The Hidden Society

by R. Chauncey

  Six hours later the red, white, and blue high speed Amtrak train pulled into a train station that looked like a nineteenth century train station. The only things missing were horses tied to a hitching rail outside the station, cattle, and cowboys walking about in the streets. Other than that the two story barn like brown brick structure had all the conveniences of a modern day train station. Including an information booth in the center of the station, which Larson immediately went to the moment he entered the station from the cold outside and saw it.

  The woman sitting in the booth looked up and saw Larson approaching her and smiled a friendly smile. She looked to be middle aged, in good shape from the waist up, and had a tanned round face with high cheek bones and straight black hair that reminded Larson of pictures he’d seen in history books of Indian women.

  He stopped in front of the wooden and glass booth, sat his overnight bag on the stone floor, and said, “I’d like directions to the nearest hotel.”

  “Good afternoon,” the woman said with just a soft touch of a western accent in her voice. Her smile faded to a pleasant expression.

  “Sorry about my manners,” Larson smiled back and said, “Good afternoon. Nice weather.”

  “No it ain’t,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he replied as he nodded. “It’s cold outside.”

  “Always is this time of the year. You sound like you from back east,” she said.

  “Yeah, New York,” he lied. He had decided on the train not to tell the truth when a lie would do just as well. Until he was convinced Julian Franks was just a fool with a foolish story, he didn’t want anyone knowing where he lived or what he did.

  “Got a funny accent,” she said. “Go outside to Tumble Road. Turn to your left and walk to Wild Horse Street. Directly ahead and turn left. Five blocks down on the other side of the street, your right, is the Westport Hotel. It’s a real nice place with good food, too.”

  “Thank you,” he said, picking up his bag and turning away toward the exit. He stopped turned back to the woman and asked, “Do you know if the Paul Duffy Electric Parts Company is still located in town?”

  “Yes sir. Western end of town right pass the Westport Mall on Duffy Road,” she said. “By the way, you don’t have to walk if you don’t want to. There’s always a cab outside in front of the station.” She turned to her left and looked around the lobby and said, “See that man over there sitting at the table by the coffee stand reading a newspaper.”

  “Yeah,” Larson said, looking at the coffee stand and the man. He looked to be in his mid-forties.

  “He drives the cab out front. Tell him where you want to go. He’ll take you.”

  “Thank you,” he said. He hesitated for a second debating whether to ask her if Paul Duffy was dead. But realized it would have been a foolish question since he knew Paul Duffy was dead. First get a lay out of the Westport. Find out if the people were suspicious of big city people. Or prejudice against blacks. Racism in America wasn’t as healthy as it was back in the 1950’s and earlier. But it was still alive and kicking. And occasionally, rarely though, it caused trouble. He nodded thanks to the woman again and walked toward the exit.

  As he did so he looked around the wide, warm stone floor and brick building, and realized he was only the seventh person in the lobby. And the other six were walking toward an exit that had ‘parking lot’ above the exit sign.

  He was probably the only outsider in town, and if Westport was like other small towns he’d read about everyone in town would know about him by Monday morning.

  Larson stopped in front of the man sitting at the table next to the coffee stand and said, “Pardon me, but the lady in the information booth told me you have a cab and can take me to the Westport Hotel.”

  The man folded his newspaper, stuck it the pocket of a heavy black leather hooded coat lying on the chair next to him and said, “Ten dollars.”

  “Agreed,” Larson said, putting his dark brown canvas overnight bag on the floor, and reaching for his wallet in his left pants pocket. He didn’t care if the meter price was lower or not. Assuming the man’s cab had a meter.

  “Pay me when we get there,” the man said, standing up and picking up his coat and Larson’s bag at the same time. “Follow me.”

  Larson followed him out the exit into the cold Kansas air to a gray four year old minivan parked right in front of the doors with fogged windows. Indicating the electric heater was on in the minivan.

  `”Open up,” the man said.

  The center side door of the minivan clicked once and slide out six inches then back revealing a clean inside.

  “Hop in,” the man told Larson.

  Larson got inside and started to buckle the seat belt, but decided he wouldn’t need it. He looked out the window and saw there was very little traffic on the street. This guy doesn’t look like a race car driver.

  The man opened the front passenger’s door himself, put Larson’s bag on the floor, closed the door, and walked around to the driver’s side and got into the minivan. “Here on business?” he asked as he started the electric engine.

  The door next to Larson closed automatically when the engine started.

  “Yes,” Larson replied. Finding out if Julian Franks had lied was a form of business, but not one he expected to make any money from. That’s when Larson wondered what he would do if he found evidence Julian Franks had told the truth. Go to the police? Not if the Hidden Society was as powerful and ruthless as Julian had implied on that drive he’d read. He began to hope Julian Franks had told a lie. He didn’t need the problems that would arise if Julian Franks had told the truth.

