the Dirty Dozen - Chapter 62

   One of the things Mike enjoyed working closely with Merry, was the fact that she was only one degree short of being an actual psychologist. Her PhD would have been spent mostly working on her doctoral thesis, with actually very little required classwork. This gave Mike the advantage of having a staff psychologist in all but title, at his beck and call, in addition to Merry's unique qualifications to work the undercover pool.

   Mike, like a lot of intelligent and insightful people… was not always impressed with every single person that had the required number of college degrees to certify them an expert on a particular subject, and psychology was no exception. The unfortunate truth, is that most of the people that maintain a 4.0 grade point average, are utterly convinced that they are in fact, simply a genius. Naturally, everyone around them… tells them so. From the teachers down to the last student.

   The big problem is, that "perfect" students are quite intelligent, but, generally lack creativity. They tend to have impressive vocabularies. Impressive reading and writing skills. Impressive memories. The glaring problem though, is that these "term learners" generally are fine at memorizing the equations and how to solve problem X. Yet, little else.

   Mike knew the truth. Give them a novel problem? One that required a new approach, one that they had not had the opportunity to memorize the proper way to solve it? They floundered. This made them mad. Many of them, were so proud of their supposed genius, that they would then make something up, in an attempt to keep impressing everyone around them. Instead of just admitting they had no idea how to attack the new problem.

   Mike had learned in college early on? The best student in the classroom, rarely maintained a 4.0 GPA. Mike heavily preferred to hire from the 3.0 to 3.8 GPA range. Because that was in Mike's personal experience, the GPA range of the one person in every class he had ever been in, that was the best at leading the study group in solving the new problem the professor wanted everyone to solve.

   The pseudo-genius 4.0 students? Would get mad and yell at the professor in most cases. How unfair it was, that he expected them to know how to solve a problem, without benefit of being instructed on it first. The professor, would smile. Explain himself blue in the face, trying to get it through their thick 4.0 skull, that the entire point of the class, was to teach them how to solve NEW problems.

   The professor would launch into a lecture. Who wants someone with a college degree, that can only solve problems that have already been solved! What was the point of that! The smart college student was expected to know how to solve NEW problems. Problems nobody had solved yet. If all the 4.0 students could do, was memorize and imitate how to solve problems already solved? They would never rise to the top of their profession.

   No, the students that tended to appear to be the best in the class? Always a 3.0 to 3.8 range, usually. The kind of student that didn't care what grade they actually got, that was actually interested in the subject. Actually creative in attacking a new problem.

   Mike considered Merry, from the moment he had discovered her in the FBI academy, to be a goddamned gold and diamond mine. A trained psychologist in all but final degree, and what he considered to be great at her job of being a psychology expert. Merry had consistently maintained great GPA while getting a free education from a prestigious university by being a female sports star, but was not what Mike hated the most… the dreaded 4.0 memorize-r. The psychology field? Was littered with that sort of person. They all considered themselves to be superior in intellect? When in reality Mike found them to be all but useless.

   Mike could simply look up and read things in books, and now it was even easier on the internet. What the hell did anyone need a person to read and memorize things for in any field? No, Mike highly prized Merry for her ability to provide a psychological work up of anyone she spent enough time around. Not only criminals, either. Mike could get Merry around anyone, and pick her brains on what would most likely motivate the person, or demotivate them. How to get person X on board with something he wanted or needed. How to stop or discourage person Y, from what he didn't want to deal with.

   So when Merry decided to do a psychological work up of Panic, simply for herself and her benefit… she was in a unique position to be thorough about it. Most people could and did lie and bend the truth to any professional quizzing them. Panic, in her experience? Was unique in that respect. He always told her the exact truth in most situations, even when he knew it wasn't going to make him look good.

   Merry had secret weapons available to her as well. Letting Panic use her laptop whenever he wanted to? Allowed her to comb every site he visited, to get an idea of his interests. Merry had learned, that if you let your boyfriend or close friend use your laptop, then look at their history? You would know what they looked at on internet shopping sites, and you then knew what to buy them. Merry's laptop, because she was an FBI agent? Had software to list and catalog everything the person did, every keystroke they typed.

   Panic, she now saw, spent a degree of his online fun time, looking at electronics components. Not devices, but the components themselves. Resistors, capacitors, coils, and lots of much more advanced things she couldn't even fathom. Frustrated? She looked the definitions up. It didn't help her any. This was weird to her. Panic had 2 degrees in Mathematics and Computer Science from a middling University, and she now saw, by sorting his emails? He was emailing a number of people back and forth about electronics projects.

   It took her a while to realize what was going on here. She looked up the email senders and receivers, to see who they were. Again, something only an FBI agent was supposed to have the software for. Merry initially assumed this would be other people that had a hobby interest in electronics. Panic was emailing back and forth with Electronics Engineers. He was asking questions, and getting answers from men with degrees in the field. Shocked to discover this, she had trouble believing it. But there it was.

   That was when she found out, that many of the emails were Electronics Engineers emailing him with their questions, and he was emailing them back the answers in many cases. Some were actually arguing with him that his approach was incorrect. And he was arguing back with them, and sending links to other websites, that explained what he had figured out. Most of the time? They ended up admitting he was right. Not always. This wasn't his field, after all. Yet… usually.

   Now she remembered a conversation with "Little Robbie", when taking a break from a day's shooting lessons with the two of them… Rob had at the time made what she took for a joke. That Panic was not only the "computer radio" operator for their little private army down at the equator, he could diagnose and fix the damned things as well. He performed two jobs in one person, that was why he was originally hired as a needed expert for the group. She had thought Rob was joking when he quipped, that "Panic can design and build his own damned radio, if he wanted to, for fun."

   Now, looking at emails with all the Electronics Engineers? He clearly could. He was in an online group of electronics people, that were designing things. One of those projects? Was designing a communications radio. From scratch.

   Merry was taken aback. She had always found Panic to be intelligent, and clever. She just found out, that he was a lot smarter than she had thought. Merry liked intelligent men, as much as she liked macho men, but this was clearly a bit more then she had bargained for. She was getting impressed, all over again. Why wasn't Panic bragging about his electronics abilities? He wasn't really shy about admitting he was a "geek", and rather laughed and proclaimed himself a nerd. He liked impressing his girlfriend, as any man would. He had been holding back.

   Just like he held back being a tough guy. He would let you know he was a tough guy? But… never totally reveal himself. This was the same. He came on as intelligent, but, he held back the depth of it. Ashamed? Or… another carefully concealed weapon. Probably a mixture of both.

   Tracking where he went on the internet, with her FBI software, she continued digging. Next she found out, he was on a music site. Two of them actually. He was uploading classical music for other people to hear it, and critique it. On one website, he had uploaded five classical music pieces, and asked people to listen to all five of them, and pick out the one he had made. This was in response to someone making fun of him.

   Various people following the conversation online, picked this one or that one, to be the one he made. They argued which one was going to be the amateur piece, and which of the others were works he had downloaded from somewhere, that were other people's work. A man on that website, was going to declare the winners, IE, identify which piece Panic had written.

   She had read the long series of people chiming in. At the end of the long series of comments? The man who already knew, had a surprise for the people making fun of Panic.

   He had written all five pieces, and he could prove it. Apparently, this man had invited Panic to join this site, and a few smartass types had made fun of him for not having a "professional" music job, and not having any "education" in the field.

   Panic apologized, and explained that he was self taught to compose classical music, and that he had his own words and terms he made up for himself as he went along. He was sorry for the confusion this created, and he apologized to the man who had made fun of him, it had been a misunderstanding on both their parts.

   Merry then, though she had no great particular interest in classical music, simply had to listen to those same five pieces. One was short, one was very long, and the others ran the gamut in between short and long. As she turned the volume up on the Bluetooth stereo her laptop fed? She was surprised. It more or less sounded like… a classical soundtrack. The sort of music you heard during scenes from a movie and didn't notice much.

   One was short and suspenseful. You were waiting for the "jump scare", but it never came. One, the longest? Had several parts, different from each other. Some parts were pretty and bittersweet, others were downright scary. Two more were very pretty, but, heavily bittersweet. Only one was truly beautiful. Intricate and delicate. Like lace flowers, unfolding with morning dew sparkling upon them.

   Was this what was inside of the man? The emotions he had and felt, but was unable to express normally… it was possible. If this was some reflection of what was inside of him, she tried to measure it. He liked to make big, heavy, dark, scary. These things would contain parts that were almost pretty, but always that bittersweet. He was heavy on that bittersweet as well.

