The Suicide Society

by William Brennan Knight

  “Yeah, you’re a rebel, Jarad.”

  “Yep, screw the man.”

  Zach rose, steadied himself and walked over to the refrigerator. “By the way, I need your help with another business return. I, ah, missed the filing date. You want a beer?

  “Sure, I’ll take one. You filed an extension, right?”

  “No, I—fell behind. Kind of slipped through the cracks. I planned on getting it done, but, well, time got away from me, and now I’m leaving town for a few days. I'm worried about the penalties. I’d just as soon not have to pay those. Could you grease the wheels of the mighty government bureaucracy and help me get me that extension?”

  Anston shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “Whoa. You know the IRS doesn’t work that way. I’d get my ass handed to me if I was caught doing something like that. I’ll moonlight for you if you’re behind on a return, but back filing an extension could get me fired or prosecuted if I was caught. I can’t even believe you asked.”

  Zach handed his friend a Heineken. “I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important. The accrued penalties are 17 percent, and the tax due is around $510,000. It’s my fault, and they’ll expect me to pay the fines. Jarad, I don’t have 86 grand.”

  Anston sighed. “So the owners think you filed for an extension?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jesus, Zach. And you’re leaving on a trip with this going on? Where are you going, anyway? It sure doesn’t seem like very good timing.”

  Zach sighed and looked away. “I’ve got to go to Las Vegas to help a friend.”

  “Who is this friend? Helena Bostwick, maybe?”

  “No, Jarad. Helena Bostwick is dead. I never even met her.”

  “Then where are you going?”

  “I’m going to visit an entirely different person. She’s in trouble, and I may be able to help her.”

  Anston took a long swallow from the beer and pulled at the label. “Ok, I’ll enter the return and back date it—under one condition.”

  “What condition?”

  “I want to go with you on your trip.”

  Zach frowned. “No way. You don’t want to be involved in this Jarad, trust me.”

  “Then I can’t help you. Something is very wrong here, and as your friend and counselor, I’m concerned. If you let me go with, and tell me what’s going on, I’ll make sure that your return slides through the system.”

  Zach glared at his friend. “Bastard.”

  “Am I going with you then?”

  “I suppose I have no choice. But I’m afraid it may prove to be the worst decision of your life.”

  “Probably,” said Anston. “But someone has to watch out for you, Zach.

  ***

  Alan Ziminski walked into the coffee shop and took a seat at the breakfast bar. He liked to think of himself as a private investigator or law enforcement official when he was on a surveillance mission. The “person of interest” was a few seats away eating a piece of cherry pie. Alan didn’t get out much, but this type of mission was worth the aggravation of a cross country flight.

  Back in his apartment, Alan scanned a couple of delivery reports and almost instantly figured out how Sarah Johansen had escaped from the town. In fact, her method wasn’t particularly original. She lived in Desolation far too long to chance a fatal trek through the desert. The sun-bleached skeletal remains of those who had failed to escape on foot littered Main Street, the Benefactor’s grim reminder of the price of disobedience.

  Vehicles were forbidden in Desolation except for the few commercial trucks that occasionally came to deliver vital supplies. The drivers were monitored closely and never allowed to stay the night.

  Alan had a detailed log of every delivery that occurred on the day of Johansen’s disappearance downloaded to his smartphone. He scrolled slowly through each manifest as he sipped his coffee. Sarah must have realized her only reasonable chance to flee would be in one of those vehicles. With limited avenues of escape, she no doubt hitched a ride with a sympathetic driver or stowed away undetected.

  Without Watts' knowledge, Alan decided to track down Johansen himself. There was only one recorded delivery in the afternoon on the day she disappeared, a propane shipment out of Phoenix. He hacked into the company’s servers and extracted the driver’s employment records, which included his Phoenix address. Using the Network’s connections at the airlines, Alan booked a first class flight to Phoenix and reserved a room at the Biltmore. The next morning, he rented a car and followed the trucker to this greasy spoon.

