CAT UNDERCOVER
On a chilly afternoon one mid-October day, a slightly beat-up commercial van turned onto a street in suburban Washington, D.C. The street was strictly residential, lined with small houses mostly built in the nineteen twenties in the style later called craftsman. Some of them had obviously been lovingly cared for over the years, adorned with fresh paint and well-shingled roofs; others were a little shabbier. Most of them sported commodious front porches sheltered by roofs held up with plain wooden columns.
The houses were fronted with rectangular lawns enclosed by the public sidewalk, short walks leading up to the porches, and longer driveways that disappeared past the sides of the houses into their backyards, where the garages were. Most of the lawns sported large trees that had obviously been growing for as many years as the houses had been there. In some cases, the main roots of the trees had humped above the level of the lawns and raised the slabs of concrete in the sidewalks so that they were uneven. From time to time dried leaves loosened their grip on the trees and drifted slowly down, stirred now and then by a slight breeze. Here and there the front yards also included shrubs and flower beds, in which occasionally the odd chrysanthemum bush or clump of asters still bloomed bravely.
The van pulled up to the curb, and the driver, wearing navy blue coveralls and a cap to match, stepped out. He walked to the rear door and pulled it open, removing two neon orange traffic control cones. He placed one several feet behind the van and one in front of it. After locking the doors of the van, he stepped onto the sidewalk, strode off briskly, and, turning at the corner, disappeared.
The van remained parked throughout the afternoon. No one approached it; no one even seemed to notice it. As daylight slowly began to gray, a procession of cars pulled into the street, passing the van before turning into driveways and garages. Lights went on in the houses. The gray of the sky turned to twilight, a rich shade of blackish blue, washed with the orange glow of sodium vapor lights throughout the city. On this street there was only one street light whose best effort produced only a rather wan, yellowish beam that cast vague shadows through the trees onto the lawns.
An hour or two later a few cars were started up again, tracing in reverse their earlier trips, but now carrying their occupants toward their chosen evening's entertainment.
It was not until night had fallen completely that a dark-colored sedan with its lights off glided slowly and silently onto the street and parked some way behind the van. Two men emerged from the sedan and walked toward the rear door of the van. One fussed with the lock, eventually pulling the door open, and both men climbed into the back.
Several minutes passed before the rear door of the van opened once more, but only slightly. If someone had been watching carefully, they would have seen a cat jump down from the van, landing lightly on all four paws. The cat took a moment to look around, perhaps checking to see if anyone had noticed it. Jumping up onto the sidewalk, it trotted along past several yards, easily navigating the uneven concrete slabs and turning finally onto the sidewalk leading to one of the houses. It climbed the wooden stairs onto the porch. At the screen door it stretched up, resting its paws on the door and pushing at it so that it rattled in its frame. Sitting back on its haunches, it began to meow loudly.
Getting no response, after a couple of minutes the cat used the same method once again to rattle the door and meowed. This time the porch light came on and the front door opened, revealing a pretty young woman dressed in jeans and a sweater.
"Well, hi there, kitty," she said. "Where did you come from?"
The cat looked at her, meowing loudly.
"Did you want to come in?" she asked cordially.
The cat responded with another loud meow.
Opening the screen door, she told it, "Well, come on in then."
The cat entered the house with a sinuous motion and sat down in the hall to wait while the young woman closed the doors. When she turned around, she squatted down to scratch its ears.
"What a handsome kitty you are!" she told it and was rewarded with purring and chin rubs along her fingers. As her hands caressed its soft, thick coat, she felt its leather collar as well as the metal disk hanging from it.
"Oh, good, you've got ID."
Turning over the disk, she read the engraved inscription: "Mikey. If found call 202-555-8394."
"Well, Mikey, let's call your folks so they can come pick you up."
She sat down on her couch and picked up the cell phone from the end table. The cat jumped into her lap and began rubbing its chin against hers, its front paws braced on her chest.
The phone at the other end of the line rang several times. When she heard the click, a quick frown passed over her face as she realized she wouldn't be speaking directly to another person. The phone gave her a message in a gravelly male voice to leave a number.
"Um, hi," she said into the phone. "My name is Jody Silverton, and your cat Mikey just found his way to my door. If you'd like to make arrangements to come pick him up, call me at 555-3347. Thanks. And, oh, by the way, he's a really nice cat."