   Only in a few places, did he do what she thought sounded like delicate, intricate, beauty. In most places, it was all big and heavy and somewhat dark. His signature, seemed to be the pretty but drenched in bittersweet. Only one piece, was all heavy dripping bittersweet… then changed into abject joy and bouncing beauty. For a long time too. Just when you thought the middle break would end? It would reprise with novel changes. More bouncing joy. Again and again… then back to the mysterious bittersweet to an understated ending.

   The main "complaint" on any serious reviews? Most people didn't like most of his endings. Professionals, or those claiming to be… wanted endings that tidied things up. Non professionals? Didn't usually enjoy a long musical piece, that they otherwise enjoyed and approved of? To abruptly simply end. Or, to end with little fanfare. More than one reviewer called him on this.

   "Everything is wonderful. What's with the contrived ending?"

   "Otherwise great, but… the ending? Sounds like the composer just decided okay, this is enough. We're going to just make up a generic ending here. See you next time. Lights on, door's open, get out, the party's over."

   Was this a clue to the man's inner psychology? He understood everything else about the music, yet he didn't seem to fully understand endings. One reviewer perhaps put it best, and that review had been up-voted.

   "This is actually a really good piece. Moderately brilliant, even. Then? After many minutes going on this musical journey? I feel like I am close to the ending… and BAM! nothing… the musicians all quit, stand up, and walk out the door. I feel like I was watching a war movie, and… everyone just quit and the movie ended. Damn it! Finish this piece! I enjoy it otherwise!"

   Merry was not without emotions, her own emotional thermostat was just turned down to below room temperature. In places in life, at times… she just knew what she was supposed to feel, even though she didn't, or more usually, felt only a hint of.

   It was obvious. He was expressing his emotions through music. That last reviewer had put his finger on it, without knowing anything. He had felt it. Panic? Had gone off, and been in a little private war. The war was prolonged and protracted, because it wasn't supposed to end. It was war though, it was scary and brutal. And the beauty that poked through? That was the mud hut villagers, and his Siggy. Simple, beautiful and sweet. Then? Back to the terrifying reality of it. And in the end? Yes, the musicians had simply gotten up, had enough, and walked out the door. Rob had mentored him, hey, it's time to go. This is bullshit.

   Panic didn't understand endings. Good endings or bad endings. Either one would have sufficed for him. His youth and young adulthood? He really should have either disintegrated and fell apart, or, simply exploded and acted out, violently and unexpectedly. But, he hadn't. He adapted, he coped.

   He understood beauty and delicacy, but, everything was bittersweet to him. He could smile and appreciate the beauty in life? But, along would come a storm and destroy it. He appreciated the human race, but only as an animal lover appreciates animals. Watching the body language, ignoring the words that were all lies. And? The speakers didn't even grasp the lies they spouted. He had told her straight out, hadn't he? He loved her, as simply as you love a cat. You pet it, it purrs. If it scratches you? You ignore it, and wait for the next snuggle.

   Merry felt that slight knife in her guts feeling. And, she knew she was supposed to be feeling it much worse, if her thermostat was turned up to room temperature. This was what his parents had felt. Seeing someone brilliant but innocent. Not truly understanding everything around him. Floundering. An all star team? That couldn't win a ball game. Winning? When he should be losing. Losing, when he definitely should be winning. Thrashing out blindly and violently? To no net effect. Then, simply taking it all, and enduring it endlessly.

   Instead? He came out the other end of going down the rabbit hole that was life. Popped out into a strange, upside down world that made no sense. He should have disintegrated and fell apart. Or, he should have exploded like a supernova. Again, he hadn't. He simply developed a rock hard shell. Like a dinosaur bone that turned into stone. Hollow inside, a void. A bulb for light in there, alone, but… you had to flick the light-switch off, and leave it off. You had to sit in your stone fortress, alone, and many times in the self imposed dark.

   Not having any other option? He simply painted a smirk on the outer stone walls, and called it a day. The world could kick it, try to burn it, storms could rage… all to no effect. You can't hurt a stone. It endures. Inside? Safe? He would crack the door and let a cat in, to snuggle with.

   "Merry? You're my cat. You're just a big cat to me."

   Merry was sure, she should be crying, if her thermostat was set at room temperature, the way it should be. It wasn't though. She could do her psych evaluation dispassionately enough to finish it.

   Another set of online arguments? The professionals that made a living writing music in the industry… all used the same software to write it. Panic was getting teased for using "shit" software, fit only for "clueless morons" to be allowed to "fart and shit" childish music.

   Several people had come to his defense. That they used the same software themselves. They only shifted over to the professional software when they were done? So people that hired them thought they were "professional enough".

   Panic was on another website, where people were learning to edit video and audio clips. They would post their short little clips they created. When she looked at one he had made and posted up? She realized that his "soundtrack" was his own original classical composition. She had just heard it, and it was fresh in her mind.

   She looked at his "reviews" of his original classical music compositions. The one website, was amateur and professional music composers. They prided themselves on being the premiere website for composers. Men that had scored movies, and could prove that was who they were in real life? Were on that website.

   Panic was judged to be "not ready to score a movie. yet." But… that made him a 9. Out of 10 possible ratings. A rating of ten? Was "ready to score a movie. maybe."

   11? Was the highest and most prized rating on the website. You had to have already composed a score for a movie, and could prove it. 11 was "Scored a movie. Been there, done that."

   If you made it to the rating of ten? You now had a chance, if someone in the field liked your original music, to get noticed and corresponded with by young producers and directors looking for undiscovered talent in the industry.

   She went back and studied his own splash page everyone had on the website. If you had a link to your own music site? You were allowed to put a link to it at the bottom of your page. She clicked on it.

   A very basic page. Nothing outlandish and fancy. Very basic font. She read the cover page.

   "If you are here? You are interested in my own personal music catalog. Feel free to listen to any of the tracks. If you want to leave a review? Please do so. Praise is fun, but, I particularly like bad reviews. How am I going to get better, if you don't tell me what you don't like. Be brutal, I enjoy it."

   "Unlike most catalogs? Mine is set to allow downloads. Feel free to download any or all of the tracks, for listening, copying and sharing, or to use as original background music for your own film projects."

   "Film school students welcome."

   She went and looked at the catalog. She spot checked the short clip that would play a portion of each song, so you didn't have to listen to all of it to see what you wanted. She looked at the downloads, every time someone downloaded a track, it added to the counter. Some were more popular than others. She read through a lot of the reviews.

   Most were from film school students, and others were from people in music school. One music school student? In the review thanked the owner of this site, for allowing him to download a classical piece, and providing him with the sheet music for all the parts played, and giving him permission to use it in school, as his own work. He promised to only use it for his class project, and not to pass it off as his own work after school.

   Hundreds of film school students were excited to find original music to score their short video for their film school projects, and they were emailing each other to let others know of the free site they had found. Most catalogs, it seemed, cost a small amount of money for license to use the music in a project.

   Panic's site was completely free. He was just giving away his "product", to get people to listen to it. One day? If the planets lined up? Maybe. Just maybe… one of these students might make it, and get to direct some cheap, B grade, direct to video DVD movie. Or a commercial, or a radio spot. They might remember the free music catalog, of original music compositions.

   If it ever happened? They would have some idea where to go, on a shoestring budget, to try to get "real music" for their cheesy little project.

   A lot of it? Reminded her of what people jokingly called "elevator music". Even though stores and elevators no longer played background classical music, it sounded the same to her.

   Merry couldn't believe what she was seeing. Or hearing, for that matter.

   One of the emails, was about cryptography. When she clicked on the link, it plopped her onto a cryptography site. Panic had directed someone to read a "white paper" on a custom cryptography system. Merry was no higher math whiz, but had enough college math to get her degrees, that she could sort of follow along the basic plot line.

   The white paper was about 20 pages long, and described how the project had started, what it had turned into. How the cipher worked. The description explained that the cipher was not a certain number of bits for the key. It was variable. You could use as large a key as you wanted to.

   There was an argument on the website. A person claiming to be a professional cryptographer? Declared it impossible, and if possible? Useless. Panic in a response, had dropped a hyperlink to this white paper, on another website. Merry went there.

   Another home made, very simple, web page.

   "If you are here, you are no doubt interested in the variable length key cryptography system. Before any email correspondence, please download the white paper by clicking on the link at the bottom of this page, and familiarize yourself with the terms and general functions of the cipher. Kindly refrain from criticizing the cipher system or dismissing it wholly out of hand, without reading and understanding the white paper."

