The Suicide Society

by William Brennan Knight

  The vehicle was an early model Ford Taurus, burning oil as it lumbered down the highway. There were checkpoints ahead, but the route was carefully planned in advance. Friendly border patrol agents and DPS officers were strategically positioned to ensure the group reached its final destination.

  “Shokan, please cite the passages.” Burikhan smoked deeply on his Turkish cigarette while the one named Shokan grabbed a weathered copy of the Holy Book and flipped through the pages.

  He seemed to settle on a passage of scripture but paused and then closed the book. “Burikhan, I have been having doubts. Are we sure that this is the right thing?”

  Burikhan frowned and gave Shokan a disapproving glance. “You do not question the will of God. You follow direction. That is all.”

  “And yet, so many will die. Is this truly the will of God?”

  The car skidded wildly as Burikhan slammed on the brakes. Swerving from side to side, it slid to a stop in a billowing cloud of dust. The passengers tried to recover from the confusion caused by the unexpected maneuver. In the ensuing moments, Burikhan extracted a 9-mm Beretta from his waistband and pointed it directly at the terrified Shokan.

  “If you have doubts, you cannot be trusted.”

  Shokan’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to speak. Before a sound was uttered, Burikhan pulled the trigger. A deafening thunder erupted inside the sealed car and Shokan slumped over with half his skull vaporized.

  After much chanting and praying, the car doors eventually swung open. Temir and Kabanbai pulled the dead body over to some scrub a few feet from the shoulder. They quickly returned to the vehicle, and Burikhan steered it back onto the highway while Kabanbai tried to remove the remnants of his former companion from the passenger window.

  ***

  Sarah woke up from a deep slumber, a kind of sleep she had not enjoyed for many years. She stretched and sat up in the bed, her eyes drawn to a window that overlooked a luscious green lawn and a flower bed of pansies and petunias. Sarah almost cried at the simple beauty. For nearly her entire life, she stared out at red dirt, dead tumbleweeds, and sparse cactus so shriveled it would make you thirsty just by looking at it. She gazed at buildings in such disrepair that one wondered how they still stood.

  Yet, she now found herself safe in the house of her loving aunt and uncle, who hadn’t seen her for more than a decade. They accepted her with warmth and hospitality usually reserved for close, familiar relatives.

  There was a small rap at the door. “Sarah? Are you awake yet, dear?”

  “Yes, Aunt Gina, I’m up.”

  “Well, I’ve got bacon and eggs cooking, and the coffee is on. Why don’t you come down and join us?”

  “Ok. Just give me a moment to get a robe on.”

  The smell of cooking eggs and bacon was heavenly, and Sarah breathed the aroma in as though it was an aphrodisiac. She walked down the small flight of stairs and followed her nose into the kitchen.

  She feasted on the delightful breakfast foods and enjoyed the company of her aunt and uncle. For a brief moment, Sarah Johansen almost forgot the ever-present horror that dominated her life.

  Still, Uncle Hank continued to glance at her uncomfortably, and she knew that the inevitable questions were coming. He sipped at his second cup of coffee and looked nervous before finally speaking in a halting manner. “You know, Sarah, there’s so much we need to know about. Do you feel like talking at all?”

  Sarah stared down at her plate and didn’t say anything. In fact, what could she say? How would they possibly understand what it was like?

  “We’d like to know...” Uncle Hank paused while carefully selecting the words. “What happened to your mother—my sister in law?”

  Sarah stopped chewing and looked down at her plate. When she spoke it was in a small, hushed voice. “My mother is dead. She died many years ago.”

  Both her relatives hung their heads, their hands found each other and squeezed tightly. “How did she die, Sarah?” asked Aunt Gina in a hushed tone.

  “He killed her. He kills everyone in the end. He drove my mother to insanity with his despicable ways. He fathered her children and then discarded her like garbage when he was finished, and she could bear no more. She became so sick that she grieved at the loss of his attention. Finally, she killed herself.”