"Mikey" had stopped rubbing her face. For a moment they stared at each other, giving her the opportunity to examine him carefully. He had the sleek, slender lines of an oriental cat, but with a rounder face than most Siamese. His fur was a rich dark brown in color and felt like silk under her fingers. As she stroked his back, she felt taut, firm muscles under the fur. His most striking facial features were his brilliant green eyes and luxuriant whiskers that were, right now, at full alert. As she stroked, he purred loudly.
"I suppose you'd like some refreshments," she suggested. "Perhaps some milk?"
His loud meow surprised her. "Okay," she told him. "Definitely not milk. Some water?"
He jumped from her lap, allowing her to stand up and lead him into the kitchen.
Opening a cupboard door, she took out a large bowl, filled it with fresh tap water, and set it on the floor. She watched as he thirstily lapped up the water. When he finished his drink, he looked up at her and meowed.
"You're welcome," she replied. "Now someone's going to be coming here very shortly, so how's about we go watch some TV for a while as we wait."
They returned to the living room to settle down on the couch once again. As she thumbed the remote, "Mikey" jumped once again into her lap, turned around once, then sat down facing the TV. For a few moments, she channel surfed. When John Wayne appeared on screen, "Mikey" meowed loudly.
"You wanna watch "True Grit?" she asked, getting another meow in reply. As they watched, she alternately scratched the cat's ears and stroked the silky fur on its back, while he purred contentedly and let his eyes close partway.
Half an hour passed before they heard footsteps coming up the steps outside and onto the porch. There was a light knock. Jody stood up, dumping the cat from her lap, and stepped to the door to open it. The new guest was a young man with round face, a chunky but muscular body, and a blond hair cut in military style entered. "Mikey" sat on the floor observing him closely as if making notes about his appearance.
"Hey, Jody," the man said, leaning forward and planting a kiss on her cheek. "You ready?"
"Yeah," she answered, "my friend and I have just been sitting here watching TV and waiting for you."
"Your friend?" he asked, suspicion clouding his face.
She stepped aside slightly and gestured toward the cat. "Gordy, this is ‘Mikey.' ‘Mikey,' this is Gordy."
"Hey," Gordy said, "that's a nice cat. Where'd he come from?"
She briefly explained how the cat had shown up on her doorstep and demanded entrance.
"Okay, whatever," he replied. "I don't care if the cat stays, let's just get on with it. Your guest is gonna be here in an hour."
He pulled a paper sack from his pocket, which turned out to contain several baggies of powder. Jody led him into the bedroom, followed by the now-ignored cat. From a drawer of the nightstand next to the bed she took out what appeared to be meth paraphernalia. Gordy helped her prepare the dose and watched her as she took the first hit.
"Better?" he asked.
"Yeah," she said in a breathy voice. "Much."
Gordy began paying attention to the cat, who was watching them carefully. "No comments from you," he told it. "None of your business. It's just a little happy dust to help her relax when her guest stops by."
After completing the dose, Jody put the paraphernalia away. Turning to face Gordy once more, she wrapped her arms around his neck and said, "Okay, your turn now."
Each of them stripped off their clothes, and for the next twenty minutes they engaged in intercourse. Neither of them made any pretense of "making love"; it was more like they were fulfilling a business obligation. He thrust mechanically at her while she moaned and groaned almost as though she had a CD player in her throat playing back a recorded message that was a simulacrum of passion.
When they were done, she took a quick shower, dressing in a lacy sheer negligee. By the time she finished, Gordy had dressed again. He gave her a peck on the cheek, promised to see her next week, and left.
"Mikey" had sat in the same spot just inside the door of the bedroom throughout the sexual encounter, watching intently. The woman moved from the bedroom back to the living room, telling the cat, "Let's go watch some more TV."
The cat followed her back to the living room, and, as she sat down on the couch, settled himself in her lap. This time, however, he did not purr in response to her fondling.
Thirty-five minutes later footsteps again sounded outside, followed by a loud knock. As she opened the door this time, an older man entered, carrying a large attaché case. Once "Mikey" had glimpsed the man's grim expression and hard eyes, he quickly disappeared behind the couch, obviously sensing somehow that this was not a nice person.