  “Hides or electric parts?” he asked as he eased the minivan away from the curb into nonexistent traffic on the snow free street.

  “Pardon me?” Larson asked not understanding.

  “Buying cattle hides or electric parts,” he said. “We only got two companies in town. The Duffy Electric Parts Company and the Barton Tanning Company.”

  “Electric parts,” he lied.

  “Got a company back home?” the man asked as he drove.

  “I work for an electric company. We do electrical work for small businesses, apartment buildings, and homes. And I’m looking for a cheaper source of parts. American made.”

  “Good old U S of A workmanship. Can’t be beat nowhere in the world.”

  “Duffy makes good electrical equipment?” Larson asked.

  “Best in the world if you ask me and you did.”

  “That’s good to hear,” he said. “We’ve had too many complaints from our customers about failing Asian made parts.” Lying was something Larson seldom did unless he wanted to stop an annoying woman from bothering him. Then he’d lie and say he was back with his wife. The lies he was telling now were foreign to him, but he felt comfortable telling them since they were harmless lies that wouldn’t hurt anyone.

  “What’s the name of your company?”

  “Oakland Electric,” he said. “I’m not an electrician myself just a buyer. I know very little about electrical equipment. I just buy what the electricians tell me to buy.” He looked out the window at the twenty to thirty foot piles of snow lining both sides of the street. “I see you get a lot of snow here in Kansas.”

  “Typical winters. It’s them damn spring and summer tornados that I don’t like. Snow, rain, and heat don’t bother me at all. But tornados are pure hell. They just pop up out on the prairie and run wild.” He pulled into the covered driveway in front of the Westport Hotel’s entrance.

  Larson gave the man fifteen dollars, thanked him, and got out and took his bag. He wondered as he walked into the hotel’s lobby if his story was believable? Probably more beli
evable than the story Julian Franks had told him he decided.

  Larson was disappointed. He had expected to see a western style design to the lobby of the Westport Hotel. Instead he found a modern hotel lobby with all the modern electrical devices modern hotels offered. Including a pressure sensitive door opener mat and a ten foot long electric heating mat just inside the entrance with air suction to melt and remove any snow on his shoes he brought into the hotel lobby and to suck any salt, sand, or ash from his shoes. There were even computer controlled floor cleaners, two of them each four feet high, moving about the beige stone floor of the empty lobby cleaning and avoiding the furniture. They also cleaned the black non-slip rubber runner that went from the entrance to the lobby sign-in desk.

  Larson walked over to the thick, dark wooden lobby desk, sat his bag on the floor, and pushed the brass bell sitting on the desk.

  A middle aged stout looking man dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt and brown tie sporting a black handle bar mustache came to the open door of the office behind the desk and stared at Larson for a few seconds with an expression of curiosity on his face.

  Larson started to open his mouth and ask for room.

  The man was faster.

  “Sorry, sir,” he said, approaching the desk. “I didn’t expect any visitors today. We don’t usually get visitors this soon after New Year’s Day. Most people are too busy recovering from New Year’s Eve and trying to live up to their New Year’s resolutions.”

  “Could I get a room?” Larson asked. Sounding as if he was sorry he’d disturbed the man.

  “Why, of course sir,” the man said. “I’m Fellows. Would you like a room here in the main hotel, or one of our comfortable cabins?” He asked as he opened a drawer in the lobby desk and removed a registration card. He placed it on the desk in front of Larson.

  “Which is more comfortable?” he asked, opening his parka, going through his sport coat, and removing a pen from his shirt pocket.

  Larson had never been in a hotel that required a guest to make out a registration card. Every hotel he’d ever stayed in, and he’d stay in quite a few, used a computer to register guests. All a person had to do was speak to the computer and the computer did the rest even giving the guest a printed copy of the registration form.

  “Both are comfortable,” he said. “But the cabins are larger. They have a bedroom, sitting room, private bath. The other rooms have private baths, too, sir, but no sitting room. The cabins have a fireplace in the sitting room. Logs are provided free by the hotel. And there is room service. But only from six in the morning till ten at night. And carpeting on the floors. Except the bathrooms. And all are heated electrically. You may set your own room temperature.”

  “A cabin sound nice. How much are they?” He started making out the registration card. He put down the Chicago address he’d lived at as a child until he was fourteen and a fake name.

  Damn! He thought as he wrote. I should have created some fake ID. But I don’t know how to create fake ID. I just know how to write about fictitious characters who know how to create fake ID.

  The apartment building he’d lived in as a child was long gone. It had been replaced by townhouses. He hoped the hotel didn’t check. Or some homeowner might get angry at someone using his home address if his old address was still being used.

  “Two hundred dollars a day this time of the year, sir. With a western breakfast provided free of charge.”

  “Is it possible to rent a car?” Larson asked as he made out the card.

  “Yes sir. The hotel can provide you with a rental. May I recommend a Jeep with four wheel drive,” Fellows said.

