Our Darker Angel

CHAPTER ONE: LOST INTERVAL

Dr. Praxton smiled warmly and gestured to the tall brunette to take a seat. He fixed his large gray eyes on her as he settled down into a thick leather chair behind his glass-topped desk. He assured her they’d begin shortly. He sounded contrite as he apologized for not having had the opportunity to review his notes from their last session, explaining that the session before her had taken longer than he’d anticipated.

The doctor had this uncanny habit of keeping his eyes on hers much longer than she felt comfortable. Even now they lingered on her for several seconds, before returning to his notes. Looking into his gray eyes always unnerved her, causing her to flinch and glance away. Sometimes she would look down self-consciously, fixating on her hands to avoid facing him directly. She couldn’t pin it down, but she thought she detected something both odd and familiar about his eyes. They didn’t seem to fit his person, his gentle, clinical demeanor.

Sessions with the doctor could be exhausting, painful, and embarrassing. She would have stopped them long ago except for one very good reason. He seemed able to access her deepest thoughts, to get at things that she herself couldn’t. And that astounded her. Even frightened her. Thirty minutes into her very first session with him, she recalled feeling completely naked and vulnerable, but afterwards cleaner, much like a dirty child after a good scrubbing

As she sat flipping through a fashion magazine she’d taken from the side table, she repressed snickering at all the sexy lingerie ads with seductive poses. She guessed they’d been aimed at soliciting awe and admiration from the less endowed, like herself. It never failed to amaze her how complacently women accepted the role men had defined for them. Sex toys. And their absolute dedication to that role. They lived to be ogled, drooled over, played with, exhibited, flouted, and then when their tits began to sag and their ass began to droop, they accepted their fate—to be tossed away for a more appealing toy. She just shook her head in dismay as she thought about the extremes women went to in order to please the opposite sex. And how all the chic models in the girly magazines were testimonies to that sad fact.

While Dr. Praxton continued reviewing his notes from their last session, she closed the magazine and placed it back on the end table. She felt anxious, unable to come to terms with how much to tell him about Alan, the main purpose of her visit. She needed to be assured that whatever she disclosed about him would not leave the doctor’s office.

Last time we met, you mentioned that you’ve had problems sleeping, Praxton began, glancing up from his notes.

Yes. I can’t seem to sleep more than a few hours, at most. Often I wake in the middle of the night and just can’t get back to sleep.

You’re still taking the medicine I prescribed, right?

Yes.

Two tablets a day. Morning and evening, without fail.

Yes, doctor, she said in the voice of an annoyed little girl, tired of her parent’s nagging.

And during the day, do you feel lethargic?

Not really. I have this nervous edge, try to lie down, calm myself, maybe take a short nap, but I can’t.

Are you experiencing any loss of appetite?

No.

Weight loss? You look thinner.

I’ve lost a pound, maybe. But I’ve been running, so that’s natural.

Okay, then. You need to stay on your medication. We’ll discuss the dosage your next session.

Outside, the sun was dropping fast. The soft light filtering through the Venetian blinds painted thick, shadowy bars on the white walls.

I’d like to continue where we left off during our last session. You’d told me about your grandparents. That they raised you from the time you were eleven. Today I’d like you to talk about your earlier years, and in particular, about your parents. Can you tell me what you remember about them?

Those eyes of his. Again they seemed to be drilling into her. When she’d first started her sessions with him, she’d observed how quickly he’d become fixated on her piercings. His eyes would follow her tongue barbell whenever she spoke. And they would keep darting to the silver piercing in her nose. The piercing wasn’t that large to draw attention, just a small, attractive loop connected to a tiny silver bead.

His eyes did not move from hers as he waited for her to begin. She noticed that the left side of his face was covered in shadowy stripes. It gave her an eerie impression, like their meeting was taking place in a prison cell. Also, the light in the room had grown much fainter.

Could you turn on the lights, please? I’d feel more comfortable. The dim light is depressing, she said, as she adjusted her position in the chair and listened to the leather squeak under her.

Sure thing. He stood up from behind his desk, reached over to the wall, and clicked on the light switch.

She had never realized how tall Praxton was. He was pretty much her height, just under six feet tall. And thin.

So, tell me about you parents, he said, easing back down into his chair.

It wasn’t her parents that she’d come to talk about. Maybe it was the shrink thing to do. Shrinks had this thing about parents. Like everyone’s problems could be traced back to parental nurturing.

I’d rather not delve into my relationship with my parents. Their history is not a comfortable topic to discuss. I had another subject in mind, she said, folding her hands in her lap and straightening her thin frame like some eager, but anxious, school girl waiting to divulge a much-guarded secret.

For a split second, she thought she caught his eyes wandering to her breasts, pressed against her thin rayon blouse. Her fingers went automatically to the top button, but found it fastened.

