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© 2014 Gustavo Florentin
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ncient Greek philosophers used a face-slapping technique to engrain a point in the student’s mind; here, it conveyed the truth that the girl was going to die.
The Webmaster activated the camera, and Olivia Wallen’s image traveled across four continents. Her jet-black hair was cut in bangs across the forehead in the classic China-doll style. Her voluptuous American figure was incongruent with her Thai features and was accented by the red Brazilian bikini which offered a triangle of coverage in the crotch.
“Turn around,” said the voice. She did so, revealing the flawlessness of her back and legs.
“The skin is like pearl,” said the Webmaster, now addressing the others via web cam. “As you like it in the East. She is five-feet six inches tall. Her measurements are 32-24-33.”
The clients on the other side of the world were impressed. Men like Masutatsu Nakayama, Vladimir Zeitkin, and Mohammad Qasim.
Vladimir Zeitkin’s loyalty to Putin had won him his own oil company and now he spent his time competing with Paul Allen of Microsoft fame by building the biggest yacht in the world. He collected Greek and Roman statuary and Nazi art looted during World War II. But it took time to build mega-yachts, and while the static images of paintings were sublime, the living, breathing art of torture, suffering, and death redefined beauty.
And there was Mohammad Qasim. There was little entertainment in Saudi Arabia despite his oil billions. He had taken pleasure for a while in abusing the Filipina housemaids he brought in for his entertainment and that of his friends, but that grew dull. He sponsored a small jihad organization and followed their exploits as he followed Manchester United, but blowing up anonymous infidels got repetitive.
Now, without leaving his office, he could witness what surpassed even the public beheadings and honor killings he’d seen.
Masutatsu Nakayama was a man for whom all things had become tiresome. Now retired from industry with an estimated fortune of two billion dollars, he was on a quest for the few experiences he had left unvisited. And this site gave it to him.
While other sex sites featured photos and videos, the Webmaster’s had live captives. He performed whatever the clients requested. And in the end, they always requested death. This left no doubt that the girls weren’t actors. The manner of death came from the depths of the subconscious. He had performed hangings, beheadings, electrocutions, tooth extractions, dismemberments. Occasionally they requested a boy, but usually it was a young girl. The clients voted on the type of victim, the race, age, even social standing. For some of these men, it was their first experience in democracy. Payment consisted of a wire transfer to a Cayman Islands bank account. Half due on winning the auction; half after delivery of the product. The clients paid an initial membership fee, then bid on what they wanted done to the victim. The abuse lasted until the clients agreed it was time for execution. This, too, was put up for auction and only the winner received the final product. The winning bidder received the exclusive live stream and download of his request. It was the eBay of agony.
Each girl could produce bids in excess of two-hundred thousand dollars. The longer the pain was drawn out, the more profit was made. The key was to keep replenishing the supply of victims. And the Webmaster had an endless supply.
“Take off your clothes and turn around. Again. Stand against the wall,” he instructed. The terrified girl complied and the contrast of her body against the gray of the concrete produced gasps of pleasure from the audience.
“What is your name?”
“Olivia. Olivia Wallen.”
“Age?”
“Sixteen.”
“Nationality.”
“Please let me go.”
“Nationality?”
“American.”
She was hyperventilating, and this made her lovely chest heave up and down.
“Where are you from originally?”
“Thailand.”
“How did you come here?”
Olivia went into her past as far as she could remember.
“Your grades are exceptional. What university did you plan to attend? I said what university?”
“Harvard.”
“A Harvard girl, gentlemen. This should appeal to you. What were you going to study at Harvard?”
The tears streamed down her cheeks as the interrogation had its intended effect.
“Medicine.”
“You planned to help humanity?”
“Please let―”
“You must answer the questions. I explained that to you. You planned to help humanity?”
“Yes.”
“And what do you do in your spare time? Answer the question. Answer the question.”
“Reading.”
“Reading. What do you read? Who are you favorite authors?”
“Herman Hesse.”
“Who else?”
“Hemingway.”
“Good, good. So you’re well-read. But let’s be honest with these gentlemen, there’s also another side to you isn’t there?”
She said nothing.
“Answer.”
“Yes,” she said, finally.
“We’ll explore that in due course. Well, there you have it, gentlemen. This concludes the introduction. A mysterious and beautiful girl. And we’ll find out more about her in each encounter. Bidding for the first torment starts at fifty thousand dollars with increments of five thousand. Gentlemen, what is your pleasure?”
achel Wallen wasn’t the first Ivy League kid to enter the homeless shelter. The other was her sister who had disappeared four days earlier. Yet even as she stepped through the door she sensed that this was only a portal into the world that had swallowed Olivia.