  The driver sat at the breakfast bar wolfing down his bacon and eggs early risers special, slurping his coffee and spilling frequently down the front of his bib overalls. He wore a cap with the name Bowers Propane emblazoned above the front of the bill.

  Alan nibbled at a stale bear claw doughnut while watching the trucker consume a meal his protruding waistline didn’t need. His mood was particularly jovial, and he talked to the waitress loudly between mouthfuls of food. She nodded politely and smiled from time to time, but it was easy to sense the contempt barely hidden below the surface of her pancake makeup. Alan agreed with her. He hated loud, cheerful people, and this guy was far too happy for Alan’s liking.

  After what seemed like an interminable period of shoveling down food and chortling at his own wit, the trucker paid the bill, lifted his corpulent body from the stool, and headed out the door toward a rig parked in the gravel lot. Alan left as well, following the driver at a distance. He waited until he saw the door of the cab open as the trucker began to make the arduous climb into the tractor.

  “Hey buddy, hey, wait a minute.”

  The trucker swiveled his neck around to see the approaching pimply faced Gothic looking kid. “Yeah, what do you want, bud?”

  “Your name Burl? Burl Hickey?”

  “Yeah, I’m Hickey. En’ who ‘r yew?”

  “I have a question. Just a quick question.” Alan lowered his voice as he grew closer to the truck. He stopped abruptly about two feet away from the open door of the cab. “I was wondering if you could give me some information on the girl you took with you on the run from Desolation day before yesterday.”

  The driver raised his eyebrows and then squinted ever so slightly. “What’r you talkin’ ‘bout, boy?” He reached into his pocket for a can of Copenhagen.

  “There was a girl you took with you when you delivered fuel to Desolation two days ago. Her name is Sarah Johansen, and I need to know where you dropped her off and where she went from there.”

  The trucker looked down at the round can as he loaded his cheek with tobacco. “I don’t know anything ‘bout any girl…What’r you, her boyfriend or somethin’?”

  Alan dug his nails into the flesh of his opposite forearm and welcomed the pain. “No, I’m not her boyfriend,” he hissed. “But you did pick her up, and I’m going to find out where you took her.”

  The trucker climbed down the cab’s ladder and took a couple steps toward the smaller man, scowling as he approached. The trucker was a good six inches taller than Alan and probably outweighed him by at least 100 pounds. “Look ya little runt. I told yew I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout a girl. Now get outta here before I squash your ugly face.”

  The trucker took his massive hand and grabbed Alan’s forehead and shoved him backward with only moderate force. Ziminski stumbled and fell on his backside, his slight frame and awkward gait betraying him as he tried to regain his balance. Lying there for only a second or two, the rage welled up inside him. Unsteadily, Alan got to his feet and walked back toward the trucker while sticking his hand inside his jacket. He extracted a Hi-Point 9mm and pointed it directly at the driver, whose eyes grew large while his mouth twisted in an almost spastic pout. Instinctively his arms went up in the air.

  “Hey, buddy….don’t do nothin’ crazy. I was only kiddin’, okay? I’ll tell you ‘bout her. Whatcha you need to know? I’ll tell you anything.”

  “Good,” replied Alan. “Tell me where you took her an
d when you dropped her off.”

  “The Triple T, in Glendale. I dropped her off there. About 8 o’clock, maybe 8:30, I’m not sure.”

  “But I have you logged out at 3:30. It’s only a three hour drive back to Phoenix at most.”

  “C’mon kid, gimme a break. She wanted to get out of town real bad, and she was really—agreeable if you know what I mean. Ya know, I’ve made that run a few times, and that place is pretty spooky. I was just tryin’ to help her out.”

  “Ok, I get it. So do you know where she was going after you dropped her off?”

  “Yeah, sure. She was askin’ all around to see who was goin’ to Temecula—or maybe it was San Bernardino. I think she found somebody too.”

  “Which one was it, Temecula or San Bernardino? They’re an hour apart.”

  “I—I can’t remember. I swear it…”

  “You better be telling me…When did she leave the truck stop?”