"You must be Mr. Smith," Jody said in a flat voice.
"Yes," he answered. "Where's the bedroom?"
Still carrying the attaché, he followed her to the other room. Putting down the case, he began undressing, first removing the long gray overcoat, revealing a nicely tailored charcoal gray suit underneath. As he removed the rest of his clothes, he ordered Jody to take off her gown. Neither of them noticed the cat enter the room or crouch down next to a dresser so that he had a clear view of the bed.
When both people were naked, Mr. Smith ordered Jody to lie down on the bed. She sat on the edge and then laid back.
"No, on your stomach," he said in a rough voice, and she complied.
"You know what I expect?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied in a faint voice that revealed a note of fear.
Picking up the attaché, he opened it and removed from it a huge leather whip. His eyes glittered as he admired it.
"This room is too small to demonstrate its full power," he murmured, licking his lips while he swung it easily through the air. "But it will serve."
From the bed Jody watched with eyes filmed with terror as though she was a prairie dog being confronted by a huge rattlesnake.
Suddenly Mr. Smith raised the whip and brought it down full force on her buttocks. She shrieked with surprise at both the suddenness of the blow and the sharp, searing pain it evoked.
He raised one knee to rest on the bed.
"You're a bad girl, and you deserve to be punished, don't you?" he rasped in a hoarse voice.
She said nothing.
"Don't you?" he repeated slightly louder.
"Yes. Yes." Her reply was a faint whisper.
He raised his arm again and brought the whip down on her, again and again and again, covering her buttocks and her entire back with blows that frequently drew blood and raised large, red welts, meanwhile cursing her and calling her every filthy name she'd ever heard and then some.
Finally, blessedly, after what had seemed to her to be hours but was probably only minutes, he seemed to tire. He set the whip down beside her. Sobbing with pain, she lay on the bed without moving while he found the bathroom, where he ran cool water in which he soaked one of her towels. Returning to the bedroom, he rubbed her back with the towel. She winced and moaned. Throwing the towel on the carpet, he reached once again into his attaché case, removing a tube of salve, which he spread over her violated body. When he finished, he put the tube back into the attaché.
"Roll over onto your back," he ordered.
Wincing with pain, she did so. Her face was wet with tears, but she was beyond crying any more. He spread her legs apart, climbed atop her, and began stroking himself until he had achieved an erection. His penis was not very large, and it looked hardly firm enough to penetrate her vagina. Nonetheless, he entered her violently and pumped and thrust as hard as he could against her. It took some time for him to climax. She lay there feeling nothing at all except pain, both outside and inside.
Once he climbed off of her, he picked up the whip again. She watched with horror as he thrust the handle inside of her, twisting it viciously and pushing up and down.
"Come. Come." he yelled. But her abused body refused to respond. Apparently realizing the futility of making demands that she was incapable of fulfilling, he pulled the whip out of her body, took it into the bathroom, and washed it carefully, using another of her towels to dry it. Lovingly, he coiled it and replaced it in the attaché case.
While she watched unmoving, he slowly and methodically got dressed, including his overcoat. Once again he reached into the attaché, but this time he pulled out five $100 bills, which he threw on her stomach.
"I'll just let myself out," he told her with a mirthless grin. "Thanks for the entertainment." At the door he turned back to look at her appraisingly. "You're not a very good bad girl," he said and was gone. Vaguely she heard the front door close behind him.
Throughout, the cat had crouched in its place, watching, although occasionally, at the roughest moments, he had closed his eyes. Once Mr. Smith was gone, he jumped as carefully as he could onto the bed, settled himself on the woman's shoulder and begin to lick the tears and sweat from her face. With a sob she put her arm around his soft, warm body. He put his nose near her ear, purring softly, until, many long minutes later, she drifted off to sleep, still sobbing occasionally.
The cat continued to purr for some time as she dozed, although if someone had looked into his eyes, they would have been struck by the fury and pain showing there.
The front door opened once again, almost too quietly for any human to hear, but the cat heard it and carefully extricated himself from Jody's embrace. He ran out to the living room to find another man waiting for him.
"You okay?" the man asked, to which the cat replied with a meow.