   "Also please remember. This system allows for extremely long key lengths. You will naturally be used to a key length of for example 128 bits. It bears repeating, that a key length of 128 in THIS system? Will be 128 bytes, not 128 bits. So, a key length of 128, will 8 times 128 bits, or 1024 bits."

   "Key length is only limited by processor speed and memory. The cheapest laptops commonly available at this time? Have been tested and run fast enough to demonstrate that the cipher system works. 2,048 bit keys work fine on cheap laptops. Faster machines with more cores and processor speed and large banks of memory? Will easily process 4,096 bit key lengths. My own personal desktop, is a reclaimed server/workstation. 48 gigs of RAM, and dual 8 core processors running at 3 Ghz each. I routinely run 8,192 bits without a hitch."

   "Before you start claiming this is impossible or useless? You might want to look here and click this link. This will take you to statistical workups of the character distribution. You will note the completely flat character distribution output of this cipher. Please note? This was a stress test. The plain text was 1000 small case letter "e", no spaces, over and over again. The cipher-text output at 1,024 bits? Was already completely flat."

   "It should be obvious, this cryptography system will enable the user to stay ahead of all supercomputer developments in the future. No brute force attack, even a large scale distributed system, will be able to keep up."

   "To silence critics, that said it would not work? I have already written software to implement the cipher, see the link after the white paper download. Be sure to choose Linux or Windows version, so as to run on your system. Linux version is preferred, for speed. Your software download? Will also include the white paper, the compiled software, and a short instruction text. Also included? Along with the compiled and running software example, is the program code."

   "The last link? Is what I call the 'big test'. I copied a little bit of English text, and provide the cipher-text. If anyone can email me back the plain-text? I would like to see it. Any and all corporations and government agencies are formally invited to put any large resources and/or high end expertise they might have at their disposal, to take a crack at it. Good luck."

   Merry, knowing Panic, could understand his interest in this subject, she was just once again surprised by it.

   She about died when she noticed that this overly simple web page, was exactly the same format and style as the musical catalog download page. Panic had not been following someone working on this cipher system, as it had seemed.

   It was him.

   Merry suddenly remembered Panic explaining the story of the first day of first grade. The funny story about the nun smacking him across the face, when he asked innocently, why all the other children were pretending they couldn't read. He didn't understand. He had thought everyone could read.

   What was the book he said he had gotten from the library catty corner to his catholic grade school? Then she remembered the title. Bullfinch's Mythology. She looked it up online.

   It was over a thousand pages long. It was considered the standard encyclopedia of all mythology, Greek, Norse, and the legends of Charlemagne. Panic had been talking to an 8th grader, who had read Jason and the Golden Fleece. He had gotten a library card at the town library so he could read it too. He still remembered the catalog number. J292 Sis, it was the first book he had borrowed from the "real library", and he had been excited to be able to read any book he wanted. On any subject.

   It had stimulated his first grade imagination, and he liked mythology so much, that the second book he borrowed had been Bullfinch's Mythology. So he could read all the Greek mythology, and all the stories.

   Merry started doing the math she hadn't thought of at the time. Panic had said his birthday had fallen right around the time that he could start kindergarten a year early, or, a year later. His parents had sent him a year early.

   He had gone to kindergarten, already able to read the newspaper, cover to cover. For a "couple years" already. She suddenly realized, that meant he had been able to read the newspaper, cover to cover, every story… at only a couple years old. He laughed, that he could read it, but, didn't understand the adult subject matter of most of the articles. Merry laughed to herself. She was a full grown adult, just over 30, and had advanced degrees in psychology? Even she didn't understand the idiots in charge of Washington DC half the time.

   Politics would make absolutely no sense to a three or four year old.

   She suddenly realized? No three or four year old, in any way shape or fashion… should be able to read a small town newspaper, cover to cover, to himself or aloud to the adults who must have marveled at the little kid doing it.

   It would seem amazing to any adult that spent any time around him. It would also seem slightly terrifying to them at the same time. If he could read the newspaper at 3 or 4, he would have started talking before that time. Talking like an adult, while the other toddlers his age were still babbling nonsense.

   Panic, as a child unable to stand up yet, had simply started talking and reading. Panic said as a little kid before kindergarten, he used to follow his father around, and like any little kid, try to imitate anything he did. The funny story, was that he wanted "coffee", just like Dad, at the breakfast table. So, his mom had to give him a cup of hot chocolate.

   She could see it now. A cute little four year old. At the breakfast table. Having his "morning coffee" just like dad did. Dad was reading the morning paper, so, he wanted to read the paper too. The funny story was that he wanted his coffee and morning newspaper just like dad did. Cute. Sweet.

   Then all the adults realized he wasn't looking at the newspaper pretending to read it, imitating dad. He was actually reading the paper.

   Who in the hell, now that she thought about it, could remember the card catalog number of the first book they ever read? No one. Well, no one normal.

   What three year old reads the newspaper. What five to six year old reads books over a thousand pages long. She suddenly realized, Panic had been telling her that he was like this, and now she was the dense one. He had told her the funny story about the "morning coffee" and "reading the paper" with his dad… she had been so engrossed in the "cuteness" aspect of it, that she had completely missed the point.

   He had told her, and wasn't kidding, that he could read the newspaper cover to cover, at least two years before he went to kindergarten. The night she had been forced to come out to him, earlier than she had planned. The night he had blown holes thru her cover story like a goddamned machine gun. What had he said? I'm not stupid, don't make that mistake. I'm smarter than you think… she was paraphrasing, of course, but that was the gist of it.

   Now, she had a more complete picture of what it must have been like for him growing up. A face that didn't show emotions. A voice that was an even, robotic monotone. A body that wouldn't show emotional body language. But, he had all the emotions. He just didn't know how to show them. Until he was old enough to notice and look at himself in the mirror. To become self aware for the very first time, that he was different than almost everyone else around him.

   Some adults? Were little more than grown up children, even many teachers were like that. They would not enjoy a first grader that talked like an adult. Used sarcasm. Remembered everything, and pointed out mistakes. Hell, he was reading a book in first grade that many adults with college degrees would find painful to read, and not only wouldn't enjoy the experience of reading it, they wouldn't do it unless they were forced to do it, and had it assigned to them.

   Sure, some adults would smack him. Smirk in his face, that they were lying on him, and there was nothing he could do about it. Others? Looked the other way when the other children picked on him, and even encouraged it. Adult children, they were all around, all over the place.

   People that don't naturally show emotions on their faces, that don't naturally display body language… they can't read those things naturally, either. It wasn't until he was older, and became self aware, that he learned to wear a face mask. Read books on animal behavior. So he could understand the other humans. So he could read their body language. Almost all people do these things intuitively, and don't know they're doing it. He had to study it. Like a foreign language.

   But it was already too late. He already had developed his tough, indestructible outer shell. He was already hollowed out inside that hard protective outer shell. He had already developed the ability to just flick the switch, and simply shut off all feelings, on demand.

   18 years of school? Had been a life sentence for him. He had gotten out two years early on good behavior. What would such a young man want to do, when he got into high school? Running long distance. Lifting weights. Trying to learn to fight. Long used to being hurt emotionally and physically, nothing would now phase him.

   What would such a young man want to do after high school? Join the service. He just wanted to fit in, somewhere, anywhere. He wanted to wear a uniform, so he would look like everybody else. He wanted to have the same haircut as everyone else. He had no doubt noticed, that cops and men in the armed forces? Often stood around with their famous blank faces. Military bearing. He would be attracted to that, like an ant marching to a picnic.

   The service? Would be excited as all hell, to get an enlisted man out of high school, that was already a computer programmer. A man that was in shape, quiet, and never caused any problems. He would have made his first real friends. The expressionless face, and quiet talk and tone? Wouldn't have stuck out nearly as much. With his face mask on, he could finally sort of fit in. Blend in. This would have been his dream come true.

   He would have ran long distance. Swam long distance. Read all the books he wanted. Studied anything he wanted to in his free time. No bills. Free food. Free clothing. Perfecting his face. Studying all the men around him every day. Men he thought were tough guys. In idle talk, he told her he had been housed in essentially apartment buildings with the MPs. Military Policemen. That was a rough bunch.

   What had he said? First real friends he had. They would kidnap him, and make him go out to drink beer. Go places for fun with them. Wouldn't let him stay home every night and every weekend reading books. They took him shooting. Introduced him to fighting for fun. Practice fighting.

