“You’ve been to jail?” Wayne asked.

“A mental hospital for the criminally insane.”

“Did it suck?”

“They kept me in a straightjacket most of the time.”

“You mind if I roll the windows back up? It’s getting hot.”

Wayne was covered in perspiration, while Renaldo was only sweating a little. He wondered if the teenager was having an adverse reaction to the pot. He rolled the windows back up by pressing a button on his door. The car instantly cooled down.

“When I got arrested, the prosecutor wanted to try me as an adult,” Wayne said. “I could have gone to prison for twenty years. I thought about jail a lot.”

“Would you kill to stay out of jail?” Renaldo asked.

“Yeah, probably.”

Vick had started to thrash around again, causing the car to shake. The desperate sounds were accompanied by a muffled cry for help. Renaldo had put a cloth gag in her mouth instead of using the plastic gag ball, a decision he now regretted.

“You sure she’s okay?” Wayne asked.

Renaldo stared at the teenager for a sign. “She’s fine. Did you like fucking her?”

“She was okay.”

“I was listening through the door when you were fucking her. I heard her say something strange to you.”

“You mean about Adam and the bayonet,” the teenager said.

Renaldo nodded. He did not want to pull information out of Wayne. The teenager had to give the information up. If he didn’t, Renaldo had a problem.

“Adam’s my older brother,” the teenager explained. “He died in Iraq.”

“Why do you think the FBI agent brought him up?”

“She was – aw, shit.”

A yellow and black banana spider had invaded the car while the windows were open, and had attached itself to Wayne’s shirt sleeve. Wayne lowered his window to let the spider out, only Renaldo stopped him.

“Kill it,” Renaldo said.

“I didn’t want to stain the upholstery,” the teenager said.

“Kill it anyway.”

The spider was soon a memory, its remains squashed against the dashboard.

“Continue,” Renaldo said.

“She was trying to cut a deal with me,” Wayne explained. “I used my brother’s bayonet to stab my mother’s boyfriend. She wanted to implicate my brother in the murder so the court would treat me differently.”

“I didn’t hear her offer to cut you any deal,” Renaldo said suspiciously.

“She didn’t. I figured it out. My lawyer wanted to do the same thing. My lawyer knew that my brother had sent me letters from Iraq that talked about all the killing he’d done, and thought the letters had influenced me.”

“Did they?”

The teenager shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Why didn’t you take her deal?”

Wayne grew reflective. He was different than the first two teenagers Renaldo had abducted for the Program, who were impulsive and hot-headed. Wayne was intelligent, and chose his words carefully when asked a question. Renaldo felt like he was talking to an equal when they spoke.

“I didn’t want her controlling me,” Wayne finally said.

Renaldo felt himself relax. It was the perfect answer.

“Would you rather control her ?” Renaldo asked.

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

“We don’t own her mind.”

Wayne had to think about that. With his finger he scraped the spider’s remains off the dash and dropped them into the ashtray.

“How do you control someone’s mind?” the teenager asked.

“You must make them accept that you are the master, and they are the slave,” Renaldo replied. “It’s not as hard as you think. I will teach you.”

“Sounds cool. The pot made gave me the munchies. Can we get something to eat?”

“What are you in the mood for?”

“A burger would be good. And some french fries.”

Renaldo knew of a fast-food restaurant a few blocks away. As he started to drive away, the noise from the trunk resumed. He couldn’t go through the drive-through with that noise, and killed the engine.

“The lesson starts now,” Renaldo said.

He drew the Taurus from beneath the seat. Got out of the car, and went around back with the keys in one hand, the Taurus in the other. Wayne got out as well.

“You going to shoot her?” the boy asked breathlessly.

Renaldo shook his head and tossed Wayne the keys.

“Open the trunk, then stand back,” Renaldo said.

Wayne held the keys with both hands. A little boy now, out of his comfort zone, scared. It was amazing how quickly teenagers could morph back into infants.

“Now,” Renaldo demanded. “Use the big key.”

Wayne scratched the paint around the lock trying to get the key jammed into the lock. His body shook like Jello, his eyelids twittering like a camera shutter.

Finally he got the key in.

The trunk flew open, Vick kicking it with her legs. Wayne took a hit in the chest, and let out a groan. Renaldo had wisely kept his distance, both hands on the gun.

Now he moved quickly, and leaned into the trunk. Vick had managed to bring her tied wrists around from her back to her front, and was using her teeth to gnaw at the knots. In her struggle, she had torn her blouse, and bloodied herself.

Renaldo aimed the Taurus in her face. Vick froze, her eyes brimming with hatred and fear. Wayne leaned in to watch.

“Hit her,” Renaldo said.

Wayne cocked his fist, hesitated.

“What’s wrong?” Renaldo asked.

“I just had sex with her,” the teenager said.

“So?”

“I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem right.”

“Do you think this dirty little bitch cares about you? She’s a cheap whore. That’s why she screwed you, and made you think she enjoyed it.”

Wayne had turned into a statue, his eyes unblinking, his body coiled like a spring. Renaldo watched him out of the corner of his eye. If Wayne didn’t silence the FBI agent, Renaldo would have no choice but to shoot him. He could not have a son who felt compassion for others.

“Do it,” Renaldo whispered.

The punch came out of nowhere, and snapped Vick’s head straight back. There was no mistaking its power, or intent. Vick’s eyes closed, and her body went limp.

Renaldo slipped the Taurus beneath his armpit. He hog-tied Vick’s arms and legs together, slamming the trunk when he was done. Putting his arm around Wayne’s shoulder, he walked the teenager to the passenger door.

“Still hungry?” Renaldo asked.

“Starving,” Wayne said.

The Florida heat was a shock to Linderman’s nervous system. Sweat poured down his neck as he hurried across the yard with Jenkins.

“You’re going to show him cartoons?” the warden asked, puffing hard.

“That’s right.” Linderman clutched a stack of stiff white composition paper beneath his arm. “I drew them during the flight from Pittsburgh. It’s the best way for Crutch to understand the situation he’s in.”

“That sounds mighty unorthodox. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I do, warden. Trust me.”

While in college, Linderman had interned at his uncle’s advertising agency in New York. His uncle, an artist, would take ad copy written by the agency’s copywriters, and draw cartoons that would tell the story. These cartoons were called a story board, and often determined if an advertising campaign got off the ground.

Linderman had utilized story boards as an FBI profiler. When dealing with a difficult case, he would sketch cartoons depicting how a killer might have murdered and disposed of his victims. The technique had proven helpful in breaking several cases.