Scooping up the cat, the man left the house, carefully closing the doors behind them, and returned to the van. Once they were safely inside, the van remained where it was for several minutes. Then the rear door opened and a young man leaned out, retching violently into the street while the other man held him around the waist. After the retching had stopped, both withdrew into the van, and the door closed again.
Eventually, the two men got out of the van again. One picked up the traffic cone at the front, threw it into the van's passenger seat, then entered the driver's seat. The other man retrieved the other traffic cone, opening the sedan's trunk to stow the cone there. Taking his place in the sedan's driver's seat, he started the car. Slowly, without lights, the two vehicles drove away down the street.
#####
The next morning, at NCIS headquarters, the team of investigative agents led by Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs gathered in forensic tech Abby Sciuto's lab to watch the video that had been captured by the tiny camera concealed in "Mikey's" ID tag. All of them had expressions on their faces ranging from anger to revulsion and horror. Special Agent Tony DiNozzo especially looked like death warmed over.
When the video ended, the silence continued for some minutes. It was Ziva David who spoke first. "How did you train the cat to do that?"
No one answered. Instead, Gibbs asked Abby, "Do we have an ID on Mr. Smith?"
The normally caffeine-hyped, eternally cheerful Abby was as affected as they all were by the horrific scenes they had just witnessed. Quietly, she said, "He's actually Captain James McCallan. He used to be the captain of a sub tender, but he was relieved of duty."
"Why?" Gibbs wanted to know.
"Sexual harassment of a fellow officer," Abby answered.
"And who's Gordy?" asked Ziva.
"Warrant Officer Gordon Sheckelman. Head of a harem of Navy women he's managed to make into prostitutes, usually by supplying them with drugs and making them pay with sex."
Ziva asked, "How did we find him?"
Gibbs answered, "He made the mistake of asking one of his women to have a second "date" with "Mr. Smith." For some reason, she didn't want to, so she called us. Another team has been tailing him for several weeks, and when they saw him returning to Jody's house, we were able to get a tap on her phone.
"I'm going to see the director," he told the team. "I think we have enough to get both search and arrest warrants for Gordy and the Captain."
He turned to leave the lab. "DiNozzo, with me."
Once back in the bullpen, Gibbs spoke quietly to DiNozzo. "Are you all right?"
"Jeez no, boss," DiNozzo replied. "I hope I never have an undercover assignment like that one again."
"It's going to be a little difficult for us to answer Ziva's question to her satisfaction, and trying to explain this to the director and JAG is going to be more than difficult."
"Will the video stand up as evidence? I'd hate to think I went through that for nothing."
"Don't worry," Gibbs said, an edge of anger and resolve in his voice. "Even if we can't use the videotape, it should be enough for us to get viable confessions from both of them. They're both going down, one way or the other."
"What about Petty Officer Jody Silverton?" Tony asked.
"What do you think?"
"Like you said, I think somebody got her hooked on meth, and she agreed to turn tricks to support the habit."
"You think that somebody was Gordy?"
"I'd be willing to bet a week's salary on it."
"No bet," Gibbs responded. "When we pull her in, are you going to be able to talk to her?"
"I wouldn't let anybody else do it."
"Good," Gibbs said and reached up his hand to pat the younger agent's cheek gently.
#####
Events that day moved swiftly. In short order, Warrant Officer Gordy Sheckelman and Captain James McCallan had been arrested and placed in separate interrogation rooms at NCIS. With Officer David and Special Agent McGee observing, Gibbs first interrogated Sheckelman, who, when faced with photographic stills that Abby had pulled from "Mikey's" videotape, readily confessed that he was both PO Silverton's pimp and her drug dealer.
He did protest, however, that he was not the one who had gotten her hooked on methamphetamine. "That was another guy. Her former boy friend."
"Name?" Gibbs demanded.
"I don't know his full name," Sheckelman answered. "Just Neal."
Knowing that Tony would be quizzing Jody, Gibbs did not pursue it, although his fists were itching to provide some premature punishment to the man's smug face.
As for McCallan, as with Sheckelman, when he saw the photographic evidence of his crime, he caved. He told Gibbs he had looked for a long time for a woman who would be willing to allow him to whip her as savagely as he desired.
"She wasn't the one. She's just some stupid dopehead," he said disdainfully. "She asked for it, and she got what she deserved."