   This was southern Texas. He spoke conversational Spanish from high school language classes. They would have loved having an interpreter with them. He was necessary in a group now. He finally was a member of a pack for the first time in his life. He would have done anything he could for those men. He would have treasured this time.

   She saw it clear as a bell now. He was finally in a peer group, for the first time in his life. Hanging out with the MPs? Protection. On an Air Force base? These would be some of the toughest characters around. With his thick skin, and quiet ways? They accepted him fully. He learned how to look and act like they did. Studied them. Copied their behavior.

   Be quiet. Be polite. If anyone tries to push you around, physically or any other way? You tell them politely not to. They don't take the hint? You threaten them. They call your bluff? Take it right to them. Strike first, strike hard, do not quit striking until the threat is down for the count. With all the military police for a peer group? Protection from his peer group, then protection after a confrontation. Witnesses that would testify how quiet and polite he was, that he was simply protecting himself.

   He would have loved this. He would finally have everything he had ever wanted his entire life. What would military police do for fun? He would have followed his friends to the gym. Weight lifting like he had started in high school. Long runs. Long swims. They would have introduced their new friend to hitting the heavy bag. Working a speed bag. Boxing for fun. Wrestling. When he seemed interested in watching his military police friends practicing taking down suspects that were bigger and stronger? Whee! New hobby. He would have joined in enthusiastically.

   They would definitely have taken him shooting. Not just the service rifles, though that as well. Handguns. Target work. How to shoot to kill. Hunting rifles. He would have been introduced to going hunting with the tough guys for the first time in his life.

   Young. In shape. Quiet and polite. Tough. Hanging out with the rough crowd in uniforms? The young Panic was finally introduced to the other thing he had missed in school everyone else enjoyed. Young ladies. Young women love guys in uniform, they like tough guys, they like tough guys that hang around other tough guys. He even spoke the Spanish language so it was even easier, it was yet another reason the MPs no doubt liked having him around. Young Panic? Was no doubt in his glory.

   Why would he ever even think about not just staying in until retirement? Why would he even want to go to college? Oh. He probably wanted to get a college degree, then planned on going back in as an officer. Much higher pay, much better housing, much higher prestige. He would be looking for the reward for doing well.

   His new "life skills"? Would ensure he would come out of the service an entirely different man than he had signed up as. College would in no way resemble high school. He no doubt planned on continuing what was working perfect for him. He would naturally gravitate to hanging around the tough guys on the college campus. Weight room. Sports jocks. He would plan on finally being able to enjoy being a nerd, because he wouldn't have any of the guff he remembered from high school. He would be older, wiser, and tougher than his peers.

   Smarter, too. Hmm.

   But, something happened on the way to college, hadn't it? Sure it did. People were recruiting men that just got out of the service. You had to have a long list of physical requirements. Particularly, running long distance. Swimming long distance. Able to carry a lot of heavy gear around in the heat. He already ran long distance for fun, and Merry knew southern Texas summers got up to 110 degrees.

   And? They desperately needed, someone who was good with radio equipment, electronics, and computers. Hard to find a guy tough enough, and smart enough, both. Panic. The pay would have been fantastic. GS18 to start out, was standard military contractor "minimum wage". It only went up from there.

   More tough guys to hang out with. This time? Something happened though. A little wrinkle. This wasn't his MP crowd he was used to running with. No, this new pack? He was in the recon and support group. A radio and computer and electronics guy… but the other team down there? No MPs… these were Airborne Rangers. Navy Seals. Marine Force Recon. Scout Snipers. All special forces.

   Panic took one look at these sweethearts? His heart all but skipped a beat. They made his tough guy MP peer group look like a troop of girl scouts. He would have been very impressed. Men with a reputation for being the toughest and most dangerous men in the entire world. He tried to impress this new peer group he wanted into? No way. These guys were a closed club. No outsiders. No way in hell.

   Panic insisted. They tried everything they could think of, to make him quit bothering them. Annoying them. Nothing was ever going to work. They even sent Little Robbie to try to torture him physically half to death. Robbie said, it was the only mission he ever failed at. They finally resorted to all but killing him, basically. Even that didn't work. He was winning them over, one by one. Had them fighting among themselves over it.

   Finally? He won them over. He was finally accepted as one of their own. He was smart. He was tough, both physically and emotionally. They mistook his blank face and thousand yard stare and no body language? For being one of their own. A fellow sociopath.

   The universe had created a sweet, innocent, genius. Mother nature was a cruel cunt. Mother nature's little darlings? Had abused and tormented him. He survived that, and grew tough and learned to not feel emotionally. Then? His troubles were over, and he had what he always wanted. Then? Things briefly went back to his young school situation, but only temporarily.

   Then, what had Little Robbie done?

   He took a sweet, innocent, genius… which was what he really was, underneath the shell, after all…

   …and? Little Robbie had fashioned him into a ruthless, cold blooded killer.

   Special forces all have to be highly intelligent, but they would likely have never seen anything like this new guy before. No wonder Rob liked him so much. He would be one of the most cunning, devious men they could find anywhere… coming up with new and weird tactics to kill, frighten, and terrify the enemy. They taught him not only the mechanics of killing, but how to use psychological warfare to create practically supernatural terror in their enemies.

   What had little Robbie been thinking? Gee, what a great new weapon I've found.

   Merry suddenly remembered the nickname Robbie sometimes called him. "Il Doro". She had to look it up. It was old speech, from when Latin was turning into Italian… for "the dark one". That was what his new friends had nicknamed him. Panic had fair skin. Never really got much of a tan. No, the nickname clearly meant that something far more sinister was dark about him.

   Little Robbie had found an honest to goodness modern day living and breathing Leonardo da Vinci… and he turned him into a ruthless, cold blooded killer.

   Little Robbie even took any last traces of guilt away from him, if he even allowed himself to feel guilt, when he turned his emotions back on. It was more than okay to kill for the good guys team. It was noble and honorable. To strike like the right hand of god himself.

   Little Robbie anointed his new apt pupil, with blood instead of holy water. He transformed Leonardo da Vinci…

   …into an Angel of Death.

   What had Uncle Mike said before? Thank god he uses his power for good. Merry suddenly remembered he had his own case him and Speedy the retiring state cop were working on. The case had stalled. He had found a clever way to get his own senior agent, running the case? To act, without even knowing it. First chance he got. He was for the first time in his life? Hamstrung on his tactics he could use. Investigating some big multiple murder case? He had deviously and slowly wormed his way into having the better part of the FBI itself at his disposal. Sort of. Manpower. Budget. Hardware. IA was sort of like the intelligence division, he was wired and plugged into them as well. They owed him favors.

   He came off as nothing like he actually was. He had found something. Discovered something. Then? He went and got his own personal state police investigator, to further it. Speedy clearly thought he was in charge, but was he? Now him and Speedy were at the FBI. Panic had wrangled a federal carry permit and FBI credentials, by not taking any money for the work he was doing. He now, basically, had the FBI more or less working for him and Speedy.

   The FBI thought it was "in charge". Speedy thought he was "in charge".

   Jesus H. Christ, it suddenly struck Merry. Panic? Was playing a big, giant game of chess. He was slowly raising an army. To achieve his objective. By being plugged into the FBI on his case? He now had everything under the FBI as well. That meant, all he had to do was convince someone at the FBI that something was a good idea? Then, it happened. The FBI, could and would, put any state's state police force at their disposal if they thought they could make use of it. Any county agency, any local force, anywhere. The FBI shared information back and forth with all the other big agencies too, the FBI was all but a clearing house for information.

   DEA, ATF… even the NSA and the Pentagon shared with the FBI.

   What had Panic told her once about fighting?

   "Merry, if you ever find yourself in a fair fight? Your tactics suck."

   What else had he said?

   "Merry? I would never want to be the king. I would only want to be the man that whispers into the king's ear."

   Merry just shook her head, and almost felt sorry for the people he was after, because they were killing his innocent villagers all over again. Pissing him off. He was going to come down like the Hammer of Thor itself on some organization of monsters of some kind, somewhere. They were never going to know what hit them.

   It was as if he had written a big, giant, piece of classical music. There was now a gigantic orchestra, tuning up. Getting ready to play his masterpiece he had created. A whole concert hall of professional LEOs instead of professional classical musicians. Badges and guns and computers and warrants… instead of strings, percussion, brass and woodwinds.

   Speedy was conducting his masterpiece. For him.

   Panic? Was pulling the strings, like a puppet master, behind the curtains. He was as dangerous as the devil himself. She had watched him take thirteen lives like he was breathing, in the space of a few minutes of… "play-time". He didn't even crave any credit for it, he was content to give someone else the gold stars and brownie points.