  Gina gasped and Hank hung his head. Then she spoke softly. “Who is this man?

  “He isn’t a man… He—he is something else, something horrible.”

  “What’s his name, Sarah? We have to call the police. Did he—abuse you?”

  Sarah leaned her head back; the corners or her mouth turned up very slightly. “Abuse doesn’t describe it, Uncle Hank. He rips out your soul and enters your mind and body. You can’t hide a thought from him, and he replaces those he doesn’t like with his own.”

  “What’s his name, Sarah? Tell me his name.”

  “His name should not be spoken. To those inside the Network, he is—the Benefactor.”

  Aunt Gina placed her hand over her niece’s. “We need a real name, Sarah. We need a name and a place. Where were you?”

  “To all of us, the place was called Desolation. And his name to outsiders is—Mr. Cox.”

  Rising and walking toward the hanging kitchen phone, Hank turned back to the table. “I’m going to call the police. We need answers, and this guy has to be found.”

  “No! They monitor everything; they control everything. If you tell anyone I’m here, they’ll find out and come and kill me, I swear.”

  “Come dear, calm down and let me take you back to your room.” Gina helped Sarah get to her feet and moved the muttering girl slowly to the stairs. Several times Gina shot worried glances at her husband as she led her niece back to bed.

  When they were out of sight, Hank picked up the receiver and dialed 911.

  “Operator. State the nature of the emergency.”

  “A kidnapping and a murder,” he said.

  After taking the necessary personal information for procedure, the operator patched the call to the county sheriff’s office. “This is Sergeant Davis, I’ve dispatched an officer to your location. Can you tell me the name of the murder victim?”

  Hank’s voice broke as he spoke. “Her name is… was Patricia Johansen.

  “Is the body there, sir? Are you in imminent danger?”

  “No, we’re fine. My sister-in-law died several years ago—I think. My niece escaped from a cult of some kind and told us about the murder. God knows what horrible things happened to her.”

  “Just remain calm sir; help is on the way,” assured the officer. “Now, can I have your niece’s name, the kidnapping victim?”

  “Yes, her name is Sarah Johansen.”

  The sergeant typed the name into the computer and hit send, which immediately entered a police report in the national law enforcement data base.

  “I’m going to dispatch an officer now. In the meantime, I have a case report number. Can you write this down please?”

  Seconds after the report registered with Homeland Security and the FBI, an alarm sounded in a run-down apartment in New York’s Hamilton Heights district. Alan was napping, and he nearly rolled off his mattress.

  “Wha—whaa?” he muttered as he grabbed a cigarette. His eyes fluttered rapidly, and he moved his jaw to dislodge the slime that had accumulated in his mouth from several days without brushing his teeth. With a kick of his feet, he rolled a chair up to the flashing computer screen. Alan was now in his element, and his fingers flashed over the keyboard with flawless precision. He scrolled through the alert headings until he reached the flagged document.

  It was an official police report, and he double clicked to open it. The results couldn’t have been more satisfying. He counted on someone filing a report on Sarah Johansen. Whether she was arrested as a vagrant or somehow found shelter and relayed her tragic story, he instinctively knew the police eventually would become involved.

  Alan read through the text, smiling at the melodrama
in the details. She couldn’t have called the police herself, so she had to be staying with the guy who filed the report. His name was Henry Harwell, probably some rural hick. Alan downloaded a copy, and then released a virus that traced back through the cloud. It erased every remnant of the report on the secure servers from the national database down to the local level in Riverside County.

  Alan reached for his phone and hit the speed dial. The line connected before the first ring had finished.

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Watts, this is Alan. I found the girl. I know exactly where she is.”

  “Don’t play games, Alan. Who are we talking about?”

  “C’mon, you know who it is. Sarah Johansen. I found the bitch.”

  “Excellent Alan,” said Watts, “but let’s stay professional. Send me the coordinates.”

  Ziminski started to relay the information but halted. “Umm, I don’t think so. I want to talk to my father first.”