She had changed into her runaway outfit―ratty sneakers, ripped jeans, and disheveled hair. Hopefully, that’s all she would have to change to find out what happened to her sister.
Transcendence House was a refuge for runaways in downtown Manhattan. It was located next to Tad’s Steaks and across from a sex shop. A young Claretion priest was able to snatch the decaying structure from the purveyors of meat, gaining the plaudits of the mayor and newspapers.
Rachel was received by a woman in her early twenties.
“Welcome to Transcendence House. I’m Sister Karen, a crisis counselor. Let’s step over here; I need to ask you a few quick questions.”
She would have made a beautiful nun if she had really belonged to an order. But Rachel knew from Olivia that everyone here addressed each other as Brother and Sister.
“First, I want you to know that any information we gather will be held in strictest confidence,” said Sister Karen. She put a new form in her clipboard.
“Name?”
“Rachel Barino.”
“Age?”
“Sixteen.” Eighteen was too old to be admitted here.
“Have you been tested for HIV in the last two months?”
“No.”
&
nbsp; “How long have you been on the streets?”
About an hour and a half, thought Rachel.
“Two months.”
“How have you been surviving?”
“The kindness of strangers.” She remembered that line from Streetcar.
Sister Karen lowered her voice.
“Have you experienced any physical or sexual abuse?”
“No.”
“Are you addicted to any drugs?”
“No.”
“Do you have any drugs or weapons on you?”
“No.”
“Where is your family?”
“Vermont.”
“Would you be willing to return home if we gave you a bus ticket?”
“There’s nothing for me there.”
“Is there anything you need right now?”
“I need to speak to Father Massey.”
“Father Massey interviews all our new guests. First, I’ll take you upstairs where you can shower and change. You can leave your belongings in those lockers. We don’t allow contraband, so I’ll ask you to put all your things on this tray.”
Rachel emptied her pockets and knapsack. She wondered how the cell phone would go over, but no one questioned it. The modern runaway must be well equipped. Upstairs, Rachel was given her own towel, bar of soap, a T-shirt and sweat pants, a King James Bible, and a journal.
“You’re welcome to spend the night,” said Sister Karen.
“If it’s okay.”
“Certainly.”
After the requisite shower, Sister Karen led Rachel downstairs to the cafeteria.
“This will hold you till dinner.” Rachel was served a bowl of vegetable soup and a ham and Swiss sandwich. She sat diagonally to another girl who had just come in off the streets and watched her devour the food with a desperation that Rachel would have no trouble feigning; she was desperate, too.
Sister Karen returned with a young man of about twenty-one.
“I’m Brother Mark. We all eat together here as a rule. And I’d like to give you the other rules,” he said as he handed Rachel a paper with the word RULES written in medieval script like an edict.
He struck Rachel as a timid boy who had been given the incongruent task of laying down the law to newcomers.
“No drugs, cigarettes, alcohol, or sex. No entering the boys’ dorm without permission from one of the brothers. We have showers, beds, a library, a clinic, a chapel and counseling. We offer classes in computers and GED tutoring and various shop classes. There are phones available to call parents or legal guardians. We rise at six a.m., make our own beds, breakfast, prayer time till seven-thirty, tutoring till eleven, free time until eleven-thirty. We then have lunch, do chores till three, have counseling, study, dinner and one hour of TV between eight and nine. Lights out at ten sharp. Is there anything in those rules that you don’t think you’ll be able to comply with?”
“No.”
“I should tell you that we operate here on the principle of tough love,” he continued. “Agápe love is brotherly love, unconditional love. But we temper this with strict discipline.”
Rachel sensed that unconditional love was not about to envelope her; it was about to test her.
Father Evan Massey had a lot on his mind. Tomorrow he would be testifying before a Senate subcommittee on runaway children and he needed to get the tone right. He checked the order of his three-by-five cards and stood in front of the mirror where he practiced his delivery. Massey had often seen others as they sat before the microphones reading from sheets, boring the hell out the world. He liked General David Petraeus’ style and, like Petraeus, he would also be wearing a uniform.
Massey was tall, about six one with full, black hair cut in layers. He sported a business suit and looked more like a mergers and acquisitions executive than a cleric. A lawyer’s brief with a gold monogram sat on the desk. The office was spacious, but modest, containing a wall of books, two file cabinets, and a metal desk with a banker’s lamp. There were photos of Massey with the mayor and governor of New York and some athletes who signed balls and T-shirts at fund-raisers. A large framed Picasso print adorned an otherwise blank wall.
Two weeks earlier, he had been contacted by the office of the First Lady, who was considering him to head up a special office dedicated to addressing the problem of runaways. The post would give him the power and the pulpit to do what he did best––bring attention to an issue. He saw himself thriving in Washington where the powerful want to be seen in the company of a man of impeccable character––a rare and valuable commodity in that town.