  “I don’ really know. I had to git back to dispatch. They’ll give me the whole day to make that trip. I tell ‘em I ran into trouble gettin’ the guys in Desolation to sign for the delivery…..Hey, yer not gonna call my company ‘bout this…” The trucker nervously ran his hand through his thinning hair.

  “No, I wouldn’t do something like that,” said Alan, the plastered smile back on his face. “In fact, here take it.” He twirled the Hi-Point in his hand so the butt end pointed at the trucker. “Go ahead, ah, Burl, can I call you Burl? We’re all friends here, right? Go ahead, take it.”

  “No, that’s ok…”

  “I said, take it.”

  Tentatively, the trucker reached out and took the gun. When he was certain that there was no deception involved, he pulled the loading mechanism and pointed it directly at Alan.

  “You little shit, I oughta…” But his words trailed off as he looked down at his arm. It was curling, inching the gun closer to his own head. He recoiled in horror and tried to gain control over the rebellious limb but to no avail. The trucker strained and then grunted so hard that snot blew out his nose while his face grew crimson with effort. Yet despite the exertion, his will was not enough, and the barrel came to rest against his temple, his finger wrapped tightly around the sensitive trigger.

  “Who’s the shit now?” mocked Alan while circling the whimpering trucker. Alan knew his father was watching, using him as a conduit. He could sense the Benefactor’s power coursing through his own synaptic pathways and giving him a rush that no drug or alcohol could match. “You’re the shit, you, you!” Alan stabbed a finger into the man’s fleshy face.

  “Please,” the trucker begged. “I have kids. For God’s sake, I have kids.”

  “Yeah so what? I have a father who won’t even admit I’m his son. Your kids will be better off without you. Trust me on this.”

  Burl continued his fight against his traitorous hand. His face was a contorted mass of skewed wrinkles, and beading sweat balls ran in a steady drip off his fleshy chin. “How can yew do this? Why can’t I control mah own body?”

  “Goodbye, Burl.” Alan turned abruptly and walked away. When he had put 100 feet or so of distance between him and driver, he bowed his head and closed his eyes slowly. Now, he thought in a whisper as the telepathic message traveled over the 200 miles that separated him from the Benefactor.

  Almost instantaneously, there was a single gunshot and a distant crumpling noise as the large body hit the side of the truck before it slid to the ground.

  Alan grinned and looked back with pride. Half of Burl’s brain and skull were splattered and dripping off the side of the cab.

  ***

  Tammy LePluer opened the meeting room door and stopped abruptly. The tanned and relaxed face of Kathy Rodgers looked up from her place at the conference table and smiled confidently.

  “Why, hello, Tam. I bet you didn’t expect to see me back here so soon.”

  The meeting had been hastily called, and there was no associated agenda. This was quite out of character for Ed Marshall. As Tammy looked around the table, she realized that every heavyweight attorney on the staff was in attendance. LePluer could not remember a single meeting in her six years at Wineskin and Stein where all three of the managing partners were in the same room.

  While unaware of the nature of the meeting, the body language of the participants was telling. Ed Marshall’s face was ashen, and Chris Smith and Larry Talbert were slumped in their chairs staring down at the floor. Kathy Rodgers sat at the head of the table flanked by the other two partners, Sol Wineskin and David Stein.

  “Come in, Tam, come in. Find a seat.” Kathy was effusive. LePluer walked over and found a chair at the other end of the table.

  Clearing his throat, the senior partner, Sol Wineskin, spoke first. “I’m sure you’re all wondering why we called this meeting. It’s come to my attention—rather our attention—that Mrs. Rodger’s employment with the company ended abruptly last week.

  “Unfortunately, Dave and I were not made aware of this decision prior to its implementation.”

  Tammy shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

  “In reviewing this action, Dave and I…” Wineskin again gestured toward Stein, “find that it was unjustified and violated several labor laws. Fortunately, Mrs. Rodgers has agreed to discontinue her pursuit of legal remedies against the firm if we reinstate her immediately with back pay.”

