Pretenses by Keith Lee Johnson

terror, he had learned that the men fought harder and longer if he pretended to want their wives or girlfriends.
    Then it occurred to him to go after men with power. At first, he went after wealthy men and then big tough-looking men, the kind who went to the gym regularly. Their ability to resist longer stimulated him. Now he wanted Joe Rider. He had to be a tough guy if he protected the President.
    The Rapist was already in the house, waiting for Joe to come home. He had followed him for several days and knew his routine. His heart pounded in anticipation when he heard the car pull into the attached garage. It was just a matter of time before Joe walked into the surprise of his life. The door from the garage opened into the kitchen. The Rapist heard Joe toss his keys on the counter.
    His footsteps on the hardwood floors told the Rapist exactly where Joe was. He went to the bathroom. The Rapist could hear the flow of urine splashing, then the toilet flushing. The anticipation was almost overwhelming. He hoped Joe would fight long and hard. The bathroom door opened, and he came out. Rider’s shocked look when he saw the Rapist was exhilarating. He pointed a gun at Joe’s head.
    â€œLet’s see your weapon.” Joe opened his jacket. “Now, with your left hand, remove it.”
    Joe followed his instructions, still shocked. He knew he wasn’t going to be killed. If the intruder had wanted that, he would have done it already.
    â€œRemove the clip, and dislodge the chambered shell.”
    Joe followed his instructions to the letter. He began to feel a little more at ease with the situation, and wanted the chance to take on the guy who was brazen enough to enter the home of the Chief of Security. The intruder wanted something, and as far as Joe was concerned, that gave him a distinct advantage.
    â€œNow, drop the gun.”
    Joe did so.
    The Rapist took his eyes off Joe and reached down for the gun. As he knew he would, Joe attacked him and was able to get the gun away from him. He pointed the weapon at the Rapist and pulled the trigger. CLICK, CLICK, CLICK. The gun was empty. A twisted smile emerged on the Rapist’s face; then Joe attacked him ferociously with vicious hooks and crosses that would have knocked out Mike Tyson. But the blows didn’t faze the Rapist. He was enjoying the punishment.
    The Rapist bled easily enough, but there was no stopping him. He was like Joe Frazier fighting Muhammad Ali in their 1972 epic bout in Madison Square Garden. The Rapist could sense that Joe was getting tired. His blows didn’t have the same snap and power they’d had earlier in the fight. Besides, they only seemed to make the Rapist stronger.
    Joe’s face was full of welts and swelling. It wasn’t a one-sided fight. The Rapist ran at Joe, tackled him, and punched him in the face until he had no more fight left. Having subdued him, he stripped off his pants.
    â€œNO! DON’T!” Joe screamed when he realized what was going on. But his pleading only added to the Rapist’s pleasure.
    When the Rapist finished, he left the house. Joe was on the floor, whimpering like a wounded animal. Somehow, Joe found the strength to crawl to his gun. He put the clip back in and chambered a bullet. Then he put the weapon in his mouth and fired.

CHAPTER 19
    T HE BODY OF C LAYTON P OCKETS was found early Saturday morning at the Washington Suites Hotel by a maid who had entered the room when no one answered. She ran out of the room screaming. The local police department was handling the case until they discovered who the victim was. Pockets had registered under a phony name, but it didn’t take long for the police to uncover his true identity.
    I was on my way to the bureau when Assistant Director Michelson called me on my cell. By the time I got there, there was another mob scene, much like the one at the Taylor house. This time, there were even more satellites and more reporters, which meant