The file folders were all neatly labeled, and most of the labels meant nothing to Hannibal. Chemical compounds, he guessed, or abbreviations for them, except for the folder at the very back whose label read, “rules.” Curiosity drew his hand toward it, then past it. In the dark in the back of the drawer a sparkle had caught his eye. It was the glint of metal on what appeared to be a leather strap.
Hannibal pulled the unexpected object from the drawer. A dog’s collar, he thought, but for a good sized animal. It was a simple black leather strap about fourteen or fifteen inches long, with a square silver buckle. Odd that the collar would be locked in a file cabinet, he thought, and stranger still that he had seen no evidence of a dog or even a cat in the house. He had seen no food, water bowl, pet toys, or any of the usual telltale signs.
The collar made him curious, but didn’t seem relevant to his investigation. Idly, he pulled the “rules” folder out with his free hand, dropped it on top of the filing cabinet, and flipped it open. It appeared to contain only five or six sheets of paper, with several lines handwritten in a very fine and precise script, with gold ink. Not a man’s hand, more likely Anita’s. The hair on the back of Hannibal’s neck rose to attention as he scanned the first few numbered lines.
#1. I worship my Master.
#2. I worship my Master’s body.
#3. I will serve, obey and please my Master.
The numbers went up to ninety, but that was enough for him. Hannibal flipped the folder closed and just managed to get it back where he found it when he heard a gasp behind him, followed by another sound, like a partial sob. He turned to see Anita, her mouth open and her face flushed bright crimson. Her eyes darted left and right, as if she would run off if not for the tray she was holding. The tray held a coffee pot, cup, sugar and creamer set, and a plate of muffins. After a moment of paralysis, she appeared to buckle at the knees. Hannibal moved to help her, but she carefully placed the tray onto a chair and knelt in front of it, facing down at the tray as if the empty cup was endlessly fascinating. Hannibal suddenly felt like an intruder. He also felt very slow, having not realized at first that the object in his hand was a symbol of shame for the woman he was trying to help.
“This is yours,” he said slowly, before realizing how pointless that comment was.
Anita squeezed her knees with her hands, and nodded her head.
Hannibal was treading into unfamiliar waters, but some things seemed to string together. “Rod?”
Her head moved up and down again, and he saw a tear drop to her skirt.
“Please,” he said aloud, “please stand up.” In his mind he was screaming, “For God’s sake, get off your knees.”
Anita rose and turned to face him with unexpected grace. She seemed to be staring at his navel, but for the firs time Hannibal wondered if her downcast gaze was the result of shame or training. He let the silence hang, quite sure that she knew the questions that needed answers. When at last she spoke it was in a voice so well controlled that it surprised him.
“When Rod got here my life had no direction, no purpose. I had dedicated much of my life to my father, and he to me. When he died I had nothing. No one. Life just happened to me. It was all spinning out of control. Rod, he explained my purpose, gave me a role in life. Mostly he was good to me. Gave me direction and trained me.”
“Trained you?” Hannibal’s stomach twisted tight, like a knotted dishrag. “To do what, to be his servant, his slave?”
Silent tears began to slide down Anita’s face. “I needed guidance. He showed me how to behave and what to do.”
The water on Hannibal’s skin wasn’t tears, but sweat, sending a chill up his spine. “Did he,” no easy way to ask, he decided. “Did he beat you?”
“He didn’t want to,” she said. “Only when I made him do it. Only when I was bad. Or if I wasn’t learning.”
Hannibal suddenly remembered the collar in his hand, black leather that matched his glove. He dropped it on the filing cabinet. “Learning what, I wonder,” he said, mostly to himself.
Anita’s tears flowed more freely and she gave a soft sob before answering this time. “He made me do things. Things I never did before. But it made him happy for me to do these things and I needed to learn the joy of making him happy.”
She sounded as if she was giving a memorized speech. Hannibal’s hands trembled with rage and he clenched his fists to stop them. She stood still, as if waiting for something. His reaction? Condemnation? Her next order?
Hannibal reached slowly forward, to place his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Look at me.” No reaction. He raised his left hand to whip his glasses off. She flinched when his hand moved. He pointed to his own eyes. “Look at me.”
Anita raised her face slowly, as if fighting against some invisible hand pressing down on her head. When she made eye contact, Hannibal thought he could see all the way down into her fractured soul. He clenched his teeth, but it did not stop his breath from hissing through them.
“Listen to me. I know this man did things that damaged your spirit, maybe some things you’re very ashamed of. But none of this is your fault. You hear me? This man turned you, twisted you in ways you couldn’t possibly defend against. But believe me, I will find him, and I will make sure he pays you back for everything he took from you. I swear to you he will pay.”
Anita broke down completely, crying aloud, her face twisted into that mask that looks so much like laughing if you could turn off the sound. Sobs rocked her body and she leaned close enough for her tears to dampen Hannibal’s shirt.
“Please,” she gasped out, in rhythm with her crying, “Please, sir. Please don’t hurt him.”
6
The little town of Vienna, Virginia sits about a dozen miles due west of Washington, D.C., a straight shot down I-66. By that time in the afternoon there was quite a bit of traffic flowing in both directions. Ben Blair’s office was there, on the 12th floor of a glass tower. Hannibal was grateful he was headed there from Anita’s home, a pleasant ten minute drive due south. Just enough time for him to appreciate Blair’s commute, and have an idea why he chose to live in a townhouse in Tysons Corner instead of the mansions he could afford that gathered around Washington like Hollywood Indians surrounding the fort, an hour or more away. Not quite enough time for him to recover from Anita’s final words before he left her, or to manhandle his rage at Rod Mantooth into a manageable form. His jaws ached from clenching them against his own anger.
The parking lot was free, at least for the first two hours, and Hannibal had no plans to be there that long. He found the air conditioning a little overdone in the lobby. It made the marble columns and tile flooring seem even more impersonal. Two other people waited for the elevator, but neither spoke during that wait, or during the elevator ride.
When at last he entered the Tactical Datamation offices, Hannibal faced a mature receptionist who sat as a calm veneer in front of a beehive of activity. Her dyed auburn hair was well lacquered in place, and her smile was equally frozen. To her left and right, people clattered at computer keyboards or wheeled their chairs around to confer with coworkers. He could see that they worked in a bullpen atmosphere, without the usual cubicle walls separating the workers. When anyone stood, they walked quickly, as if the person they wanted to speak with might get away. Or, more likely, they moved in fear that their latest inspired idea might escape them before they could share it. A week in this place would drive Hannibal to try to leap through one of the sealed windows. Maybe that was why buildings like this one never had windows you could open.
“How may I help you, sir?” the receptionist asked, with that air of power one gets when one stands guard at the gates of the rich and famous.
“Hannibal Jones to see Ben Blair.”
The Gatekeeper seemed to scroll Blair’s schedule behind her eyes. “I’m afraid no one sees Mr. Blair without an appointment. Can I write you in for tomorrow morning?”
“He’ll see me,” Hannibal said with a calm smile. “We have personal business.”
“I’m sorry,” she replied, matching his calm demeanor. “Mr. Blair sees no one without an appointment.”