  Watts let out an audible sigh. “That’s not a good idea, Alan. Not a good idea at all.”

  “Those are my terms—not negotiable.”

  “… I don’t think this is going to work out very well for you, Alan, but I’ll get back to you shortly.”

  Ziminski tossed the phone aide and leaned back in his chair. His father would have to contact him now. Alan had vital information, and he knew that Sarah Johansen was no ordinary person. Her intimate knowledge of the Benefactor and Desolation itself was a liability that must be reined in.

  Alan was immersed deep in thought, recalling how he was awakened by the alarm and intercepted the police report. He brought the address and the name of the file to the forefront of his mind.

  Wait, he thought, why am I doing that?

  Alan grabbed his head and tried to block the address from his thoughts, but despite his best efforts, he couldn’t do it. In fact, he couldn’t think of anything but Henry Harwell’s name and address. On the periphery of his consciousness, he sensed the Benefactor had entered his mind.

  “Noooo.” Alan groaned while rising from the chair and stumbling around the room. The Benefactor was in his head, strip mining for information and extracting exactly what he wanted. Alan tried to resist, but his will was weak, and his fortitude crippled.

  247 Hickory St, Temecula, CA. Mr. Cox sucked the address from his consciousness with little effort. The Benefactor was too strong and terribly intimidating. Ziminski continued to hold his head as he collapsed in the corner, whimpering and sobbing.

  His cell phone started ringing, and he scurried over to answer it. “Hello,” he said between stifled sobs.

  “Alan, it’s Watts. Do not test the Benefactor’s patience again. This is a direct message from him. Next time he may choose to do more to your brain than simply take a memory.”

  “I hate my father!” Alan slammed down the phone and crashed to the floor in a full-blown manic episode.

  ***

  “Based on the circumstances surrounding the murders, and the lack of supporting evidence, I find the defendant not guilty.” The judge banged the gavel and rose from the bench.

  The prosecutor jumped to his feet. “Your honor, this is outrageous. There was obvious tampering.…”

  The judge turned and pointed the gavel at the prosecutor. Mr. Eikhorn, that is enough. I’m placing you in custody for contempt. That’s the last outburst I will endure.”

  Kathy Rodgers sat at the defense table. She turned to her opponent and smiled smugly. Their eyes met for a moment, and he shook his head before shoving a stack of documents into his briefcase. He stalked off with the court bailiff following closely behind.

  Rodgers turned to her client, Neeraf Bhatnagar, and grinned. “Well, you’re a free man, Neeraf. I guess you can go back to the family business.”

  The “family business” was a major synthetic heroin drug production operation and global smuggling cartel. Bhatnagar had operations in Bangalore, India, and distribution facilities in Columbia and the United States. He was accused of orchestrating and participating in a hit against the border patrol in Las Cruces that left five men dead. In fact, the evidence was quite compelling.

  Weapons were recovered that matched the ballistic fingerprint of the bullets dug out of the agents. Hundreds of DNA samples from Bhatnagar and his accomplices were cataloged and documented. Law enforcement agencies interviewed and took statements from several eyewitnesses. The case was recounted in the national newspapers on a daily basis, and a conviction seemed almost inevitable. At least until Bhatnagar hired Wineskin, Stein and Rodgers to represent him.

  Select members of the Network in strategic law enforcement positions were instrumental in contaminating the DNA samples, intimidating witnesses, and altering the ballistic characteristics of the weapons and bullets. Alan also demonstrated the organization’s enormous influence by hacking into the bank accounts, tax returns and credit ratings of the uncooperative. As a result, the prosecution’s case was uneven and often contradictory. Several key witnesses were declared hostile as their stories changed substantially from the initial sworn statements. By the third week of the trial, the outcome became very clear.

  The defendant and his counselor remained seated as the courtroom emptied. “Mrs. Rodgers,” said Bhatnagar while graciously extending his hand. “Your defense strategy was—what is the word—brilliant. I am in your debt. Whatever your charge me, it will not be enough for the services I have received.”