At age thirty-seven, his career was in full swing. It seemed that everything he touched succeeded. He had appeared on Oprah and The Daily Show. After he spoke at an MTV AIDS benefit, People Magazine did a story on him entitled, “The Hippest Man of the Cloth.” Publishers had approached him about a book deal. He believed that anything he imagined would materialize. He was unstoppable.
His performance tomorrow was crucial―all the more so since it would be covered by C-SPAN. There had already been a touchy moment at the airport when a reporter asked him if he could shed any more light on the disappearance of Olivia Wallen. He had handled it well by replying that it had been his privilege to know and work with Olivia for several months before she vanished, and that she was one of the most special people he had ever known. That made it to print.
There was a knock on the open door.
“Come in.” He shook hands with the new girl, introducing himself. “Have a seat.” She was petite, had a pony tail, and smelled like Irish Spring soap.
Massey glanced at the information sheet; then set it aside.
“I just want you to know, Rachel, that any data that we gather on you is held in strictest confidence. That said, I would like us to be totally straight with each other. Our guests usually stay for a few days to up to a month. After that, we may be able to arrange transitional housing where you can stay while you train for a job. The object of the program is to make you self-sufficient, not dependent. We’ve never turned anyone away, although on occasion we’ve had to ask people to leave for breaking the rules. According to this, you’ve been told the rules, so there’s no need to go over that. Do you know what tough love is, Rachel?”
“I’ve heard the term.”
“Let me give you our take on it. It means that the basic underlying love, which we all deserve and which everyone here receives, doesn’t always come across as affection. If an individual breaks the rules, consequences have to be imposed in a way that will be most effective for that person. We don’t hit people here―God knows most of our kids have gotten enough of that. Our objective is change, not punishment. And change is what it’s all about―evolving. I believe in the infinite power of human transformation.” He loosened his tie as if emphasizing this point.
“I don’t know if you’re going to be with us for a day or a month, but there’s one lesson that you’re going to come away with―the law of cause and effect. Everything you do while you’re here will have consequences, and our job is to make those consequences swift and apparent. Here we address each other as Brother and Sister. Do you have any questions?”
“Yes, Father. I’m looking for Sister Olivia. Olivia Wallen. She volunteered here for a long time and she helped me a lot on the streets. She and I were very close―she was the only person I could talk to.”
He rose and tried to soften his expression. “I don’t have good news for you, Rachel. Olivia has apparently disappeared. The police are looking for her.”
“I know she’s disappeared, Father. Will you hear my confession?”
or penance say ten Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys. Go in peace in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. I want you to reflect on what you’ve done. You do seem very troubled, Rachel.”
“I am troubled. Did you know Olivia well, Father?”
“I try not to get too close to anyone here on a personal basis, neither the counselors nor the kids. You just can’t be
effective if you’re too emotionally involved. I found her to be very caring and certainly promising.”
“Did she ever give any sign that something was wrong?”
“I recall an incident a few months ago―we were at our yearly retreat upstate. I noticed Olivia had been missing for several hours and I found her about a half mile from our lodge, just sitting in the stream in her street clothes. When I called to her, she hesitated, then she came out and fell into my arms sobbing. I asked her what was wrong and she just said she didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t insist―looking back, perhaps I should have.”
Rachel noticed how smoothly the priest had related that story, which she knew couldn’t be true. “You think it was a problem with a boy? He might know something about her whereabouts.”
“There’s no way of knowing that now. At any rate, these things are best left to the police.”
“I’m afraid for her, Father. I fear for the worst. She was like my sister.”
His hand reached over now in the role of counselor and rested on hers. “Don’t let your heart be troubled. I’ll pray for both of you.”
Rachel stepped out of the priest’s office with more trepidation than ever. Father Massey was lying.
“We’ll be watching a short film now,” said Sister Karen as Rachel exited the priest’s office.
She was led to a room at the end of the hall where other newcomers were already seated in front of a fifty inch TV. The screen came to life with a film entitled, “The Infinite Reservoir.”
“I’m Evan Massey,” said the narrator, “and this is the record of my mission to India in 1995. I was a twenty-two-year-old graduate with a vague idea that I wanted to do something for the world and I was in a hurry to do it. It’s a visual journal, a rough record of the events that occurred over a period of about eighteen months, so there isn’t much continuity, but I’ll try to tie it together with hindsight. Some of the scenes are hard to watch―they’re the kind of images that would require a warning about viewer discretion were they on TV. But look at the problems of these people and then ask yourself honestly if your world is really as bad as you think.”
The Schwarzschild Radius Page 1