He happened to glance at Gibbs as he said that, but quickly looked away, withering uncomfortably, maybe even afraid, under the ireful force of that icy blue gaze.
After Sheckelman and McCallan were removed, two female MPs brought in Petty Officer Jody Silverton. The hit of meth she'd taken the night before had long since worn off, and she was in bad shape, both from withdrawal and from the injuries she had received at the Captain's hands. The MPs had been ordered to take her to emergency services before depositing her at NCIS. Her wounds had been treated more carefully than they had been by McCallan, and she was deemed to be fit for questioning.
As she sat alone in the interrogation room with her elbows resting on the table and holding her head in her hands, she had time to reflect, not for the first time, that she had made an enormous mistake—maybe several. She had seen the ads, read the material, heard the lectures that warned people about the dangers of meth, but when Neal had urged her to try it for him, if she loved him, she had given in.
At first she had really thought he loved her, and she would have done anything for him, in spite of not really wanting to do the drugs. When she realized she was being used, that he was going to leave her anyway, she had wanted to stop, but by then she couldn't. Over time, as her addiction pulled her in deeper, she went from love to hate, not just for the man who had hooked her, but for herself as well.
Last night she had cried until there were no more tears. Today she was left only with a feeling that she had grown old before her time, that indeed her life was effectively over. She couldn't understand how she had let Neal suck her into the pit of depravity in which she now found herself.
The welts and cuts on her back stung; even the salve the emergency room personnel had smoothed on before covering it with bandages could not ease her pain. Her vagina was sore as well from the way in which "Mr. Smith" had used the handle of his whip.
More painful than her physical wounds, however, was the shame she felt from allowing herself to be used so poorly. She would never be able to tell her family or her friends of the humiliation, danger, and pain she had exposed herself to. She was not even sure if she would be able to stay in the Navy after this. The only good thing she had to remember right now, her only consolation, was the handsome cat who had also visited her last night. Remembering his beautiful eyes and soft coat brought her comfort. He was gone, she knew not how, when she had finally wakened that morning, but she thought of the almost human way he had of watching and talking to her. If she ever came through this and was on her own again, she promised herself she would try to get a cat like him to comfort and love her.
The door opened at that moment, and she looked up at the tall, handsome man who entered. He handed her a bottle of water before sitting at the table across from her.
To her surprise the expression on his face was gentle and kind. As she gazed at him, he looked back at her with beautiful hazel eyes that somehow seemed very familiar. They contained no judgment or condemnation, only concern.
"I'm NCIS Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo," he began, "but my friends call me Tony."
"Am I your friend?" she responded in a low, hoarse voice.
"I'm your friend if you want me to be," he said.
His mouth curved in a gentle, beautiful smile.
"I need all the friends I can get right now."
"Good. Here I am."
After a pause, he went on. "I need to ask you some questions if you feel up to it."
"What's going to happen to me?"
"Now I said I'm going to ask *you* the questions," he said as his smile grew wider and his eyes twinkled impishly.
"Sorry," she muttered.
His face became more serious. "Actually, it's a fair question, but from everything we've learned about your…er…situation, it seems that you're more a victim than a perpetrator. You will be placed in drug rehab, of course, so you can kick the meth. We're going to talk to JAG about the prostitution charges since there are extenuating circumstances. But it is for JAG to say exactly what's going to happen."
"Okay," she said.
He continued, "Why don't you tell me everything? Who got you hooked? Who suggested you start tricking, and was it to pay for the meth? Oh, and I need you to tell me more about Mr. Smith."
She looked across at him, at the thick brown hair, the handsome face set off by those gorgeous eyes. His expression continued to show only concern. She suddenly had the urge to crawl into his arms, to let him stroke her back and purr assurances into her ear.
