The Book of Ruth: Doing Ruth Pt. 03

That ties into my pride. I was very proud that this beautiful, intelligent, accomplished, super-sexy young woman wanted ME so much, enough to alienate her from her sister and mother, who had also wanted me. Yes, I was proud to be Ruth's.

And then, determination. Any attack on her was an attack on me also. Back when I still worked for and with my depraved sister Jill, I was called a "corporate hitman", not because I was violent, but because I was determined to let nothing stand in the way of our company's success. That determination was like another animal urge: do what it takes and don't give up.

All these drives rolled together into something simple: hate. I hated the animal that raped and brutalized Ruth. I needed to act on that hate.

No, I was not a violent person. But I kept up my jogging and my martial arts practice. I was fit and fast and physically confident.

What were my options?

Not running. Not forgetting. Not "letting it ride".

I possessed a skill and some special tools. I had to do it myself.

=====

Late that afternoon after siesta I stepped into the bastard's office in the INBA building, an old Mexican Baroque mausoleum lost in the maze of federal edifices surrounding the Zócalo plaza. I walked in the front door, up a stairway, down a hallway, into his receptionist's space and, over her startled protest, on through his private door. The door closed behind me.

I came alone. My shadow-shark protector Ramón was off the job. No matter how this went, I would no longer be a client.

Javiér was not alone, and no, he was not screwing a secretary or curator bent over his desk. His companion was not nearly so pretty. A muscled goon in a tight black suit stood beside Javiér's desk. A revolver materialized in the goon's hand before I took a second step. Javiér smirked at me.

"Buenos dias, Señor van Ronk. I have been expecting you. Carlos?"

The asswipe rapist nodded at his goon. Carlos gestured with his pistol.

"Over there, putón, you faggot. Hands against the wall." The thug's gravelly voice was bland.

I assumed the position. Carlos frisked me thoroughly. He retrieved a small Pentax 35mm point-and-shoot camera from my jacket pocket and tossed it on the desk. He tapped my head with his revolver and returned to the deskside. He stood with arms akimbo, relaxed; the pistol dangled recklessly.

I stepped to a certain location in the office, away from but near the desk. Carlos stood fully in my view. My arms were at my sides. Javiér spoke again.

"Now, Señor van Ronk, let us discuss your sweet little-"

I half-raised my right hand and brushed the belt at my waist with my left hand. The eyes of both Carlos and Javiér followed my right-hand distraction. Carlos started to raise his pistol. He stopped when a dart hit his throat. His hand released the pistol after a second dart sprouted next to the first.

I mentioned earlier that I possessed a skill and tools.

My skill? I was damn good at ambidextrous underhand dart-throwing, something I practiced during boring stays in scuzzy third-world hotel rooms. I could even hit my targets while wearing thin latex gloves, like now.

My tools? Little non-metallic darts set in decorative grooves in my trouser belt. Slim, almost-undetectable darts fledged with tiny fins and tipped with non-cosmetic doses of botulism toxin, the world's most potent neurotoxin.

Carlos was dead before his revolver hit his shoe. I swooped; his pistol was in my right hand about one-point-two seconds later, pointed directly at the shithead Javiér's face. His arm froze, his own pistol not quite raised above the level of his desk.

You know the books and shows with this stock scenario. One guy has the drop on the other and takes the opportunity to blather. The bad guy gloats to his victim or the good guy pontificates to the evildoer, yada yada - a standard dramatic ploy. It is also a dumb move. Never give a sucker an even break.

"We have nothing to discuss," I said, and threw another dart. I was less rushed now; I had the relative leisure to direct it into Javiér's right eye. Yet another toxic dart grew from his left eye before he fell sideways.

I retrieved the darts and my camera, snapped a few photos to record the scene, and slipped both pistols into my jacket's inside pockets. I left the office. The door closed behind me again, locked from inside.

"Your jefe wishes not to be disturbed for some time, señorita," I said as I stepped to the hallway. "Gracias."

I nonchalantly walked downstairs and out the government building's entrance. No shouts rose behind me. I unchained my borrowed motorbike and hopped on. I heard voices raised as I sped away. I scooted through the usual insane traffic and reached the General Aviation Terminal at Aeropuerto Internacional Benito Juárez in twelve minutes. Nine minutes later, the chartered Cessna CitationJet lifted from the runway. Along with two pilots, two nurses, and two guards, Ruth and I were in the air, getting the fuck out of Dodge.