As you please. And what subject might that be?

First, I’m under the assumption that anything I might tell you is protected by a physician-patient privilege.

Yes, that’s correct. Your medical history, any ailment or condition you might have, and any related information concerning these therapy sessions. In brief, anything you relate to me during our sessions will not be divulged to anyone without your permission. Nor any of my observations about you during our sessions.

So whatever I tell you does not leave this office?

That’s right. The purpose of the privilege is to ensure that patients can trust their doctors. Without that trust, their doctors could not help them very much. Helping them means having access to information that’s private.

Are there any exceptions?

She remembered hearing or reading something about felonies, which had been planned, witnessed, or acted upon, not being covered by the physician-patient privilege.

Well, there are and there aren’t. It depends on the doctor.

I don’t understand.

She put her hands together and began rubbing her index finger against her thumb, a nervous habit that the doctor must have picked up on, she realized, as his eyes flashed to her hands.

If the authorities believe that a patient has revealed to his doctor that he’s committed a felony, or is about to commit a felony, they may try to compel the doctor to report relevant information. However, some doctors will not, because they believe that helping their patient takes priority.

So, she asked with a slight quiver in her voice, where do you stand?

Your secrets are safe with me. I place my patients’ welfare first. And, if it helps to hear this, even above the law.

The corners of his lips turned upward, forming a gentle, paternal smile, fortifying his position that her personal, private matters would be safe in his hands.

She breathed in deeply and then released a small inaudible sigh. She hadn’t been able to sleep much since Alan had been talking crazy. He had her frightened out of her wits. Finally, she had someone she could talk to.

Doctor, I have this friend who is very political.

She didn’t feel like going into their exact relationship, so she chose to refer to Alan as her friend.

"I don’t mean political in the traditional sense. His ideas are more extreme. He describes himself as an anarchist. I must admit that I share some of his beliefs. One in particular.

Which is? he asked with a bemused smile.

That governments are pretty ineffective.

Why’s that?

Because they often protect the wrong people. What we have in the world are not governments by the people and for the people, but governments run by the few for the few. Whether or not you share my view, or Alan’s, isn’t really important. However, what I’m about to tell you is, and so I need your word that it’s protected information.

Rest assured. What you tell me remains between the two of us.

Okay. First, I want you to know that I was an active member of Anonymous, the hacker activist group. I’m sure you’ve heard of them. Maybe even about OpIsrael. Have you heard anything in the news about it? Stands for Operation Israel. CNN gave it a few sound bites.

No, can’t say I have. Please fill me in.

She had this strange feeling of déjà vu. That he did know, that she’d had this same conversation with him before. The thought that she was simply reliving an earlier experience made her suddenly light-headed. At the same time, she felt her heart begin to race.

She asked him to wait a second. Then she put her head between her knees and took a couple of deep breaths to clear her mind. Maybe it was the medicine. Some side effect of the medicine. She waited for her giddiness to pass and for her heartbeat to return to normal.

The doctor didn’t say a thing. He sat quietly, apparently expecting her at any moment to recover.

Once she felt she had a grip on things, she raised her head, cleared her throat, and in a weak, raspy voice, sounding out of breath, continued.

Look. She paused a second, gathering her thoughts. In the mainstream news you don’t get the whole story. No way. You just hear about the mischief that Anonymous has caused. Little or nothing about why. Nothing about the dozens of Palestinian citizens killed in an eight-day strike on Gaza. No, that’s all shoved aside. But you get a full report from CNN and FOX on Anonymous’ attacks on the Israeli stock market. Or Israeli government websites. You get the full story. Twenty-four hours of it. And of course there is never any connection made between Israel’s atrocities and Anonymous’ attacks.

I see. So, Alan is involved in cyber-terrorism against the State of Israel. But as you see it, for a just cause.

For a moment, she thought he sounded flippant. Like Alan was some crazy computer nutcase taking on the State of Israel. He must have noticed her reaction because he quickly followed up his comments by saying, Sounds serious. Is there more?

Yes.

She swallowed hard and then suddenly experienced momentary doubt about trusting him. He was a Jew and maybe offended by her stance on Israel. If he thought about it at all, he shouldn’t be. She was a Jew as well. He knew that. But he also knew that she was no Zionist.

She decided to go on. She’d been seeing him for years, and that should be worth something. She’d just have to risk it.

A couple of weeks ago, Alan hinted at dropping out of Anonymous and forming his own group. But the kind of group he’s thinking about forming terrifies me.

Oh.

Yes. About two years ago he became interested in EMMA. He even sided with the leader on a few of the Internet forums. You’ve heard of EMMA, right?

Not much.