  “Why?” Larson said, looking up at him.

  “In case you want to drive around the country side on some of the side roads. Most have been plowed, but not all of them are clear of snow. And the snow can be deep this time of the year, and front wheel drive cars sometimes get stuck.”

  “Okay,” he said. “And I’ll take a cabin and the Jeep.” He pushed the registration card across the desk to Fellows. “Will cash be alright?” Larson didn’t want to leave a credit card trail. Though he still thought he was wasting his time.

  “Cash will be fine, sir,” Fellows said.

  Larson took out his wallet and paid for three days.

  Fellows handed him his keycard, and said, “Lunch is being served now in the restaurant, sir. To your left. Or we can have room service bring what you want to your cabin. There’s a list of what’s being served on the hotel’s cable channel. The list is updated daily.”

  “Thank you,” Larson said, picking up his bag. “Which way to my cabin?”

  Fellows waved to a bellhop sitting at the bellhop’s station.

  A young man in his early twenties dressed in a tan jacket and matching pants, walked up to the counter. “Sir?” he asked of Fellows.

  Fellows looked at the registration card. “Take Mr. Western to cabin number three,” he said.

  Ten minutes later, after a trip across a snow cleared path in a warm eight seat enclosed golf cart, Larson was standing alone in cabin number three. He had given the bellhop a three dollar tip. He wondered if it was too much. The last thing he needed was to stand out. Until he realized he was already standing out. He hadn’t seen another guest in the hotel, and the trip to his cabin had revealed no one walking about. He decided to wash his face and hands and walk the block back to the main hotel for a late lunch.

  *

  Lunch was hearty and very good especially the coffee.

  After lunch, he filled and lit his pipe and smoked as he walked back to his cabin convinced he was a fool on a fool’s quest.

  A secret society of evil greedy men that had existed for over a thousand years, he thought. What a crock of shit! And what a fool I am for being here in Westport wasting money when I could be home.

  By the time Larson had reached his cabin he decided to give his fool’s quest one more day. Then go home. Even though he did fine the disappearance of Julian’s house in the woods on Bay Route was a bit odd. But there was certainly a reasonable explanation for that. As he settled down to watching a movie on the hotel’s cable system, he decided to check out the Duffy Electric Parts Company before dinner. If it turned out to be just a company producing electrical parts, he’d go home and leave Julian’s drives just where he had placed them. Where things he had little use for belonged.

  ***

  Chapter 9

  January 5, 3:45 p.m.

  Karl knew there were two ways to handle his problem. Go to the Council of Twenty, and tell them what had happened, and that he suspected Derrick had lied to him. Or call Derrick and confront him with what he knew. Either way was dangerous. And while he did not fear death there were certain methods of death even he did not want to experience. He had used them in the past on others, and they were most unpleasant.

  By one o’clock he’d decided to confront Derrick. Because he knew Derrick never would have lied to him, if he didn’t already have a way of dealing with the Council of Twenty. And Karl didn’t care how he did that. Avoiding an unpleasant death was his only concern.

  Karl called Derrick on his com-cell and learned that Derrick was at the Ames Ranch and Hotel. Derrick told him where he was.

  Derrick was sitting in the sitting room of one of the Society’s comfortable suites in the second basement. He didn’t have a pleasant expression on his face. He wasn’t sitting in his study or the lounge of his Big Sur home. He was looking at a large land scape painting of snow covered mountains whose name he didn’t give a damn about in some state or county he didn’t give a damn about. He heard the door to his suite open and close. Any other person would have turned and looked to see who came in. Derrick didn’
t. The two personal security guards, two soldiers loyal to him, Lawrence had assigned to protect him would never have permitted anyone he didn’t want within a hundred yards of him.

  “Julian didn’t plan his escape over a few months,” Karl said, walking into the sitting room and taking a seat facing Derrick without being asked. “He’d probably been planning it for years. And that’s why he was capable of disappearing without anyone finding out about it. Or noticing he was missing. He had worked out every angle and tested it before he disappeared.”

  Derrick looked at him and said nothing.

  “He was smart enough to know that any sudden disappearance on his part would have immediately aroused the interest of the Council of Twenty and you leaders and resulted in a search for him. He had to have time to neutralize the tracking chip in his body without arousing suspicion. And somehow he figured out how to use his com-cell to help him disappear.”

  “Explain that,” Derrick asked Karl.

  “He programmed his com-cell to convince whoever called him he was where the com-cell was even though he wasn’t. Somehow he programmed his com-cell to register its location in different places even though it was where he originally left it. I don’t know how he did that, but he -,” he stopped speaking and thought for a minute.

  “You are wasting my time, Karl,” Derrick told him.

  “Julian programmed his com-cell to give a different location to whoever called him,” Karl said as he stared at Derrick.

  “I don’t like being stared at as if I’m some freak of nature,” Derrick told Karl.