I finally allowed myself to react to my actions; I had never killed anyone before. I shook and sweated and cried but I felt no guilt, not then. A guard brought me a tumbler of tequila. That helped. Ruth held me. She helped more.

- 1992 - aftermath

That was the exhausting end of a long, terrible day.

I knew that morning exactly what I had to do. The rapist would die, period. Maybe I would too. But I planned on survival, long-term survival. I had no doubt that the scumbag's mentor would want revenge. I worked to make such revenge difficult.

My office-manager Mariana and I devoted most of that day to logistics. Hire crews of movers. Strip home and offices of all valuables - art collections, baubles, papers, computers and media - and favorite clothes and whatever. Ordinary furniture, entertainment electronics, and such were replaceable, so abandon them. Quickly but carefully pack everything into shipping containers loaded on anonymous piggyback trucks heading (supposedly) for Los Angeles.

Ah, Los Angeles. I did not intend us to return to our compound near LACMA anytime soon; it was too obvious a target for retaliation. We arranged tighter security there and had the more valuable items from our collections taken to secure storage.

The jet charter was trivial; we had hired that firm before. Further travel arrangements were a bit trickier. Flight plans were jiggered and falsified. Connecting flights at specific times and places were chartered via cutouts. False trails were laid on the assumption that Javiér's uncle-mentor would make a retaliatory effort. We set an escape route for Mariana's family, too.

Security was arranged, and nurses for Ruth. Personnel were swapped in and out. Messages smoked the wires; details were finalized. I had to make sure all preliminaries were in place before I confronted the shithead rapist.

And now, here we were, on the first step of a convoluted journey. I was not sure how or where it would end but I knew what was coming next.

You want an overview? The Cessna sped north to Chihuahua. Ruth and I left the plane and crossed the airfield in the charge of new guards. We changed to a Learjet with yet newer guards, pilots, and nurses; we flew east to San Antonio. (Why change personnel? To break the connection of who knew what.) The Learjet returned west; Ruth and I survived the customs check. My cousin Joslyn, an RN, fetched us in a rented class-A RV motor coach. And we drove.

My plans from there had three possibilities.

First option: Jocelyn, Ruth and I could drive to any east coast port, catch sea or air transport to Europe, and experience many Euro adventures. Would we ever return to the Americas? Who knows?

Second option: We could drive to Seattle and cruise to Japan, Hong Kong, Bangkok, Singapore, et fucking cetera. Maybe hide out somewhere tropical as exiles. Again, for how long?

Third option: We three could hole-up somewhere inconspicuous in North America as long as necessary. I had target hideouts in Oregon, Idaho, Colorado, Arkansas, Quebec, upstate New York, and elsewhere.

Yes, we three. Jocelyn was available for the long haul.

Jocelyn had earned her BS and RN and worked the ER ropes before gaining a doctorate in clinical psychology. She focused on domestic abuse and rape, a perfect fit for Ruth's needs. She worked a group practice in Omaha and could take indefinite leave; her associates and colleagues would cover for her.

My cousin loved us to death. She had skills we needed. I would pay all expenses, of course. She did not hesitate when I asked for her help. And she did not hesitate to take control when needed.

"Ladies, we need to talk about where we're going next."

"We're escaping; that's all that's important right now."

"This is only the start. There's tomorrow and forever, too."

"Forever comes later. Right now, cuz, we are out of here."

Jocelyn and Ruth discussed the destination plans; they sometimes listened to my suggestions. We, or rather they, decided on option number three, tweaked: We would move at random in a series of rented vehicles and accommodations.

I called LACMA and briefed Ruth's boss on events. She said for Ruth to take as much time off as she needed, no problem. I shut down my own consultancy and passed-on contacts and contracts to not-too-scummy associates. Like I said, we did not need those incomes. Our occupations were really only time-fillers.

We moved in a bubble of safety and recovery.

=====

Gentle Readers, you may have noted an absence in recent narratives - Ruth's absence. I have hesitated to write about our painful conversations.

I concentrated on protecting and reassuring Ruth in the immediate aftermath of her rape. Yes, I was as soothing as possible after we escaped Mexico City. But we did not go beyond the superficial until Jocelyn joined us.

