Tidal Rage

by David Evans

  Because his hands shook so much, it was not as easy to bundle the small body of a girl into the canvas coffin. But after a ten-minute struggle, he managed it. For several minutes, he enjoyed ripping out clumps of the shocking red hair and took another fifteen minutes to consume it.

  Finally, he fought with the zip to close it. Geraldine's hair and part of her scalp and some fluids had become entangled in the zip. He yanked at it with all his strength, and a clump of hair fell out, attached to skin and roots.

  He eventually got the bag onto his back. Although gaunt and slim, he was surprisingly strong. The hours at the piano had strengthened his fingers and forearms beyond his years. His leg strength was always there from a young age.

  It was less than a quarter of a mile to his destination, although it felt more like five miles. The trail was sheltered, and not on the route for dog walkers, so it was quite remote. But still, he kept a careful ear out for others who might be on the trail. The air was crisp and cold, but thankfully it was not raining, as this would have added weight to the load Sebastian was carrying.

  The trek took Sebastian through the woods. He stumbled along under the weight of the bundle for the final 100 yards on a track hidden from the public footpath. He finally entered the field, the lines of cabbages stretching as far as he could see.

  Had someone approached Sebastian that day within a few yards, the game would have been up. Bloodstains from Geraldine's head wound had seeped through the canvas material, creating a dark, red stain on the outer membrane.

  Finally, he reached his destination, tired and in need of hydration. He had been here the previous week. Sebastian had walked the route and stored a bottle of water under a bush by the cesspit, which he gulped down hurriedly.

  On his previous visit, Sebastian had ensured the cover to the cesspit could be removed. It was 4:30 pm on a February afternoon, and at that time of the year, England is in darkness from around 4:00 pm. Sebastian had the cover of darkness to assist him with his deeds.

  What Sebastian had not read up on and did not expect was the smell, the wretched smell that emanated from within the bag. The acrid smell of the detritus seemed to penetrate through the canvas bag and settle deep within his nostrils. Next time, he would be better prepared.

  Sebastian had read up on fingerprinting and was confident that the slurry would destroy any prints that had been transferred to canvas.

  But the best-laid plans do not always run smoothly, he found, after two attempts to open the zip. The zip was not going to ease, so he would have to leave Geraldine in the canvas bag. He had planned to place it with the contents in the cesspit, which served as a collection point for the farm's human sewage. In his haste, when putting Geraldine in her canvas coffin, Sebastian inadvertently dropped his closed, topped water bottle underneath the canvas bag in the pit.

  After a few moments' thought, he wondered if the body would decompose as quickly in the canvas bag as it would if it were loose within the pit. From talking to local farmers, he knew cesspits in the area were emptied every three years or thereabout. This pit had been serviced the previous year; he had seen it while hunting for rabbits in a field nearby. It was one of the reasons he chose this particular cesspit rather than ones closer to the woods.

  After two years in that environment, she would be soup at best, and the bag would have rotted down.

  Sebastian pushed the canvas bag into the sewage and staggered a little as the fumes from the confined space made him dizzy, nearly sending him falling into the maintenance hole.

  He retained sufficient oxygen and wits to replace and tighten the wing nuts on the cover before heading back to the woods.

  In the dark, Sebastian stripped and washed in the pond in the woods. He took clean clothes from a bag he had left there previously and put the clothes he had worn into the bag. On his return home, Sebastian would burn all the contents, along with his parka coat and running shoes. With the flashlight retrieved from the pack, he scanned the area of the initial assault for signs of a disturbance. Once satisfied he scooped out water from the pond with his hands and washed away the small amount of blood on leaves, he had found under the glare of the flashlight.

  ***

  He was shaken out of his trip down memory lane as the main entrance door to the toilets was kicked open. He heard muffled shouts, and then the deafening noise of several semi-automatics going off.

  "He’s down!” shouted a voice, followed by, “Is there anyone in here, shout if there is?”

  Sebastian heard the commands over his Walkman and clicked open the cubicle door and emerged into a scene from a Hollywood movie. There was a man on the floor, obviously dead, going by the amount of blood surrounding him.

  At first sight, Sebastian thought this was the killer, as the SWAT police officer still had his gun pointing at the dead man’s head. Another officer put his arm around Sebastian and led him to the carnage while trying to shield his eyes from the death and destruction. Sebastian stopped by the corpse of his dead father, who had a gaping wound in his forehead and looked down without any feeling or emotion, as the policeman dragged him away.

  That night, the news bulletin reported that five children and sixteen adults had been killed, with nineteen others injured before the SWAT team had dealt out instant justice to the killer.

  Kim moaned and cried in the bedroom, not for the loss of Hank but the future, their future. The loss of Hank was initially a stunning blow for Kim. She had come to like Hank, could accept his love, and not grimace every time he made love to her.

  The insurance pay-out Kim received from the company eased her fears about financial stability. There was enough in the fund to pay off the house and have a semi-comfortable living for the rest of her life. She still had her looks and her figure, although she knew these would not last forever. Maybe another three or four years, she guessed. The other silver lining was that there were still plenty of rich pickings in the area, either by the hour or long-term; she could always supplement the pot with regular top-ups.

