Free Damaged Goods by Austin Camacho Page A

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.
    â€œWhen 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 mypurpose, gave me a role in life. Mostly he was good to me. Gave me direction and trained me.”
    â€œTrained 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?”
    â€œHe 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.
    â€œListen 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 paysyou 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.
    â€œPlease,” 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 12 th 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