   With a couple weeks planning, and one night's work? He had killed or captured practically all the remaining "dirty DC crew" that were left. Led them up to him, tricked them into thinking they were getting their big prize, and had sprung the trap.

   He finished IA's job for them. Practically single handed, with a little help from his two buddies. He had decided to give his girlfriend a little late birthday present, by eliminating her enemies. He had kicked her and Uncle Mike's eavesdropping operation? From the minor leagues, to the big leagues. When he had seen how impressed the bikers were with his one dirty cop kill? He had handed Merry 13 of them, a baker's dozen for her own reputation.

   To make her safer. If he couldn't talk any sense into her, with her job? He had instead decided to make her job easier, and more productive, both. Now, Uncle Mike was going to look like he was unflappable in the face of impossible odds. Enhancing his already somewhat legendary status at the bureau as someone who hit the ground running. Then took charge and did what needed to be done.

   He had handed out gifts, to his friends that he liked. He was protecting his friends, and destroying the enemies that got in their way. Ruthlessly. He wouldn't take any money for it. He didn't want any fame or recognition or reputation out of it either, he gave that away as well. Gifts. Treats for the animals that he liked.

   He was just playing at this, for fun. Something to do. While he was waiting for the orchestra to finish tuning up, getting ready to play his masterpiece for him. His true enemies? The people he was really after? Didn't even know he was there at all, working in the background, setting everything up, pulling the strings.

   He was in reality, as dangerous as the very devil himself. His enemies? Didn't even know he existed at all. Everyone else was going to get all the credit, and he was content with that. When that was all done? He just wanted to live in a cabin, fuck his girlfriend, and go hunting and target shooting. Tend to all his various hobbies. Sit around an evening campfire, with his present day "MP" buddies.

   Merry realized how differently he could have, really should have, turned out. He so easily could have gone down a very different, and very dark path. With no human friendship outside his own family for an extended number of years? He had instead bonded socially with dogs and cats and other animals. He simply hid in the library every lunchtime, reading books. He spent his entire childhood and young adulthood, immersed in books. He could effortlessly quote whole paragraphs from them, 20 years later when he was discussing a subject.

   Why didn't he hate all the normal people? Why didn't he want revenge for being born different, for having suffered so much growing up? No. Instead of that, he had forgiven the human race. He had studied them, for the animals they really were, and discovered how to talk to them, how to hear what they were saying back to him.

   He had bonded socially with animals. The only way he understood normal people? Was by thinking of them as animals. He loved animals. He actually wanted to love normal people. He had found a way. He was clever and resourceful, and would always find a way to do what he thought he needed to do.

   He was imitating his own father. A scary and dangerous man in his own right, yet, his own family thought of him as quiet and polite and not at all scary. A family god, but, not a wrathful god. A kind and merciful god. Panic was imitating the dangerous steel worker he had grown up observing. A man that was an old fashioned quiet hard ass. His father had taught him… your woman and your children and your pets? Should find you as nothing except loyal, hardworking, and pleasant to be around.

   He hadn't even known the full extent of his father's very dangerous side, until after he was older. His father never once bragged in his house how dangerous of a man he could be, if he needed to protect himself or his family or anyone else. He would even play it off, and all but lie so they would not fear him. Other people had to explain to him how feared and respected his father really was, if you got on his bad side. He had to all but corner his father, late in life, to get him to even half admit it was true.

   If someone was in charge of this circus down here, this human race, if there really was a god? He had seen to Panic being given a truly great role model. It was terrifying to even think what Panic would be capable of, had he not had his father to imitate. If his father had been a lesser man, in any of a number of ways? Panic would have ended up going down a very different, and much darker path.

   When Panic came home, because his new mentor Little Robbie had explained how they were being used, and how they weren't really allowed to win anyways? Panic obeyed his example. Rob, what is it time to do now? Rob told him, the lord's work was now done. The angels of death? Could sheath their flaming swords. The war was over, for them. It was now time to go home and try to "live the good life".

   The grass skirted villagers, that lived in simple mud huts… the ones that had so impressed them with their simple, rigid values? Friendly helpful and loving animals, that he wanted to protect from harm. Home, he viewed his "villagers", much the same. Little Robbie had taught him the people he lived around were his "flock" of sheep. They were to be protected, from the wolves. From the monsters.

   The real devil, whose works he had seen down at the equator? Had relocated to his own home. And had set about the devil's work once again. Panic was onto him, and his minions. This time? He would raise his own army. So he could win this time, so he would be allowed to win.

   He was a ronin now. A skilled warrior who no longer had a master anymore. He was his own master now. He wanted to atone for having once been fooled into serving a less than strictly honorable master.

   He had all the tools imaginable to complete his task. He was many things. Patient. Cunning. Deadly. Ruthless. Devious. He knew how to not simply beat and kill his enemies, but how to terrify the rest of them, with psychological warfare.

   She started to use her FBI software to trace his family history. She never had any trouble doing this, it was normally very easy. She was running into some sort of roadblock. That didn't make any sense at all. His criminal history, his driving record, his tax records? There wasn't really much of anything before a certain year. Merry started counting off years in her head, figuring out about how old he had been when this would be. She had to use a paper and pencil.

   He was almost 40 now. He had graduated high school before turning 18. She remembered the story how his parents had to sign a consent form for him to enlist in the Air Force because he was still 17. Six years as a computer programmer there. A certain several years spent down at the equator shortly after getting out of the service. Recruited into the now infamous Redwater group.

   She had to guess how many years that was, but when he got out, he had attended college for 4 years, earning his Associates of science in mathematics and computer science, then his Bachelors of Science in mathematics and computer science. That told her roughly how many years he had spent in the Redwater group, working as a military contractor. Then his couple of years she saw as tax records being a computer programmer, then the years spent being a delivery driver. So he had his precious free time he wanted. To do his own thing.

   What was the roadblock? It looked on paper as if he simply sprung up out of the earth, once he started attending college and after that. Where was his high school files she would have complete access to? It didn't make any sense.

   Wait a minute. He said his real name was Shane Eldon O'neil. He was definitely Irish, he looked it, and he had a name that was very Irish. He had told her Eldon was actually Gaeilc, old pre-Irish, and who he had been named after in Gaelic history.

   But… when they had stayed up late one night, smoking her little pipe, talking and sharing stories into the wee hours… he had related that his grandfather was French, and his grandmother was German. The two sides of the family hadn't gotten along. His father? Was half German, half French. He had mentioned the family name was Duvalier. It was roughly translated in French, her internet search had told her, as "of or from the valley".

   He had also told her that he was adopted, but, within the family. His father and mother? Were actually his aunt and uncle. His father and mother were both dead, and the real father's sister had adopted him… and her husband, was his new father and raised him as his own.

   His Air Force military record popped up under his name, Shane Eldon O'neill. But, his high school record? Non existent. She even remembered the name of the town he was raised in. This was weird.

   Being persistent, she started searching for Shane Eldon Duvalier. Adopted, he would have taken on the name of his father, now she had success. Now she could find anything she wanted on him, like normal. High school records now. Access to any notes in all the school files. Newspaper mentions of his letters in track. How he placed in county track meets running the mile for his county. Soccer team too. His newspaper enlistment photo from basic. A newspaper photo from 8th grade, playing chess against some senior from another school in some gifted course competition against other school's gifted kids competing.

   Gifted program, of course. That made perfect sense. Nowadays, parents demanded any kid with a good GPA be enlisted, but back in his day? It went by IQ. She now had access to the gifted program's records. She about shit her pants when she saw his tested IQ, when he had been young. Then? From her psychology training, she knew that was what they called the "old" or original Stanford IQ test. It had been "watered down" in today's world, like anything else. Under the modern version? He would have scored even higher.

   Merry sat and daydreamed back to graduate Psych classes. One in depth course had been on nothing but IQ testing. Her class was once told to just sit there, looking at a gigantic poster print of some weird painting. It was tons of things, medieval things. Carts, horses, villagers… rocks, trees… a very "busy" painting, shit-loads of little objects all through it. They were told to look, and write down what was wrong with the painting. Not to share, and to write down the time they saw it at.

   Most of the class, hell, practically all of them? took 3/4th of the entire 90 minute class to see the tiny thing wrong. The quicker you found "it", it bumped your score up. People that ended up in his test score range? Glanced at that same painting for the first time in their lives, and within seconds pointed out the tiny thing wrong. One teeny tiny little shadow facing the wrong way. An entire class of graduate level college students would just sit there, struggling to see what was wrong? People like him… could simply glance at something, and instantly see what was "off".