  Two years after the McDonald’s massacre in 1986, Sebastian was fourteen years old, he and Kim still lived in the same house. Kim and Sebastian were watching television when a report related to the San Diego massacre was being discussed.

  The widow of the killer James Huberty, Etna Huberty, tried to sue McDonald’s and Babcock and Wilcox, James’s former employer, in an Ohio state court for five million dollars. Etna Huberty claimed that the combined mixture of eating too many of their chicken nuggets and working around highly poisonous metals triggered the massacre. She alleged that monosodium glutamate in the food, combined with the high levels of lead and cadmium in his body, induced delusions, and uncontrollable rage. She lost the case.

  Chapter Three

  The millennium had come and gone, and the world and all its communication systems had survived.

  Max Cutler radiated the youthful self-confidence that came with the knowledge that he was physically very capable of sports. His boyish smile and jovial personality meant he had many an admirer, both female and male.

  Cutler was twenty-two years of age, six foot two inches tall, with the physique of a football player. He had short, blonde hair, which was the frame required to show off his piercing blue eyes. Cutler was blessed with a strong, square jaw, with a dimple placed amidships. He looked like an extraordinarily fit and better-looking young Robert Redford.

  The looks came at a price: girls came and went for Cutler, and he left a trail of broken hearts, with the girls all too ready to fall in love, while Max was just after some fun. Long and meaningful relationships had no place in Cutler’s world. Cutler had two women in his life: Mom, who made the best apple pie this side of the Rockies; and his little sister Elisa, who acted and talked more like a teenager than a ten-year-old.

  At the age of eighteen, Cutler had entered the Case Western Reserve University School of Law in his hometown of Cleveland, Ohio. The school is among one of the oldest law schools in the USA, and Cutler had excelled in hi
s admission exam to gain entrance to this prestigious school, much to his parents’ delight.

  The three years he spent at Case Western were the best three years of his life so far. The fraternity parties, girls, alcohol, lovemaking, torts, contract law, employment law, Latin, sex, criminal law, debates, and more sex, made it seem like the three quickest years of his life.

  Every positive has a negative, and every high has a low. Cutler’s was the guilt that his parents had worked for twenty years so they could lay out over $120,000 in tuition fees alone. Now that they had paid most of their dues for him, it had started again for Elisa’s education, and never once did they complain.

  The fourth year of law school had been on placement in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, where he interned at Saudi International Solicitors, writing contracts and terms and conditions for several oil exploration companies. While the assignment lacked the after-hours activities of the first three years, Max did pick up Arabic as a consolation prize.

  At the end of the fourth year, his parents’ sacrifice paid off. Max came out top of his class and was awarded a Doctor of Juridical Science (JD), which in layman’s terms is a law degree with an international bias. Even before the results were known, Max knew he had done well.

  Throughout university, Cutler was on the watchlist of scouts from several of the leading football teams in the country, but today the scout who had turned up to see Max had nothing to do with sports.

  Following the graduation, and before the festivities began in earnest, Max’s professor invited him to his private quarters. Wasting no time, he introduced Max to the Secret Service head-hunter. The professor, having done this several times in the past, left the bewildered Cutler in Wyatt Rockman’s hands.

  Wyatt Rockman was in his fifties, six foot five inches tall, with a typical Marine, close-cropped haircut. He stood upright, rigidly tall, with a military bearing. He wore a black Armani suit, a red silk tie, and sunglasses; a clear indication he was a man of standing, a man of precision.

  Rockman had served time in the Navy Seals, qualifying out of the San Diego main base. He was placed in Berlin, Germany, for several years, carrying out missions in the Russian-controlled Eastern sector. Rockman had seen action—too much action—during the Vietnam War.

  Rockman and his team had located and destroyed Cuban communication units which were assisting the Viet Cong to move their troops. Rockman undertook four separate deployments to this theatre of war, losing three men in the process.

  Rockman rose quickly through the ranks and became one of the most highly decorated commissioned officers in the Vietnam War.

  Following the end of the war, the Secret Service began a recruiting program. Rockman was a prime candidate, and so began a long career in the Service.

  Rockman’s face beneath the sunglasses had history etched into every line. Although middle-aged, he retained his handsome looks. He possessed a strong, square jawline, brown eyes, salt-and-pepper hair, and skin that had been continuously exposed to the sun, golden brown and thickly lined around the forehead and upper cheeks.

  Rockman had developed his skills as an operative firstly in personal security detail, then progressing to recruitment. He had been in the Service for over twenty years.

  “The Secret Service has a long and rewarding relationship with several of the leading law universities. The Service actively seeks out those students in law, as well as other disciplines. We look for students with a high IQ and a firm grasp of the subject. We only recruit alpha males,” Rockman stated.

  Rockman had been monitoring Max and two other students from year one. The other potential recruits, Lehman and Cooper, had failed to reach his exacting standards. Lehman had broken his leg falling from the window of his first-year tutor’s bedroom and was not considered suitable material. Cooper was reported as using cannabis at a party by one of Rockman’s spies, and he was no longer under consideration. Cutler had had many sexual liaisons at the university. Still, these were all within the parameters of what the Service deemed to be acceptable, and there had been no notices of drug use or deviant behaviour.