  Ed Marshall looked at his shoes and spoke in a low, hushed monotone. “Sol, I told you everything is documented. The absences, the missed court dates, the lack of preparedness and the client malfeasance. There is nothing Kathy could claim that would hold up in court.”

  “David and I feel differently, Ed.”

  “But, the precedent—”

  Wineskin cut him off abruptly. “The issue has been settled. Mrs. Rodgers will be reinstated with full benefits, and any negative entries in her permanent record will be expunged. Am I clear?”

  Marshall shook his head weakly.

  “Furthermore,” Wineskin continued, “Dave and I are very disturbed by how this entire incident has been handled. It speaks to the necessity of implementing significant changes to ensure that nothing like this happens again. This morning, I accepted the resignation of Ed Marshall as general manager and managing partner. Additionally, we have accepted the resignations of Chris Smith and Larry Talbert.”

  Wineskin smiled and turned to Kathy. “We are fortunate to have a shining star in our ranks, but regrettably, she has not received the recognition she deserved for her substantial contributions to the firm. Effective immediately, Kathy Rodgers has been offered a full partnership and the position of managing partner and general manager. Please help me welcome the newest partner in the law firm of Wineskin, Stein and Rodgers.”

  The applause was sparse, forced and brief. Ed Marshall hung his head in his hands and wept. Wineskin walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Ed, I know I speak for everyone when I express my appreciation for your extraordinary service. We wish you, Chris and Larry the best of luck in your future endeavors.

  “Dave, is there anything you would like to say?” Wineskin looked in the direction of Stein who simply shook his head.

  “Ok, people. We’re 16 percent behind on billing hours this month. Let’s get back to work.”

  Wineskin rose and the two senior partners exited the room, returning to the obscurity from which they had briefly emerged. Tammy LePluer remained seated, seemingly too stunned to move, her eyes fixed on the still disheveled form of Ed Marshall. From the corner of her eye she saw Kathy walking slowly across the room; her smug, arrogant smile grew wider as she approached.

  “Well Tam, aren’t you at least going to congratulate me? You always said that one day I would become a partner.”

  “How—how did you do this?”

  “Why Tammy, I’m surprised you have to ask. It was hard work, of course.” Her smile quickly evaporated into a vicious sneer. “As a personal favor, I asked Sol not to fire you.”

  “Th—thanks. I—”<
br />
  “Oh, don’t thank me. I just wanted the pleasure for myself. Tammy, you’re fired. Get your shit and get out of here, now.”

  “I—you bitch.”

  “Tell me, how does it feel?” asked Kathy. She pushed her face within inches of LePluer’s. “Look at you, you sniveling piece of rot. Look at Ed Marshall over there, crying like a baby. Now you know how I felt the day you turned against me.” Then, straightening, moving away and speaking to no one in particular she said, “Now, you all know how I felt when you wronged me. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.”

  Kathy opened the door and left the room with a swagger. She looked one last time over her shoulder and liked what she saw—the delicious taste of revenge served up cold.

  She walked toward her new executive office while making sure everyone on the floor had an opportunity to see her victory strut. She had a meeting in less than an hour with a new client sent to her by Sol Wineskin. Apparently, he was a drug dealer who was caught distributing heroin through high school students. One of the dumb-ass kids had overdosed on product that was cut with strychnine. In another lifetime, Kathy would never have considered taking such a case, but now she found the prospect exhilarating.

  There was about half an hour to kill. She pushed the button on the intercom.

  “Wineskin here.”

  “Sol, it’s Kathy.”

  “Hi, you. That went well, don’t you think?”

  “It went very well. I think our mutual acquaintance, Mr. Cox, will be pleased.”

  “Yes, Kathy, I’m sure he will.”

  “Sol?”

  “Yes?”

  “I have half an hour before the new client arrives. That’s just enough time for me to use my tongue in that way you like so much.”

  “Well—I—I’ll be right there.”

  Kathy set down the handset. “Thank you,” she whispered into the empty space of the office. The small charge of electricity that ran through her body confirmed that the Benefactor was watching and listening.

  Chapter Seven