Sighing heavily, she began to tell him of her journey downward into the hell that had climaxed with servicing Mr. Smith's sick fantasies. How her boyfriend Neal had resented her enlisting in the Navy, which he feared would end their relationship. How he had persuaded her to try meth just once and how, even though she tried to resist it, he urged her to continue using. How he had left anyway. How she had met Gordy at a party thrown by and for other young Navy personnel and learned he had ready access to a seemingly unlimited supply of the drug. How, when she was beginning to struggle with finding the money to pay for regular deliveries, he had suggested that he knew guys who would be happy to pay her for sexual favors—not just piddley little sums either, but real money. She had had some johns who were kind of kinky, but none had ever been so bad as Mr. Smith. She didn't know much about him at all, except that Gordy had warned her he liked to "punish" his women. She hadn't known what the punishment would consist of until she experienced it. It was not uncommon for her to be with men who were obviously using aliases. Because Gordy was Navy, she assumed that most of the men he pimped her to were military also.
"How long have you been doing the meth?" Tony asked.
She had to swallow hard before she could answer. She spoke to her hands, folded in her lap. "About a year."
"And how long turning tricks?"
"About nine months."
"Did you keep records of the men who paid you for sex?"
"Yes."
She forced herself to look up at him. "I did manage to keep it together well enough to do that," she said with a voice heavy with bitter irony and self-loathing. "I guess you'll want my notes."
Tony nodded.
"How much did Gordy take as his commission?"
Through a dry throat, she answered, "Fifty per cent." She paused briefly. "I did tell him a while ago that I wanted to stop. But he just handed me some more meth and told me I'd have to pay him what I owed."
"Was having sex with him part of the payment, too?"
She could no longer look him in the face. "Yes," she whispered.
After a long pause, Tony stood up. "I think that's enough for now," he said. "We may need to ask you some more questions later on. And when you feel up to it, there are some pictures you'll need to look at. Can you do that?"
"Whatever you need me to do," she answered.
"There's one more thing you're going to need to do."
She looked at him questioningly.
"We'll want you to testify against Gordy and the Captain at court martial."
"Yes, of course, "she responded. "Anything to get out of this…this mess I created for myself."
"Good." Again he paused, looking at her with genuine sympathy. "I'm so sorry that this happened to you. We're going to put these guys away for a long time so they won't bother you any more."
He stood up and turned toward the door.
"Tony?"
He turned back to her.
"Yes?"
"How did you find me?"
He bent down to take her hands in his. "You're not the only woman Gordy had in his stable. Another woman got into some trouble with the MPs and ratted on him. We've been following him for weeks, trying to get enough evidence on him to take him down. Mr. Smith is a bonus. He's going to face charges of sexual assault plus battery for what he did to you. And you were right, he is Navy. His life as he knows it is over."
Again, he turned to go.
"Tony?"
"What about the cat?"
His eyes opened wide and his eyebrows went up. "What cat?"
"Never mind," she said, shaking her head. "Um, before you go, could I…I mean…uh…could you give me a hug?"
In reply, he held his arms out. She stood up and stepped toward him. As she leaned against him, feeling his well-muscled body and his arms holding her warmly, his breath ruffling her hair ever so slightly, she sighed one more time, feeling oddly comforted, just as she had been with the cat. She had a sense that Tony, whom she had only just met, cared for her far more than Neal or Gordy or certainly any of the johns who had passed through her life in recent months.
After one final squeeze, he broke the embrace, caressing her temple with his knuckles.
"Take care," he told her. "I'll talk to you later, but I want you to know that we're going to help you get through this so you can go on with your life." He stepped out of the room.
Outside, Gibbs had watched the interview through the one-way. He met Tony at the door, stepping forward to stroke the back of Tony's head.
"Good job, ‘Mikey,'" he said.
Story Notes:
My apologies to Ceindreadh for not acknowledging earlier the inspiration her/his Emetib stories (which you should read before you read mine) provided for both this story and "The Visitor."
Since Tony's first Change, he has practiced hard and learned to control his new power so he can use it both for fun and on the job.
Usual disclaimers: not mine, no profit, etc.
Author's Chapter Notes:
The team has an unusual new agent...or do they?
Chapter End Notes:
My apologies to Ceindreadh for not acknowledging earlier the inspiration her/his Emetib stories (which you should read before you read mine) provided for both this story and "The Visitor."
Since Tony's first Change, he has practiced hard and learned to control his new power so he can use it both for fun and on the job.
Usual disclaimers: not mine, no profit, etc.
Since Tony's first Change, he has practiced hard and learned to control his new power so he can use it both for fun and on the job.
Usual disclaimers: not mine, no profit, etc.