  Max Cutler chose international law, although the options at Case Western had been vast and varied. He could have chosen a law doctorate pertaining to counterterrorism. The subject included war crimes, communication intercepts, etc.

  Cutler was somewhat surprised at the initial approach by the Secret Service recruiter, as he had chosen international law, and pondered the connection between that and the Secret Service.

  After the initial introduction, Rockman came straight to the point about wanting him to apply to enlist in the Secret Service.

  “The widely held belief in America, and throughout the world, is that the Secret Service protects the president. In short, we are just bodyguards. That is not even scratching the surface of what we do,” Rockman said.

  “There was me thinking they just wore black suits and sunglasses,” Cutler replied, humorously but respectfully.

  “Yes, we do watch over the president, but we want you for the original reason the Secret Service was established. The Service is the oldest federal investigative law enforcement agency in the United States. The service was created in 1865 as an integral part of the Treasury Department.”

  Rockman paused to let this sink in, and then continued.

  “The Secret Service was created the same year President Lincoln was assassinated at Ford’s Theatre in Washington by John Wilkes Booth. The same year the Civil War, which had been going on since 1861, came to a bloody end.

  “One of the primary reasons for creating the Secret Service was the severe problems the Civil War had created, not just national, but global problems, which could have had dire implications for the country.

  “The problems were so severe that had the Service not been created, the number one superpower we now know may have been more like some of the poorer South American countries.”

  Cutler leaned against the windowsill of the quarters as he listened intently to the history lesson.

  “To undermine the North and to be able to purchase weapons, the South produced counterfeit American notes. The South was not alone; some in the criminal fraternity employed those who had used their skills to help the South after the war.

  “For the new United States emerging from the bloody Civil War, it was believed that up to half of all currency in circulation was counterfeit. It weakened the power of the dollar and the standing of the country itself.”

  Rockman poured himself and Max each a small brandy and took a sip before continuing.

  “It was in 1901, following the assassination of another president, William McKinley, murdered in Buffalo, New York, that the Secret Service was tasked with its second line of operation. That duty was the protection of the president, for which it is now so well known.

  “However, I am trying to recruit you into the counterfeiting unit, known as the CU. That is, if you agree to join us, and you pass an in-depth selection process.”

  Rockman stopped talking and quaffed the exquisite Napoleon brandy in his glass.

  Rockman, the Secret Service recruiter, had certainly done his research. The criteria laid down by the powers above for selection were stringent and challenging, both physically and academically. No criminal record was permitted; even minor misdemeanours would mean failure, and the interview would not have gone ahead.

  Cutler had been sent for a medical exam the month before. He thought it was to do with his football, as it was his coach who had sent him. He felt it had been unusually thorough, and now he knew why.

  “You have been pre-assessed and have a clean bill of health, and as far as we can judge, you show no present physiological or psychological problems. You have excelled at athletics, have no eyesight or hearing difficulties, and are physically fit. You would be able to withstand the same physical rigours as a US Marine, which you will need to, to pass selection.”

  Rockman did not need to pick up the report on Cutler that was sitting on the desk. Rockman knew this
background report verbatim; such was the time he had spent over the years managing others to groom into the Service.

  Unbeknown to Cutler, John Redmond, his year third year mentor, was a psychiatrist, who had been evaluating the young Max Cutler at each session he had attended. Paul Edelman, his football coach, was not only part of Rockman’s recruitment team, but monitored radicals that often walked the same career and educational paths of ordinary citizens. Karl Horst, Max’s law mentor, had been a part-time code breaker for the Service for over forty years and was instrumental in Cutler getting the Saudi placement.

  Both Rockman and Cutler now stood by the professor’s open fireplace, the warmth filling the room. Rockman looked straight into Cutler’s ice-blue eyes and said in a calm voice, “We have been keeping a close eye on you, Max. We think you have the skills required to pass selection and progress to becoming an agent.”

  Whatever Cutler had been expecting, it was not that.

  “I don’t know what to say, Mr Rockman. One minute I am enjoying a graduation drink with my professor, and the next I am being asked to enlist in the Secret Service. Why me?” Cutler asked.

  Rockman bent down and placed a log on the fire before continuing.

  “We only take on the smartest of the smart; men and women who are adaptable, brave beyond brave, so patriotic that they piss red, white, and blue, can adapt, change plans, and make decisions instantly. Are you made from that material?” Rockman asked. “Clever and patriotic, Cutler?”

  “I’m as patriotic as the next man. I love my country, sir. As for being brave, I do not know. Brave is a word. Is it brave to run at the line-backers? This certainly isn’t the bravery of a typical soldier in Iraq, so unless you can define brave, I don’t know. I’m able to adapt quickly, but again, how long is a piece of string?” Max replied.

  “Smart answer and you’ll probably only find the answers through time, and your actions and reactions to circumstances. Cutler, we have an excellent profile on you, and we think you can cut the cloth, so to speak,” Rockman retorted.