Again, she got this feeling that something wasn’t right, or to be more Jewish about it, not kosher. She sensed he was either holding back or possibly lying. But why? Why would your therapist lie to you? She had to be wrong. He’d never given her any reason not to trust him.

I vaguely recall something in the paper about EMMA. EMMA was a terrorist group that killed top-level CEOs involved in questionable business dealings. And maybe some innocent people as well. Is that correct?

Correct. Anyway, when the leader of EMMA was killed in an FBI operation, I thought Alan lost interest in the movement and its aims.

She closed her eyes for a few seconds and began massaging her eyeballs with her thumb and index finger. A slight pain had suddenly developed in her frontal lobe. When she opened them again, the doctor’s image was completely blurred. It was like seeing him through the bottom of a water glass. She could barely make out his face. She blinked several times until his image snapped back into focus.

Lost interest, you said?

His question sounded purely rhetorical, as though he knew where this was all going.

Well, according to Alan, she said with a slight grimace, the claim that EMMA had killed innocent people wasn’t exactly accurate. He believes the businessmen killed in the hotel bombing were accomplices because they were supporting a company involved in genocide. I thought that was crazy. But then the other day he told me something even weirder about the Mickey Poore bombing. You know the politician who was killed two years ago at a political rally in Vermont. Alan told me he doesn’t think EMMA had anything to do with the bombing. He believes the FBI just made it look that way.

And this new group he might be thinking about forming?

Yeah, well, he hasn’t been real clear about that. Except something he said that made my heart skip a few beats.

And what was that?

He said EMMA was on the right track targeting CEOs committing crimes against humanity. Or aiding or abetting crimes against humanity. He said it was the only way the rich bastards could be made to pay because their own governments protected them, and in many cases were even complicit.

Complicit?

Yes, complicit for selfish motives.

I do remember one of EMMA’s victims was an arms manufacturer. Is that what he means by complicit?

He suddenly looked embarrassed, like he’d slipped up.

You acted a minute ago like you had never heard of EMMA.

She waited a few seconds for his response.

I don’t know much. Just a few bits and pieces I now vaguely remember from the news. So, is your friend planning to do the same as EMMA?

I don’t know. He might be. Alan says EMMA could have avoided accidental deaths. That the leader of EMMA was sloppy. When I tell him violence is never a solution, he grows sullen and tells me that I need to see the larger picture. That’s what scares me. His fanaticism. I don’t know what to do.

You believe he’s dangerous, then?

I think he’s planning something, but he won’t confide in me. When I remind him of the terrible mess EMMA created, he acts like I don’t understand. And I don’t think he trusts me because he’s keeping more and more to himself.

Then almost in tears. And I can’t stand what’s happening between us. That’s why I’m spilling my heart out to you. Hoping you might have an answer.

She looked down at her hands. She had rubbed a red spot on the back of her thumb.

So, you think Alan might be planning to continue where EMMA let off.

I hope not. But if he is, how can I stop him? I really need help. Need to help him, that is. I love him, but I fear for him and what’s going through his head.

So, you really believe Alan might be thinking about killing someone?

I don’t know! Yes! No! Maybe! she cried out hysterically. "Look, if he is, I need to stop him. We need to stop him!"

Okay, look. We’ll do something. Please don’t get too worked up. Do you believe he’d agree to have a session with me?

I don’t know. Maybe. But it has to be his idea. I can’t force him to see you, she said, wiping away a solitary tear that had collected in the corner of her eye.

If he does agree to see me, I can’t promise you I can persuade him. But I will do my best. From what you have told me, he needs professional help. And sooner rather than later.

Thank you, doctor.

Then, in a fatherly voice, he said, Politics aside, Alan needs to understand, as you have already expressed, that killing is never an answer to anything.

I just hope that he’ll see that it’s in his best interest to meet with you.

So do I.

Thank you, doctor, she said, truly grateful.

Good, and now about you. Considering the stress you’re under, I would like you to increase your dosage to three 200mg tablets daily.

Okay. And, doctor, if Alan agrees to seek your help, I’d rather not come along. I don’t want him to feel that I’m pressuring him.

Yes, you’re right. It would probably be better if you’re not present.

Exhausted after nearly an hour with the doctor, she was more than ready to terminate the session. The pain in her forehead reminded her to pick up a painkiller on the way home.

The doctor asked her if she’d like to lie down on the couch for a few minutes. Since he hadn’t scheduled any other sessions, the reception area would be empty. She agreed, and he escorted her to the door.

***

When she opened her eyes, the room was completely dark. Her entire body tensed as she suddenly sensed her familiar whereabouts. She sat up slowly, staring numbly out of her window at an inky sky. Just minutes before, she had been lying on the couch in the reception area outside Dr. Praxon’s office! Her present situation didn’t make a bit of sense, unless she’d somehow been teleported from his office. She tried desperately to remember getting in her car and driving home, but her mind drew blanks.

