From: noahidebooksforever@gmail.com

Hank Jones - Monster

‘Tell me,’ began Sebastian Ford. ‘Living in this cell. Does it feel like home?’

‘Your curious wit,’ began Hank Jones, ‘Is beneath you, Sebastian. Still,
the intellectual capacities ingrained into you by the dimwits above you shouldn’t really surprise me. You’re a cop, after all. Aren’t you Sebastian?’

‘A servant,’ commented Sebastian Ford, from the other side of the glass, glaring at Hank. It was not a glare of respect. It could never be that.

‘One questions just who you serve.’

‘The people,’ responded Sebastian Ford, the bible held steadily in his right hand on his lap, staring down this devil.

‘The people,’ mocked Hank, smiling dementedly. ‘All for the love of the people. $450 a week, after taxes, a modest home, forgive me. Unit. A wife who won’t give you head like she used to. A cocaine addicted son, and a prostitute for a
daughter who tells you to go fuck yourself and your damned Christian church. I
mean, you have found faith? Haven’t you, Sebastian?’

‘I’m not married,’ commented Sebastian Ford.

‘No. I didn’t think so,’ said Hank, staring at him from his dark solitude. Staring at his adversary.

Sebastian held the remote control upwards, and pointed it at the box in the cell. The volume came up a little. Benny Hinn, today.

‘Pentecostalism,’ commented Hank cynically. ‘The heart of your evangelical world.’

‘Jesus forgives,’ said Sebastian Ford, born again member of the Pentecostal
Church of the Living God.

‘Jesus,’ said Hank. ‘When I was a lad, I came to terms with him. I liked him,’ he said, with the slightest tone of crudity on the word liked.

‘Jesus loves you,’ said Sebastian.

‘I never met him,’ said Hank coldly.

‘Jesus knows everyone,’ said Sebastian Ford.

‘The power of the divine. If it really exists,’ the same crudity on the word really.

‘You welcome hell?’ queried Sebastian.

Hank stared at him. He was a psychologist. Cold, hard, clinical. Atheistic.
Hell, now. That was a fantasy for grown ups, wasn’t it.

‘Tell me, Sebastian. In all your Christian virtue, do you still get a hard on?’

Sebastian remained silent, not commenting.

‘Does Miss Atkinson come to you? In your dreams, Sebastian? Does she touch you, there? Were you want her too? Does she, Sebastian?’

‘I don’t see a need to talk about Christine.’

‘Christine, is it, Sebastian. Now why doesn’t that surprise me.’

Silence came over the cell. There seemed, at that point, an emptiness in the conversation, which seemed wanting to cascade into a fierce heated debate on the person of Christine Atkinson. A person held very, very , dear. To not just one of those
present.



‘Christine is a fine agent. The FBI are proud of her.’

‘Proud enough to touch her, Sebastian. To touch her, there. Against protocol. Against policy. Or does your ‘Jesus’ virtue deny your dick, Sebastian? Does it?’

Sebastian said nothing, clutching at the King James Bible.

‘Christine is a good woman,’ said Sebastian.

‘With a vagina,’ responded Hank instantly.

Hank looked at his opponent. ‘Do you dream about that? Do you Sebastian? Miss Atkinsons Vagina?’

‘I knew you were a serial killer. I didn’t know you were also a leech.’

‘Forgive me, Sebastian,’ said Hank, somewhat apologetically. ‘But you are only human, aren’t you Sebastian. Only flesh,’ he paused, looking upwards, before returning a dreadful lustful gaze, saying, ‘and blood.’

Sebastian Ford stared at the face of evil, pointed the remote, turned the volume up to maximum, and left the cell of Hank Jones, the demented face of evil looking dispassionately at Benny Hinn on his Indian crusade, before looking away.

* * * * *

‘Maybe he’s right, Sebastian.’

Sebastian clutched at the bible. ‘It’s not a crutch.’

‘Religion. It’s hardly our profession. We’re serious men. University men. We know better.’

‘The higher power. It….’ He left off. ‘ It did something in my life. At that altar.’

‘Or you wanted it to. To justify yourself. To tell yourself, your Sebastian. You’re the good guy. Hank is the evil one. You’re a saint, he’s a sinner.’

‘Moral relativity?’ queried Sebastian.

‘Scruples are not good for our profession,’ Sebastian, continued his therapist. ‘A higher power? I mean, is that really relevant? For men like us? Does that matter? A hole, in your heart. A yearning, which needs love, affection. That lies
there, and that King James fills it. But we leave it in the end, Sebastian. We get the hell over it, so to speak.’