We drove unhurriedly northeast from San Antonio; our initial destination was a small town between Rochester and Syracuse on the old Erie Canal. We took over a week to spin those wandering two thousand-odd miles: Houston to New Orleans. Natchez Trace Trail. Memphis and Nashville. Blue Ridge Mountain Parkway. Annapolis to Pittsburgh to Buffalo. Erie Canal Trail. Cities of music and energy linked by routes of splendor and history.

I mostly drove daytimes while Jocelyn counseled Ruth out of my earshot. Jocelyn spelled me at the wheel so I could rest and have time with Ruth. We all conferred and riffed and gabbed during stops and before sleeping. Those music cities? We did not visit any clubs. Ruth was not ready yet.

Ruth and I shared a bed those nights but no sex, not yet. She felt used, shamed, damaged. I reassured and did not push. I held her; she cried a lot.

What we said to each other was private. Let me paraphrase what she told Jocelyn and me.

"It was a gallery party like any other, just a usual once-or-twice-a-week happening. Who was there? Mostly the same gallery managers and art directors and curators and dealers; you've seen them all. A rotating crowd of real and wannabe artists, and wildcat buyers, smugglers, thieves, politicians and agents, and all their fuck-buddies. Folks wander in off the street, suckers drawn by the flash, reporters and other leeches there for snacks and drinks.

"Some of the artists were at, It's who you know, what you show, and who you blow, to get noticed. They're trying to figure out which creeps they or their bitch have to blow. And of course everyone tries to look sexy even if they have to be ugly about it. So these parties look like the draw is art and sex and glamor but really it's all about money and nothing else.

"I mostly talked to dealers and agents. I'm always looking for good stuff in obscure collections; I got LACMA a little Utrillo last week. What a coup! Took lots of horse-trading for that one. This-and-that changes hands, yeah. And of course the politicos and taxmen want their little pieces of the action.

"That's when Javiér moved in. Ilona Vargas and I were haggling over a set of Jean Cocteau prints. Javiér came to talk about export licensing. He pulled his 'helpful' act, fetching us munchies, refreshing our drinks, suggesting regulatory loopholes, crap like that.

"You know I don't drink much. I just sipped the champagne, good stuff from Querétaro, and poured most of it into a ficus planter. But Javiér must have slipped something into it. I remember feeling woozy - not drunk, not even tipsy or stoned, just strangely dizzy and disoriented, like my sensations didn't fit together right.

"Javiér was so concerned. He said I looked a little 'indisposed' and maybe I should go back to Sansón's office sit until mhy head cleared. He cut me away from Ilona; I remember his hand on my elbow, and going down the hallway. But somehow we ended up in the storeroom, not the office."

Ruth would not tell me what happened in the storeroom. She told Jocelyn, who told me it would be better for Ruth to deal with the memories without me, to scrub her mental images without laying them on me. I did not quite follow that logic. But Jocelyn was the pro here. I trusted her implicitly. She said to let her and Ruth work it out. Yes, ma'am.

Ruth was not completely silent with me.

We lay together one night, naked in bed, close but not overtly sexual, just cuddling and murmuring. I felt Ruth tense-up after some unrelated chatter.

"What?" I stroked her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks. I felt tears.

"I just don't feel, I don't know... worthy, that's it, I feel like I'm not worthy of you any more. I feel dirty and broken and used, and I know it's not my fault. I know that in my mind, I failed; I could have some something different, something to prevent it. I just feel-"

"Stop," I interrupted. "No, it's not your fault, none of it; you're not to blame for anything. And everyone who was at fault is dead. You don't want to know what Alvaréz did to your fucktard bodyguard Muñoz. Oh yeah, I had bodyguards watching both of us full-time."

"I knew that," Ruth whispered. "I tried to ignore them."

"Muñoz fucked-up big-time by disrespecting you, and he paid the price. Javiér fucked-up big-time by attacking you, and he paid the price. Anybody fucks up like that, pays. Nobody does this shit to you - nobody. I don't care if it was a fucking president or jefe de jefes or the pope or what. I would have done it for you anytime, anywhere."

Ruth's tears washed my lips. "You're worth everything to me," I whispered. "Never doubt that. Never forget it. Nothing else matters to me. Just you."

=====

I had my own issues to work out. Jocelyn helped immensely.

No, I had never killed anyone before. I felt no conscious regret or guilt for executing the scumbag and his muscle; they would have shot me without hesitation or penalty. All sides of the law told me Javiér was untouchable by any force within Mexico. Intellectually, I felt entirely justified.