   That was why he had been able to shoot holes in her cover like a machine gun. You couldn't hide things from a person with the ability to notice things like that. That was what Little Robbie had found so endearing about the younger Panic down at the equator once he was on their team. One look at something? Oh, look guys… there's the hole in their defenses. What team wouldn't enjoy having a secret weapon like that on their side?

   SAT scores. Just over 1400. He had only taken them once. Most people took them several times, to get better and better scores. Most people took pre-SAT first, not Panic. Most people took classes to score better, but he didn't. He hadn't cared, he had enough to qualify to go to any college or university he wanted, provided he could afford it. That had been watered down now as well. They had taken the advanced verbal and the advanced math off of it. In today's system? He would have scored even higher.

   Under today's new GPA systen? His 3.9 high school graduation record would have been a 5.9 if he graduated now.

   She glanced over his high school coursework. Not just college prep like any good student, naturally he was in the science and technology course.

   Algebra I and Algebra II. Trigonometry. Geometry. Calculus I and Calculus II. Biology. Chemistry I and Chemistry II. Physics I and Physics II. Basic Programming. Pascal programming. Accounting I and Accounting II. Spanish I, Spanish II, Spanish III, Spanish IV.

   About the only class he had the slightest problems getting all A's and the occasional B? English class. Of course, he hated studying sentence structure, he admitted it made no sense to him. Every year, English class would have spent a whole quarter diagramming sentences, and doing the adverbs and dipthongs and all that. Direct objects and indirect objects. He hated it, it made no sense to him.

   Be, am, is, are, was, were, has, have, had, could, should, would… it drove him insane, he hated it. He would fail that semester then go right back to an A all the other English quarters. Until honors English. No more diagramming sentences. Then predictably, literature instead of English class.

   Where were the study halls? After 7th and 8th grade? He never had one. He always took another class to pack his school record, he was clearly preparing for a serious college career. Of course. This was the kid that took his lunch in the library. He wouldn't dare spend an hour in study hall with the other kids, when the study hall teacher would wander the halls and go get coffee in the teachers lounge. You had to always have authority figures around, or the children would get up to their tricks. Mother nature was a cruel cunt.

   She could tell exactly when he started running. Same year he started lifting weights. Then? The fighting got started. His exemplary school record? Was blemished with an excessive number of suspension days. All for fighting. Every year? They increased. By his senior year? It had to be some kind of record he set.

   Three days suspension was normal, then eventually? They started rising. Five days each time. Then? They tried giving him seven to ten days home on suspension, for every fight. Out of a 180 day school schedule? He spent almost 60 days at home suspended for fighting.

   It clearly hadn't even affected his grades. He spent practically 1/3rd of his senior year? At home, suspended for fighting. And he still graduated in the top 10 of his class. He was in every advanced course they had, and he didn't even have to be in class, to get all A's and a few B's. A couple more 10 day suspensions? He would have spent half the senior school year. Sitting at home.

   Here it was. The Intermediate Unit file… kids that had "issues" got scheduled to see professionals with psychology degrees. This started in first grade. None of them, knew what to make of him. They didn't have a name for whatever he was back then. Everyone noted the extremely high written and verbal skills, right from 1st grade. Excellent student. They had placed him in 2nd grade classes, which seemed to increase his issues. He could handle the school work fine, but being around bigger and older children? Increased his problems.

   To little children, there's a big difference between 2nd graders and 3rd graders. The kids are quickly growing, and getting taller, quickly. He had already started school a year earlier, rather than a year later. Now they were putting him in classes with kids a year older than that. The last thing he needed, was to be around boys two years older than himself, that was the worst possible thing for him.

   None of the counselors or Intermediate Unit workers, could put their finger on whatever it even was. They all noted something was off, something was wrong. But, with how smart of a kid he was? Diagnosing any problems they had in their Disgnostic Statistical Manual of the day was impossible.

   All the usual suspects, to explain his stare, his blank face, his monotone voice? All would require some degree of impairment, particularly in reading and writing skills, and things like math. All noted that he was extremely polite and quiet, a complete gentleman. Teacher's reports? Some clearly didn't approve of him, despite his scholastic ability.

   Teacher's notes, were weird.

   "There's something wrong with him, it's obvious, I don't want him in my classroom."

   "He has too many problems with all the other children. It's either all the other children are the problem? Or, it's simply him that's the problem. What makes more sense? Will someone do something with him?"

   "I'm tired of having meetings with the parents. I'm tired of being threatened by his father. I should be allowed to smack one of my students upside the head, when they stare at me like that. There's no excuse for staring at me like that."

   Merry felt the knife twist in her guts harder now. With her turned down thermostat? She knew it was actually way worse of a feeling. Observation? I'm the teacher, and for no real reason? I simply don't like the natural look your face has on it. Conclusion? I am going to smack you upside the head, every time you so much as look at me.

   His words came back to haunt her, and twisted her gut knife harder, practically breaking the blade off in her abdomen with the lurch it made.

   "Why would a teacher demand I look her in the face, then smack me in the face for looking at her? I'm doing exactly what I am being told to do. Why?"

   "Some teachers? Encourage all the other kids to do stuff to me. Why?"

   Merry saw it clearly… it was teachers just like this one. When the father came and had a little talk with her? She could no longer hit little Panic every day, for not liking his face… so? She simply egged the other kids to do it for her. Ha ha ha.

   "He's a sweet little boy, and he does anything you tell him to do. He just needs an eye kept on him, or the other children get up to mischief. You can't leave the classroom for a minute. It's honestly not his fault."

   "He reminds me of some of my odd college professors, in some strange way. He will probably grow up to be a college professor somewhere. Honestly, just admit it. We've all been to college, how many odd but brilliant PhD's have you ran across on any college campus?"

   "The parent's gave a permission slip for him to spend every lunch hour, at the library across the street. The librarian says he's the sweetest little thing, and actually sits there and reads textbooks every day. She reports that a six year old reading those books, that fast? Then explaining it to her to prove he read it? She says it's amazing."

   By second grade, the librarian had a problem… and went to the principal of the catholic grade school…

   "The librarian now has a sign on the door, that no one under the age of 18 is allowed to enter the library, for any reason, for our lunch hour recess. The librarian actually came over to my office to explain that he is the only child allowed in for lunch hour. She claims that the other children were coming in, and being disruptive with him. She is tired of them trying to sneak in and cause problems. I don't understand why she is sticking up for this weird little boy."

   "The librarian is complaining that the other children are waiting at the door for him to come out when lunch is almost over. She requests the children be forbidden to cross the street and set foot on library property. She said she will walk him back personally at the end of lunch hour herself."

   The librarian seemed to be one of the only adults on his side, other than a couple of teachers who seemed to understand that it really was the other children causing all the problems.

   One teacher on his side, a rare thing indeed.

   "All you have to do? Is leave the classroom, and pretend you are going to be away for a little bit. Simply go outside, and watch through the window. You can see the other children start causing problems the instant you leave the classroom. One of them actually watches the door, to keep watch for me coming back. This child is NOT lying about the problems."

   More than one teacher was concerned about the parents. Particularly the father.

   "I just got done having a little talk with the father. His son told him I'm swatting him upside the head. The father came and had a talk with me after school, on the way to my car. Unscheduled. He was polite about it, but he implied I was not to put a finger on his son again. I'm telling my husband. I will not be intimidated and told how to do my job by some steel mill worker. I'm a college educated professional with a degree and a teaching certification. If the parents don't know how to solve this, I will."

   A week later? Same teacher again.

   "I told my husband. He was furious. He went to see the father. I waited outside their house in the car, while my husband went in to to meet the parents, and have a nice little talk with the father. My husband came back to the car inside of five minutes. He acted funny. My husband yelled at me, and said I was not allowed to put a finger on that boy, ever, for any reason. I tried arguing with him about it? He yelled at me. I'm pretty sure my husband is scared of the father. My husband is not a small man, I have never seen him act like this before."

   Now, Merry understood where Panic had gotten his protective streak. About women and children. That was a father's job. No one, was allowed to lay a finger on his wife or child, and he was not going to give one inch on it.

   As an adult? No one was allowed to so much as yell at his cat, let alone strike it. Merry knew, those were no idle words he had spoken.