‘There’s something there,’ murmured Sebastian Ford, clutching even more strongly at the leather bound tome in his hands.’

The doctor looked at his patient. This didn’t surprise him. Nervous breakdowns were common. He, himself, was deistic ultimately. A higher power explained his own questions, but it was not the focus. Morality was inherent in the design. The way
they had come to be. But obsession over it, in this doctor’s eyes, had ruined more souls than it had ever saved. Souls who had been upright citizens of their country, lost on obsessions of puritanism, a drug that had infested his nation far too long.

‘Get the hell over it, Sebastian. Life goes on. Whatever you think you need
in that book doesn’t matter that much in the eyes of eternity.’

‘Then what does?’

The psychologist remained silent. He had answers. Sebastian needed his own. He offered a thought, though. ‘Whatever is out there, Ford, in the end, scum
like Hank Jones will get what is coming to them, and good guys, like us, well….. Well, if
more is to come, then so be it.’

Sebastian nodded, coldly. But, yeah. Whatever it was. Whatever was at that altar, he would let it be now. He served a purpose. He served a point. If he
really needed faith, then…….Well all in God’s good time.



Later that afternoon, he sat down in a park not far from home, looked at one last verse in the bible, a quote from genesis. ‘The Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil’. He underlined it with a marker, left the bible on his bench seat, and walked off.
He had his answers. He had enough answers. And whatever he was, as a man, Hank Jones was not. That much, deep, deep down, he knew enough to be true.

* * * * *

Christine Atkinson was sitting on a bench near the training ground of Quantico,
leafing through various files. She was currently a Crimes analyst, working at Quantico itself, preparing and researching a book on serial killers, their internal motivations,
and psychological profiles. One case, Hank Jones, was the subject of much of the book matter.

From a distance Sebastian Ford observed her, not coming near, just for a moment
watching her, noticing her face, even her physique, but such thoughts being quickly rebuked.

'Christine,' said Sebastian, presenting himself.

'Mr Ford,' responded the FBI agent. 'A pleasure to see you.'

'Thanks Christine. Do you mind?' he queried, indicating the seat next to her.

Christine moved over a little, and Sebastian Ford sat down. He pulled out a lunchbox from his leather satchel, took out a salami and tomato sandwich, offered one to Christine who shook her head, and started eating.

'We have an issue, Christine. An unpleasant one.'

Christine looked at him momentarily, and returned her gaze forwards. 'I'm sure the FBI can handle whatever the situation is. I'm non-operational. Just a desk job, now, Sebastian. Had my fill, I guess.'

'A good agent never has their fill,' said Sebastian. 'Not an FBI agent anyway. We're not just cops, Christine. We can't just run away and hide when the going gets tough. This is a dirty world, and its full of dirty crime, and the strongest of us need to
stand against that crime.'

'Still preaching, I see,' said Christine.

'I'm not preaching. Its the reality.'

'Yes Batman,' she replied.

Sebastian didn't say anything, but continued eating his sandwich, and soon started sipping on juice. Then he reached down into his satchel and pulled out a manilla folder. 'The Shark' was emblazoned over the cover. He placed it in her lap, and continued
sipping his juice.

She looked at it momentarily, but said nothing.

'The Shark is the worst we've encountered.'

'Why the name?' asked Christine.

'It's unpleasant said Sebastian.'

'Nothing shocks me much anymore, Mr Ford.'

'He amputates them first. That much we have worked out. But he feeds the limbs to sharks. And then, presumably, throws in the victim into the water, drowning them, eaten by the shark usually.'

'Lovely,' said Christine, picking up the fille and looking through some of the photographs.

'Has a Jaws fixation,' said Sebastian. 'Quotes from the novel are always found on laminated cards shoved into the bodies throats.'

'He has a sense of humour.'

'Not sure about that, though, anyway,' said Sebastian.

'About what?' asked Christine.

'That its a guy. One letter the Shark signed. Good luck catching me fellas. I'm
a really nasty bitch when it comes right down to it.'

'A woman,' said Christine, momentarily surprised.

'It looks that way.'

Christine looked at the photographs a little longer, and then handed the folder
back to Sebastian. 'Not my concern,' she said. 'I'm committed to my writings.'

'There's a catch,' said Sebastian.

'Which is?' queried Christine.