That was my rational brain talking. And my reptilian brain gloried in the power of death, the primeval joy of destroying and devouring. Yes, I ate those fuckers' souls! And it was damn satisfying!

But my early 'moral' programming told me killing was wrong and I was evil.

A memory: I was ten years old, with a slingshot I carved from a gnarly oak branch, and I shot a gray squirrel out of a pine tree. Bright eyes dulled; the body twitched and then lay still... I felt its life drain away, and I was shamed. Life, wasted, thrown away for nothing, for a joke. I felt empty.

I was not sure what else I felt. I would find out.

Niagara Falls roared not far from our RV campsite. It was the last night of this drive; tomorrow, we would duck into a rented house for a couple weeks.

"This is different for me, cuz," Jocelyn said. Our captain's chairs swiveled in the front of the coach while Ruth napped in the back bedroom. We sipped Irish coffee and talked softly. "I haven't done much prison counseling, talking with perpetrators, and it's been mostly about rehabilitation and reintegration into society. I haven't dealt with justifiable homicide but I have an idea of what to expect. Randy, do you feel emotionally isolated?"

I considered. "I'm always detached. Almost always, anyway. No, I've kept a screen up around me for years, Joss. Maybe it's just the male thing? You know my mom Nina raised us to be emotionally open; but shit, I've always kept my feelings to myself. Have to, to be a negotiator. But do I feel any more detached than usual? No, I don't think so."

"Do you replay the day, the hour, those minutes, in your mind, try to second-guess yourself, argue with yourself that you could have done something different, something other than killing two people?"

"Not really. Sure, I think about it. It's not something I can forget."

"Lots of people do forget acts like this. They repress memories."

"I know, I know; I won't. I can compartmentalize my mind. I'll put this whole thing in its own bottle and see it for what it is. But I don't obsess on it, and I won't forget it. Now I know what I'm capable of and how far I'll go, what I'll do, if I think I have to." I paused. "That's scary.."

"Two cold-blooded murders in, what? Ten, fifteen seconds? And you didn't even know the first man? Would you do that again? Would you hesitate?"

"Again, in the same circumstances? Shit YEAH! Hesitate? Shit NO! Once I made up my mind to deal with Javiér, it was inevitable, at least up to the point when I stood in the fuckhead's office. I knew somebody was going to die then. It might have been me."

I shrugged. "I was careful, and I was prepared, not just lucky. Preparation makes luck." I shrugged again. "And you know what? I really do love Ruth. That's my epiphany. But why did it take a disaster for me to realize it?"

My cousin looked at me closely.

"Ran, it's common is cases like yours for you to be conflicted, to feel elation at surviving the encounter, and guilt for killing another human. Left unresolved, this 'cognitive dissonance' can bring on anxiety and depression, clinical depression, which is bad shit."

I shrugged again. "Yeah, I'm happy to be alive. Elated? I don't exactly feel my blood singing, no. Guilt? Nope. None. Javiér was a waste of oxygen; I feel, no, I am, totally justified. Anxious? Rationally, sure. We're going to be on the run for who knows how long. Am I emotionally anxious about ending his worthless life? Yes, sure - killing people sucks, even when they deserve it. Yes, it hurts. Yes, I played God. And I was right."

Jocelyn leaned out of her chair and hugged me.

"We're going to be talking about this a lot, Ran. No pressure, but I don't want you to go spiraling-off into any dark places."

"You want to know how I feel right now? The opposite of that. Brightness, not darkness. It's like blinders have come off my eyes, and everything around me is clear and illuminated, like I can see my own life for the first time. I see what I hate very clearly. And I see love. I see that I really do love Ruth. That wasn't clear to me before. It is now."

"So maybe you're shedding your mask of detachment? Can you live like that?"

"I think I have to live like that. I don't know if I can, or should, go back to where I was. It's all part of finally growing up, right?"

"Good guess, cuz. Welcome to the land of adulthood! But this rite of passage sucks, doesn't it?" Jocelyn waved the question away. "Enough for now. Hit me with more Irish coffee, hey? And a double dose of that Jack Jameson. It's going to be an exciting night."

A tremendous electrical storm built up. Were all Niagara Falls' massive power generators short-circuiting into the air around us? The atmosphere almost glowed. Eerie static effects felt like poltergeist tricks.