   This went on for pages. Catholic grade school ended before their final 8th grade, when the Catholic kids started going over to the public junior high and high school to finish. The parents had enough of teachers putting their hands on their child.

   The head butting went right on into public grade school. Then junior high school. By 8th grade? The vice principal got into a fight with the parents. The mother called him an asshole, and the father brought the son in, and told him right in front of the vice principal.

   "You're allowed to fight anytime you feel like it. I don't care. You won't be in any trouble at home for fighting at school, and you're not grounded. You can do anything you please, when you get suspended."

   All of a sudden? If young Panic got into a fight? He was now rewarded for it. His grades didn't suffer, he was a stand out scholar. He simply got to stay at home for three, five, even seven or ten days. Probably read books, like he preferred to do anyways. Spend a few days with his family dog and cat, his best friends.

   The older he got? He was getting bigger, the other boys were getting bigger too. More aggressive. Notes in the files indicated the fights were getting more vicious. Kids were getting stitches and concussions. Panic and his peers alike. Panic was learning there was nothing fair about a fight. He several times had stabbed boys with sharpened pencils. Once? With a metal compass, in Geometry class of all things. He tended to bury it in their shoulder, the school nurse's notes reported. Fights were occurring downtown, according to police records. Juveniles fighting in town? Taken home to the parents. Sometimes? A small fine. Sometimes? To the emergency room. No biggie. Just kids being kids.

   The school nurse noted he had a reputation of stabbing a sharp pencil into the shoulder, then breaking it off there. The school seemed to him all but a prison. He would shank the other inmates that jumped him and wouldn't leave him alone.

   His literature teacher confiscated a book she found in his school book bag. 101 ways to maim and kill with a sharp pencil. She was concerned. Leafing through the short book he had gotten a hold of? She noted that stabbing in the shoulder, would scare the opponent, but not risk your opponent's life.

   He wanted to maim, not kill. Home made psychological warfare.

   Apparently in this town, in this time? You could put someone in the fucking emergency room? The police simply issued you a simple fine. No court date.

   Socially and economically at the time? This was a "nice" town to grow up in. But… only superficially, and in every way but one… it was like growing up in a hand to hand combat zone. She checked other small towns in the area, they were all showing police records like this. It was normal.

   Anytime some male teacher thought they were going to grab young Panic up, and shake him around? They suddenly had a surprise visit from the father. They noted the father was not actually violent, but, he implied it. Apparently, reading between the lines? No one was willing to try to call the father's bluff. While Panic didn't realize growing up that his steel mill father was apparently hell on wheels if you didn't heed his "friendly advice"? It was clear that somehow, as if by magic? Every male in town knew not to cross the quiet polite man. This father apparently had quite a reputation, that not a single person in the house knew about.

   Merry finally found a photo of the adopted father, what Panic simply called "his father". Not a particularly tall man, judging by the group photo of the steelworkers all posing for an award at the big steel plant the man had posed smiling for.

   They had their hardhats off. They looked like they had caught them coming to work, they weren't filthy from labor yet. The father was nearly in the center of the photo, giving a thumbs up, big beaming smile, proud his group of workers was being awarded their honor. The caption? The father was one of the workers, but led the crew. It was obviously summer, and working in a hot steel mill had the men wearing sleeveless and cut apart shirts. The father though not tall? Was a wide man. Thick legs, thick arms. Thick solid chest and shoulders and neck. Not the exaggerated build of a weightlifter, either. He looked like he bulged naturally.

   Oh… yes. Seeing this man, waiting patiently at your car in the parking lot? Smiling, friendly face. Gently suggesting you really shouldn't be smacking his kid across the face because you didn't like the face god had given him? Yeah, it was easy to see it now. The husband that had went in the house, because his wife demanded it? Oh, sure. Merry could easily imagine the "not a small man" coming out of the house quickly, and yelling at his wife. He wouldn't want to tangle with this. Just… leave that kid alone.

   What had Panic demanded of the world? He just wanted left alone. I want to read my damned book, just leave me alone.

   No wonder Panic had been so impressed by her. Merry surmised she was probably the first woman he had met in his life, that had tried to be protective of him. Physically protective of him. Panic could not do a thing to women, women and children were off limits. When Merry had demonstrated her willingness to put the women in town in their place? To be protective of him? She had earned a place near and dear to his heart.

   Things were coming into much better focus now. Panic's father, actually adopted father? Was a half German mill worker. 20 years older than any of the other "fathers" of Panic's peers. He was old school. He would have had values and ways that were from 20 years before. Men were expected to be tougher back then. They were expected to read the newspaper every day, and have coffee, and be able to discuss the day's events with the other men their age.

   Those were the heydays of the quiet man. The quiet and polite hard ass. Panic's mill worker father, expected his son to get a good education, and make something of himself. No wonder the mother and father had originally raised him not to fight, and to do well in school. Panic had said that up until 8th grade, he was in trouble at home if he got into a fight at school. He wanted his adopted son to go to college, not end up raising hell and doing labor for a living.

   By the time he lifted his ban, things were too far along.

   Panic was not the biggest guy in the world, but he wasn't a little guy. Merry figured that out. He would have been tall and skinny, until he started filling out slowly. He would have been quiet, and shy, and unsure of himself. What today was called "clinical shyness". The other children? Understood pecking order by natural impulse, but Panic didn't understand it. Everyone was having fun showing off, and the rather tall skinny kid that seemingly wouldn't or couldn't fight back? Was a favorite target.

   Except when he had exploded and beat a child down with a chair. Back then? Police weren't involved at schools. Parents could go and "talk" to teachers, even unscheduled if they felt like it. Nobody was suing everybody in sight yet. All the fathers had good jobs, with medical, and the child hurt bad with the chair? Had hospital bills paid for by the father's work. It was a different time.

   Seeing what was possible to get out of little Panic? The parents had been scared by the chair incident. He was not allowed to fight ever again. This created an even bigger problem, he became a target. By the time the father realized his mistake, and lifted his fighting ban in 8th grade? Too little, too late.

   Panic's young world view.

   1) I seem to be smarter than almost everyone around me

   2) everyone seems to either hate me, or simply tolerate me

   3) all the other children, are allowed to hit me

   4) I'm not allowed to ever hit anyone

   5) many teachers are in on this conspiracy too.

   6) immediate family is on my side.

   7) the librarians, and a few teachers too. Not many.

   8) don't talk to anyone, unless absolutely necessary

   9) don't look at anyone, unless absolutely necessary

   10) stay around authority figures you can trust, or hide

   11) animals and books, your only friends outside the house

   12) what the hell is wrong with me? I follow all the rules

   Panic's teen world view

   1) I'm still smart, but, it doesn't do much good

   2) I need to be big and strong, like my dad

   3) I need to lift weights, that might help

   4) I need to learn to fight, that will definitely help

   5) I need to learn to be a comedian, shy isn't getting it

   6) talk to everyone, look at everyone

   7) I need role models, to learn to be a tough guy

   8) I need to learn to have a face mask to wear

   9) something is wrong, but, I need to adapt

   10) for some reason, I have been taught that fighting is wrong, violence solves nothing, I should avoid a fight at all costs and then only as a last resort

   11) for some reason, everyone else has been taught that fighting is the right thing to do, violence solves everything, fighting and violence is the first thing you should try

   12) violence is a language. I need to learn to speak it fluently, or this will never end or get better.

   13) pretty girls love violent men

   14) nice guys finish last. being smart and nice is useless without people fearing you.

   Merry looked at statistics of police incidents in the area he grew up in, in those years. Jesus Christ, it floored her. For the modern day? This steel town area was violent. The number of police calls concerning fist fights? Was through the roof. The adults were fist fighting. The children were fist fighting. Everyone, just about, seemed to think punching someone in the face, was like saying "hello". The hospital records? Fight related injuries and car accidents, seemed to be neck in neck for the most common way to visit the emergency rooms in the area. The town he grew up in? Literally had a bar on every street.

   If people had a simple fender bender? The police had to often separate the people from fist fighting in the intersection or parking lot where the minor fender bender happened. Normal people? Just exchanged insurance information. The only places in America that even came close to this level of daily hand to hand combat, according to police statistics compiled? The bad parts of major cities. Good lord, these small towns in this area? Were really something else.

   It wasn't just the men, either. Women were getting into brawls as well. It was ridiculous. Police were called to little league games, parents were fighting in the stands at Tee Ball games.

   Panic was a product of his environment. What had he learned growing up? The more dangerous you are, the more you get rewarded for it. The more dangerous you are, the more women will like you. The more dangerous you are, the more men will like you. Animals are better than people. People? Are simply animals that learned to talk. Study animals, to understand people and their behavior.