'One letter. Sent to us. From the shark.'

'What did it say.'

'Hope uncle Hank is entertaining you. He's one hell of a guy.'

Christine turned and looked deep into the eyes of Sebastian Ford.

'I'll start next week,' she said shortly.

'I'll start brewing the coffee,' responded Sebastian Ford, and briefly smiled to himself, stood, raised his hand in a farewell gesture, and slowly left the grounds of the Quantico training facility.

Christine sat there, going through the remainder of her lunchbreak and, looking
out at the recrutits going through their drills, said to herself. 'I can't escape you, can I Hank?'

The leaves rustled in the wind, the recruits hollered and yelled and continued their drills, and silence was the only other reply.

* * * * *

Christine Atkinson was driving her Ford Focus, an Australian model she'd had imported and changed the steering wheel from right hand drive to left hand drive, simply because she loved the car so much, through the countryside of Washington state, pine
trees enshrouding her, lost in thought.

'She'd looked at the email from Sebastian on the Shark. 17 victims so far in the last 2 years, and no substantial leads. They'd followed the usual investigative techniques, followed up on the traditional contacts, and were at an end of their tether. What
next? Hank, next. Naturally. But Sebastian wanted Christine to handle that. Christine got results.

The Shark, it seemed to Christine, was not a woman. Too cruel. Too viscious. Too dark to be a woman. She knew her sex well, she was a woman, and they rarely
were involved in the seedy work of serial killing. It was not unknown, and indications were
strong in this case that a woman was potentially the prime suspect. But something wasn't right. She smelled a rat. Something – different.

In her years of experience she'd developed a certain healthy respect for Serial
killers. Not any admiration for their nobility of character, for they were the devil's own. But a grudging respect for the cavalier 'Fuck the World' mentality
which granted
them the absolute liberties they claimed. They didn't care. They had no respect
for conventions, no respect for societal norms, no respect for the law. In a strange way, while he repulsed the deepest fears in the heart of Christine Atkinson, that brutal
savagery of freedom both disturbed Christine, but in that fear she found a crude and animalistic respect. Respect for the killer at the head of the pack. Respect for the brutal alpha male who twisted, cut, and sank his fangs into all
challengers and did
what he would. She repented of it constantly. But it was a dark desire, born in
the silence of lambs, which pervaded her thoughts, especially on quiet nights, lonely nights, when she dreamed evil dreams, and visions of blood filled her head.

She shook off this thought, and reminded herself she was agent of the law, but Hank's grinning madness condemned her still, cited her hypocritical devotion to
a manmade rule, only made to control and restrict.

God she hated him.

She hated him.

Shortly the pines gave way, and she approached Cardleford Washington FBI headquarters. There was an officer at the gate, and she handed him her pass. He
looked her over, checking her pass.

'Thanks Ms Atkinson. Agent Ford is expecting you.'

She smiled, and received back her card and drove into the facility, parking.

Coming to the front entrance she entered and found a reception area, a young woman seated, smiling at her as she approached.

'Here to see Agent Sebastian Ford. Christine Atkinson. Quantico.'

The woman nodded, checked her screen, and said, 'Level 3. B Wing. He's in special crimes office.'

She nodded, and looked at the elevator, but the recent health kick she was on forced her to the stairs.

Finding B wing, she found the glass door, knocked, and an officer shortly answered.

'Christine Atkinson,' she said, showing her ID.

'Christine. I've heard a lot about you. Agent Hawkins. Come in.'

Christine entered the building. It was traditional FBI, more modern looking then some place, and Sebastian was at the back of the room, next to the photocopying machine, looking out the windows at the surrounding grounds.

Sebastian turned and looked at her. 'The coffee is still brewing. Sorry,' he apolgized, pointing to the coffee machine near the copier.

'That's ok,' said Christine.

She entered the room, and found a seat opposite Sebastian's desk.

'So,' he said.

'Yes,' she replied.

'You know Christine, I'm really very grateful. We can handle this, you know. But there is a connection between you and Hank. Something in you he respects. You'll get to him when others won't.'

'What's first?' she asked.

'I'll show you the bodies. They're in the morgue down below. Then we'll have some lunch and talk through the case this afternoon. Agent Hakwins here has been on the case from the beginning. He'll fill you in on were we are up to.'

'Great,' said Christine.

'Remember, Christine. Hank trusts you in his own convoluted way. You have an opportunity to get information on the Shark another officer might just run into
a brick wall on.'


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