'I don't give a damn, Glen.' Anne got to her feet and fastened the wire catch that kept the firewood from bouncing out onto the road.
'Anne, I'm serious. I can't—'
'Yes you can, Glen.'
'Anne, no.'
She whirled, and he took another step back. 'No changes, Glen. No negotiations, no changes, not if you want me to drive away tomorrow. I'd be more than happy to stay here and teach my kids and never see you again. It's up to you.'
'Jesus, Anne, why?' It was a question he had never asked her before, though he had certainly asked it of himself. 'Why do you do it?'
'Don't ask, Glen. You wouldn't like the answer.'
She did not move, did not bring up her hands to undo the buttons of her shirt or cock her hip in coy seduction or even pout her lips, but as he stared at her, angry and disturbed, he began to feel something growing along with the anger, something dark and strong and not very civilized but oh, very, very tasty. She felt the change, and a smile grew behind her eyes. He swallowed, put on a crooked smile of his own, and moved forward.
'God,' he murmured, sinking his fingers into her thick hair and pulling her face up to his. 'The things I do for my country.'
Eight—no, nine times, over a period of twelve years, and sex with Anne Waverly had never been remotely the same twice. Breathless one time, funny the next, concentrated and athletic and even—terrible word but quite an experience—nurturing, and never once a repeat.
This time it was brutal.
They started there in the barn, nothing gentle about her mouth on his, her arms half fighting against his own, their two bodies grinding against each other. Their teeth scraped and then Anne's mouth opened and Glen's tongue was free to explore the vividly remembered and weirdly erotic plate of the dental appliance that held in place the front teeth lost in the Utah disaster. Their breathing quickened. Glen's hands moved up and down over Anne's clothes until she pulled away slightly, buried her head in Glen's neck, and bit down hard.
He yelped in surprise and real pain, shoving her away so that her bad knee would have failed to hold her had Rocinante not been there. She said nothing, just turned and walked off in the direction of the house. He followed more slowly, pausing to loosen his collar and crane his neck to see the tooth marks, touching the welt gingerly. He was examining his fingertips in the floodlight over the barn door for signs of blood and thinking ruefully that he would certainly have to stay away from Lisa for a couple of weeks, when the lights went off, leaving him to pick his way, stumbling and cursing, through the obstacle-strewn wood yard and up the steps to the kitchen.
He half expected the door to be locked, but it was not. He flung it open and was drawing breath to bellow a furious protest at the woman inside, when he saw Stan, feet braced, head down, and ready to do battle. Glen strangled on the angry words and forced out a soothing prattle while he inched past the dog. Stan allowed him to pass, and in relief Glen slipped through the door to the living room and slammed it. He then turned, fuming, for the stairs. He didn't know if this was rejection or foreplay, but he wasn't about to get in the car and drive meekly away without knowing for sure.
He found her in the bedroom, and took the fact that she was rapidly throwing off her clothes as a sign that she did not intend him to leave. He watched her push her thumbs into the waist of her jeans and peel them down, and when she stood naked before him, strong and middle-aged and bearing the scars he had given her, he took a shaky breath and decided to make a joke out of the past five minutes.
'Look, Anne, if you're still hungry, I'd be happy to bring you something from the fridge, but try not to bite any more pieces out of—'
Only his training saved him from a split lip, if not a concussion. He caught her arm as it came toward him, and then nearly fell victim to her knee. He was bigger, he was stronger, he was eight years younger, and he was trained, but she was wild and fast and she wanted seriously to hurt him, and all he could do was to wrap himself hard around her like a human straitjacket and ride out whatever storm had hold of her. It took an age to pass, and his arms were aching and his mind was torn between the wish simply to slap her hard to stop her from trying to bite him through his padded coat and the growing and genuine alarm for her sanity, when between one moment and the next she went limp and stopped struggling against him. He held her, fully clothed against her nakedness, and rocked her gently until he was sure it was not a feint. When her arms moved to free themselves, he allowed her to reach up and pull his mouth down to hers.
Still, the skirmish was not over. The outright violence turned to a slow struggle, with Glen gradually realizing that her arms were content only when they were pinned down, her body free to respond only when it was hedged around and wrapped by his. Putting on the damn condom one-handed while he was lying across her, the other hand clasping both of her wrists together behind her back and his legs wrapped around hers holding her down was one of the most difficult and grimly ridiculous things he had ever done. When he finally had it on, he was aroused in more ways than the one. He bruised her mouth with his, grabbed her and pinned her down, and finally entered her with no more thought of lubrication than a drunken teenager. He held her down and thrust against her, knowing that he had to be hurting her, wanting to make her ask him to stop. She did not ask, but eventually, finally, she arched herself away from his restraining hands and gave a brief shuddering cry like a sob. He shouted his relief into the hollow of her throat, moved against her slowly two or three more times, and collapsed.
He lay with his chest heaving, wondering what the hell had gotten into him, hurting her like that, and wondering how the hell he was going to begin to apologize, when to his astonishment he felt her arms go around him and he felt her mouth kiss his hair in an unprecedented gesture of affection.
He turned his head, heavy and damp with sweat, to rest against her breast. 'Next time you want to do that,' he gasped, 'give me a little warning so I can bring along my cuffs and some rope.'
'Duct tape,' she said indistinctly, and he snorted in astonishment. Then, to his even greater disbelief, he heard her say, very clearly, a thing she had never told him before. 'Thank you Glen.'
He buried his face into her body and lay there. He listened to her heart slow, and heard her breath return to normal, and gradually he fell asleep.
Chapter Five
case an individual can achieve results that a concerted effort cannot. Small, niggling, low-key Intrusions by an intensively trained individual, who always has at the top of his or her priorities the need to keep a low profile and avoid escalation of the situation's tension, can result in the slow collapse of the group's structure.
Some of you may remember the case of the separatists in White Rock, Illinois a few years ago. I say some of you because it is a textbook example of how a tense religious situation—a 'cult'—is defused. In this case, the early signs of problems were caught, an undercover investigator sent in for several weeks, and the result of that investigation closely analyzed. As a result, one of your men dressed up as a fussy, bespectacled housing inspector in an ill-fitting suit, clutching his clip-board in his hand, utterly reasonable, terribly sympathetic, but determined to carry out his job for the housing department. [laughter] I see a number of you recognize the agent involved, particularly as he has now turned bright red, although I doubt you would have recognized him at the time. Anyway, he went in and spent a number of weeks slowly splitting the community down the middle-literally, as it turned out, by changing the tight living arrangements that had allowed the three leaders to control the rest, as well as figuratively, by sowing seeds of discontent and contributing brief and 'accidental' glowing reminders of outside life.
It was a spectacular triumph, but was never acknowledged as such simply because it remained low key. The media were led astray, which avoided the intense pressures of the citizenry and their elected officials toward action, the community never felt threatened enough to resort to violence (particularly as the agent involved always offered to help them fill out all the forms he brought), [laughter] Tear gas was never even
Excerpt from the transcription of a lecture by Dr. Anne Waverly to the FBI Cult Response Team, April 27, 1994
When Glen woke, it was not yet light, although it seemed to him that the pale square of the window indicated