   Being polite, quiet, smart, funny… all wonderful things. But, without the threat of violence? It's all useless. Violence? Is the gold standard.

   Now, why the name change? Right after he got out of Redwater, and came home to finally go to college. It wasn't a normal name change. His Air Force record now came up under this name. Weird. Suddenly, it made sense. She would never get any records on anything to do with Redwater, that was classified. Even armed with a warrant? It would never happen, everyone knew that.

   It was some kind of security measure. The work was all classified. If one day anyone went looking for the men that had been in Redwater? Even if they had access to the classified records from the department of defense? They still would hit a stone wall. Their service records were changed to match the slightly changed new name. They were quietly issued ID under their new name. No court recorded change of name.

   It was slick. Redwater had been dissolved. Scandals, accusations. Hounded by investigative journalists. The Redwater corporation had appeared to go under and disappear. In reality? It had simply split up into several other corporations, with new names on them. Everyone knew it was the same deal. Private military contractors.

   But, by changing the name slightly? Matching the original service record up to that new name? It was like their years spent at Redwater, didn't even exist. No wonder Panic had quickly been understanding about not caring to even know Merry's real name.

   What had Panic told her that night they paused in the car, talking on the trail. Merry? We are both very different, and both very much the same. We have both done very wrong things, for very right reasons. We both lied to each other, because we had to. We were made for each other, we deserve each other.

   On a whim, she tried to run Little Robbie's name. And Skykid's name. Both of them, worked out the same as looking into Panic's life with her FBI background software. Neither one had a high school record coming up. Without knowing Rob's town name he grew up in or any idea of what his mother's maiden name might be? That was the wall.

   Little Robbie's service record, Marines, Force recon and sniper school basic and advanced. His "World Tour" service theater's and dates. Around the same time as Panic's college life started? Rob's seminary college came up, under the same name as his Marine jacket. Skykid was the same as well. Air Force, electrician, high tension and pole and tower certifications. His Electrician Union record started around the same time as Panic and Rob discovered college. Both their tax records started with the service, had the same several year blank spot like Panic's did, then their tax records started like normal.

   Skykid took flight back to the real world with his two friends, little Robbie and Panic. They all three, and probably others along with them? Saw things were going wrong at Redwater, and got out before the thing imploded.

   Unless you already knew things about their life to give you a clue? These Redwater men, seemingly vanished off of the face of the earth for several years. After being discharged from the service normally. It was like the earth just swallowed them up and kept them hidden. They appeared again after they left Redwater, and life continued on normally after that.

   All any employer would ever need to know? Was service record, and any college or certifications after. High school? All they had to do was play dumb and say they were home schooled or lived on a farm. The missing tax years? All they had to say was they were traveling, and worked out of the country for a while. No one would care. Or, simply claim they worked for themselves under the table. Again, nothing suspicious.

   She wondered if they all used their mother's maiden names, like Panic had. Maybe he just used that technique because he had been adopted, and there was already another birth certificate for him. Or, all they really had to do was change the spelling of their last name slightly, that was enough to throw database records into a tailspin. These weren't normal name changes, that had judge's orders and court records. These changes? Had been done very quietly and with no records to indicate it had ever happened.

   The department of defense had very efficiently, and very quietly, scrubbed and rearranged records to make investigating Redwater and it's former military contractors in any serious manner? Impossible.

   Merry's laptop beeped. She had an incoming message, and it was a priority. Had to be something most likely from Uncle Mike. She looked to see what was so important Uncle Mike had prioritized the message. It wasn't from uncle Mike.

   It was a standardized clearance warning auto generated by the FBI's files and computers. It firmly and politely informed her, that this computer was attempting to access classified material and information, that was covered under among other things, the department of defense and the patriot act. Whatever she had been searching and checking background on? Her computer was instructing her to immediately cease and desist.

   The notice politely said the user was not breaking any laws if the warning was heeded, and recommended flushing search history, and rebooting the computer. Merry immediately complied. She decided to text Uncle Mike from her burner phone to his burner phone, simply because as an undercover asset on assignment? Her computer was only known to be used by Uncle Mike. The FBI undercover pool was highly compartmentalized. No one other than Uncle Mike was supposed to know exactly which agents he was using as an asset. It was a belt and suspenders security system, like any intelligence operation used.

   While she was drafting a text to Uncle Mike? Her burner phone beeped she had a new text. It was from Uncle Mike. He already knew, he had gotten a message on his own laptop, that another of his laptops had gotten an automatically generated warning. He was being asked to confirm the polite warning was being heeded, and adhered to. So he was asking her if she flushed her search history, and rebooted the computer? She said she did.

   Merry read his next text…

   "Honey? Do your favorite uncle a favor. Don't tell me what you were searching for. I don't want to know, and it's none of my business. Do yourself a favor? Don't search for that information again. Your laptop is in my name? And I don't want my ass chewed out."

   Merry texted him back "okay" and "sorry" as two separate texts. Then, she simply sat there. Not really thinking of it all, because there was nothing to really think about. There was no decision to be made. Any decisions? Had been made long ago. Things, are just as they are.

   She now knew the story of Panic's childhood. A tragic comedy. A comedic tragedy. Take your pick. Young adulthood? Collapse, explode, or adapt. He had adapted, that was clear. What had be become, as best he was able.

   His father, his adopted father. That was what he had become. A half German, half French, tough as nails mill worker. A quiet and polite hard ass, in the old fashion. He was a cookie cutter of that man.

   Who were his two best friends, as best she could see it?

   A full blooded German farm boy. Big, strong, direct. Unashamed to get right to the heart of the problem. Direct confrontation. Like the German half of the mill worker father. Dangerously protective. Like a coiled rattlesnake, if he rattled? It was no bluff. This was his chosen mentor. Slither silently. Rattle one warning? Then uncoil and strike, with lightning speed and with lightning's full destructive force. A man proud to be of German descent, and made no apologies for it. Be proud of who and what you are, and never apologize for it. The sergeant at arms, dangerous to be sure. But, with a code. With an enhanced sense of honor.

   And? A full blooded Frenchman, of all things. A man that treasured gourmet food. Gourmet wine. A man that enjoyed friends, family and life, and enjoyed it easily. A man that would avoid a fight at all costs, until there was no other choice. The man in camp? That brokered peace. With diplomacy. Handed out good food and drink, to make everyone happy. This? Was his other mentor. This was his adopted father's French half.

   Did Panic even know and realize, he had sought out his two close friends, as replacements for his father, now gone? To replace a half German, half French mill worker… he ended up with a German farmboy and a French gourmet. So, he could get a full radio broadcast from both halves of his dead adopted father. He could put them together, or, tune in either one to see who had the best idea at the moment.

   Merry remembered a bit of minutiae she had learned long ago. There was a subspecies of California king snake? Harmless. Three or four colors along it, in bands of those colors. There was also a deadly coral snake, and it looked identical to the harmless king snake. The only difference? Very slight.

   They both had alternating colored bands down them of red, yellow, black and white. The only difference was the order of the colors. The old timers had a phrase to easily remember the difference, as knowing the difference was a matter of life and death when you were hiking and camping in the hills where both of these almost identical looking snakes lived.

   Somehow, this all applied to Panic. He started out life vulnerable and innocent. Then mother nature had her way with him. He became venomous as a result.

   Red touch yellow, kill a fellow. Red touch black, friend of Jack.

   Panic had switched his colors around. Merry felt as if the man she had first met in the steakhouse? She had found a harmless king snake and made a pet of it. Picked it up, handled it a lot, never once feared it.

   Then one day? She noticed the color scheme… and realized that her friendly, harmless snake… was one of the deadliest to be found on the continent.

   Just like the seemingly harmless but highly dangerous coral snakes? These men were very dangerous. Even if they didn't seem to be. Especially if they didn't seem to be. And just like dangerous wildlife, they were a protected species. They were a necessary part of the ecosystem. Merry's laptop had just gotten the message loud and clear. So had Uncle Mike's.

   Do nothing. Don't even look. Don't dare touch. Pretend you didn't see, what you just saw. Just… let it slither away into the underbrush quietly.

   Mother nature often covered her smallest, yet most dangerous creatures, in bright warning colors. Like the tiny but incredibly poisonous dart frogs down south, ironically, around the equator. Just like the quiet and solitary coral snake. It looked harmless enough, but it was deadly.

   The FBI's field guide to wildlife? Had issued a warning.