  Kathy smiled at him. “Consider it pro bono work, Neeraf. It was my pleasure.”

  “For free? I can hardly believe that.”

  “I didn’t say it was free, I said we wouldn't bill you. In fact, I want two things in return for our services.”

  Bhatnagar leaned back in his chair. It was his turn to smile. “Of course, there is always something to be expected in return. What do you want?”

  “There will be a small group of Middle Easterners traveling from Kashmir into India,” she said. “Their final destination is Mumbai. We don’t want them detained or hindered in any way. You have the resources and influence in that region to make that happen. Am I right?”

  “Yes, I do. I’m a native of Mumbai. But, what do these Middle Easterners plan on doing there?”

  “They are tourists.”

  “Tourists. Of course.” He looked directly at her. “And if I don’t cooperate?”

  Kathy’s eyes sharpened and the smile faded. “That would be very bad. You are quite the colorful character, Neeraf, but you’re sloppy. We have accumulated enough evidence on your processing operation here in the United States to have you permanently deported if not prosecuted.”

  He absently stroked the bottom of his immaculately groomed goatee. “I see… You said you had two requests. What is the second?”

  She raised a finger and motioned him closer. He slid his chair across the hardwood floor until it was inches away from hers. She leaned over, and her lips lightly touched his ear. Simultaneously, her hand snaked out under the table and moved up between his legs. She began to gently massage the area and felt him respond.

  “I want to feel your cock buried deep in me. That’s my second demand. Can you meet both of them, Neeraf?” she whispered in his ear.

  “Of course,” he said out loud. “Both demands will be met. Of course.”

  She looked around and made certain the courtroom was empty, and then grinned slyly. “There isn’t another session here for half an hour,”

  “Right now? On the table?”

  “Yes, on the table” Kathy replied while unzipping her skirt.

  She looked up seductively at Bhatnagar, but something behind him made her gasp. For a brief instant, Kathy thought she had seen a fleeting glimpse of her son’s face against the backdrop of a stained glass window on the far side of the courtroom.

  Bhatnagar looked over his shoulder. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

  Kathy blinked and rubbed her eyes. “No, I… Never mind,” she said as her skirt dropped to the floor.

  Chapte
r Eleven

  Zach ran from the apartment onto the sidewalk and hastily made his way to the parking lot, the sound of Anston’s footsteps echoed from behind. They jumped into the rental car and exited onto the boulevard as the tires squealed in protest. Anston turned corners at a frantic speed, trying to put distance between them and the apartment.

  After a lengthy trip through several unfamiliar neighborhoods, Anston steered the car into an eatery called McNasty’s Pub. The pair sat in the parking lot for a seeming eternity before Anston coaxed Zach from the vehicle and led him into the bar.

  After two gin and tonics, Zach appeared to relax a bit. Several times Anston opened his mouth to speak but couldn't find the right words.

  Finally, he said, “Zach, what—what happened to that woman? She seemed to—disintegrate in front of my eyes. I never saw anything so horrifying.”

  Zach’s eyes remained low. When he spoke, it was in hushed tones. “I told you not to come, Jarad. I don’t understand what’s happening. These visions have been unnerving, but tonight, I was able to cause one through force of will. That woman, Maybel Downey, shared a connection with me, and we went together to another place. I couldn’t possibly explain it, but the loneliness left for the first time since…”

  “Yes, something happened; I saw it. You both looked so peaceful, and then you went rigid, and she went into convulsions.”

  “I—I’m not sure. Someone or something came into our space.”

  “Who? How did he know you created a vision?

  Zach shook his head. “There was some confusion, but he entered my mind for a moment, and everything became dark and empty. I have no clue what he is, but I don’t ever want to see him again.”

  “My God, Zach. This is… I saw her face bubble, burn and rupture in front of me. Those eyes—horrible, scorched and bleeding. She was in such pain. I didn’t know what to do.”

  Zach continued to hold his head low. His hand shook as he raised the drink to his lips. What could he say to his friend that would be of any comfort?