She turned on the end table lamp and looked at her watch. Six forty-five. But how could that be? That meant she’d left Dr. Praxton’s nearly two hours ago. Her heart began to race wildly. How could she have lost track of all that time? She dug her nails into the arm of the sofa. She needed to calm herself. She’d experienced memory lapses before, but they were short, and she was usually able to recall what had occurred a short time before. Nothing like now. This was frightening. Christ, maybe she had a brain tumor! She’d ask the doctor to schedule a CAT scan.

Feeling totally disoriented, she rose from the sofa and tottered into the kitchen, nearly losing her balance. Holding onto the kitchen island, she managed to steady herself. Gingerly, she navigated to the cupboard above the sink where she found her bottle of pills. The doctor had told her to increase her dosage to three tablets a day. Shit. How many had she taken? She recalled taking one in the morning after breakfast, but couldn’t remember if she taken her afternoon dosage. The bottle was nearly full. She’d just filled the prescription two days before, but there was no way for her to know how many she had taken unless she counted how many were left.

She emptied the bottle and frantically began counting the pills. Six missing. That meant she hadn’t taken one after returning home.

She felt like hell. Her hand shook as she snatched a pill from the counter and shoved it into her mouth. She quickly filled a glass half-full of water and swigged it down. She had to pull herself together. The last time she’d experienced blanking out was months ago. Since resuming sessions with Dr. Praxton, she’d been fine. Maybe she’d wait to do the CAT scan. Instead, she’d schedule more sessions with the doctor. She’d explain what happened and then see what he’d have to say.

She left the kitchen and headed for the bathroom. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, she began dousing her face with cool water. When she raised her head from the sink and glanced into the mirror she panicked. Directly behind her, over her right shoulder, stood Alan with this leering expression that caused her blood to freeze.

CHAPTER TWO: EASY MONEY

So, yeah, I’m in. But I’ll need half the shit up front. Ten large.

Billy Perkins fidgeted with his remote control flicking through channels randomly and scratching his chest in an effort to work out the itching that had had him in its grip since early morning.

Ten thousand dollars. No problem. But first I’ll need to have some insurance, a high, tight voice answered.

Insurance? What the fuck did that mean?

Yes, insurance. I’ll need to have some information about you. And I’ll need to see you.

See me? Why the hell you need to see me, man? I’m not usin’ Tor ‘cause I dig slow networks. Let’s just leave it how it is.

Billy had been using Tor since his buddy Grit turned him on to the Darknet. Tor stood for The Onion Router. A totally encrypted network that used thousands of anonymous servers, making IPs untraceable. Their audio chat was entirely under the radar, no chance of anyone listening in. His main issue with Tor was that it was about as slow as the flow of money into his empty pockets.

Doesn’t work that way, pal. I either get the information I need on you, and see you, make visual contact, or the deals off.

See me?

I need to make sure you deliver what you advertise.

So you telling me you like gotta visually check me out, Billy replied, biting his fingernails.

You got it.

How will I get the ten large?

The same way most businesses like yours get paid. With Bitcoin. You give me your account information and I’ll Bitcoin the money.

Just like he’d thought. He’d never dealt in this fuckin’ screwy digital currency. But from what he’d heard, it was legit. And people in his kind of business had to accept the fact that Bitcoin was the only way dudes like him got paid.

I ain’t gonna get screwed on the exchange rate. So you best figure that in when you get the coin to me.

You leave all that to me. But first we need to get one thing straight. Like I said, I need to see you. I don’t mean meet you. I mean see you. I have no intention of making actual contact with you. Do we have an understanding?

Fuckin’ great, man. He wasn’t supposed to know who was hiring him, but it was okay for the dude hiring him to ID him. If he wanted the job, it didn’t look like he was going to have much of a say in the matter.

Yeah, sure. Then you’ll make the deposit. Right? And the dude’s name?

You’ll get it. But first things first. I need to know more about you before we take this a step further. That is, if you’re serious.

I’m serious. So shoot. Whaddya need?

Billy got up from the couch and stepped into the small dingy kitchen. The damn tap kept dripping. He gave the faucet a hard twist, but to no avail. The drops continued to make a tapping sound against the tin basin. He’d complained to the landlord about the tap and the running toilet, but, for the little he paid for rent, he couldn’t expect much. He opened the refrigerator door and looked in to see what he could scrounge up. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, when he started coming down with the heebie geebies. He’d gone to Wendy’s and bought a burger on sale for 99 cents, but that was yesterday afternoon. His stomach had been groaning for the last hour nonstop.

Your name and address. And don’t con me. I’ll check it out.

"Man, I’m puttin’